(I’m ringing up an elderly woman. Our card readers have a glitch where half the time they’ll reject a card on the first try, even though there’s nothing wrong with the card. They almost always accept it on the second try, though, and most customers don’t mind terribly when it happens to them. This woman is different.)

Customer: “Why do I have to put my card in again? Didn’t it go through?”

Me: “I’m sorry, it’s a glitch in our systems, not your card. Please insert your card again.”

Customer: “But I don’t want to! What if I get charged twice?!”

Me: “I promise you won’t be; this happens a lot. You can put your card back in, here.”

Customer: “No, I don’t want to do that!”

(She gets out her checkbook and starts writing a check, of all things. Despairing, keeping a neutral face, I wait as it takes an entire forty-five seconds for her to write this thing out, and another twenty seconds for the ancient check reader attached to the receipt printer to decide it approves.)

Me: *trying to put as much sickly sweetness into it as possible, handing her the receipt* “Have a nice day.”

(I work in a pool that is in a very interesting downtown area. For some reason, that means we have a lot of people try to go swimming in their underwear. This is the exchange I have with a man who is headed towards the hot tub, clearly in grey boxer shorts.)

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but you need to wear proper swimwear to enter the pool.”

Customer: “I’m just going into the hot tub.”

Me: “…which is a pool, just smaller. I’m sorry, sir, but it is a health and safety policy.”

Customer: “Are you serious? Why does it matter?”

Me: “Sir, bathing suits are more hygienic and are made to withstand the chemicals in the pool. Underwear is not.”

Customer: “Argh, fine!” *storms off*

(Less than five minutes later, he returns in swim trunks.)

Customer: “Okay?”

Me: *confused* “Yes, go ahead.”

(Why did he try to go in boxers if he had swim trunks all along?)

(I am sixteen years old, working on the delicatessen counter. A lady comes over.)

Customer: “Hello there. Can you show me your beef joints?”

Me: “Sure. Right this way, ma’am.”

(I leave my station to head ten feet away to the raw beef. In the meantime, an 80-year-old woman approaches the deli.)

Me: “So, ma’am, these are all our beef joints.”

(The deli bell rings.)

Customer: “I want a bigger one.”

Me: “I apologise, but this is, unfortunately, all we have.”

(The deli bell rings again.)

Me: “I’m very sorry, ma’am, but I must tend to my station. Please, will you excuse me?”

Customer: “Don’t you walk away. I want a large beef joint!”

(The deli bell rings again, while the woman ringing stares at me.)

Me: “I’m extremely sorry, but I cannot help anymore; this is all our stock and I can’t summon more at will!”

Customer: “I will be speaking to someone cleverer than you.”

(I return to my usual deli workstation, as she wanders away, moaning about my intelligence! I return to the old lady who has been ringing.)

Me: “Hello there! Sorry for your wait; how can I help you?”

Old Lady: “You know, I have a good mind to walk away from you!”

Me: “I’m very sorry; however, I—“

Old Lady: “It was extremely rude of you to leave me unattended. You’ve cost your company money you know!”

Me: “Oh, well, I’m extremely sorry I couldn’t sell you anything today. Have a lovely weekend.”

Old Lady: “But I still want my sandwich meat!”

Me: “Oh, I’m very glad, ma’am. What can I get you?”

Old Lady: “A single slice of your [cheapest ham], thank you!”

(I work in a home for the elderly. I have to help an elderly woman to change seats because her left arm and leg are paralyzed. She can stand as long as she holds on to somebody. While I’m transferring her into her wheelchair, she holds onto my neck and by doing so she chokes me. Getting out of breath, I quickly set her into her wheelchair. After catching my breath I talk to her.)

Me: “Miss [Woman], you were choking me.”

Woman: “Oh, sorry. I’ll leave that to your girlfriend.”

(After that I had to catch my breath again from laughing too much.)

(I’m the ditzy customer in this story.)

Cashier: “That’ll be $7.57.”

(I place a ten on the counter. The cashier hits a button on the register, then looks at the machine, and then looks at me, confused.)

Cashier: “Oh. Do you have 57 cents?”

(Thinking she hit the wrong button and would like to just give me back a few ones, I dig through my purse.)

Me: “Well, I can make 56 cents…”

Cashier: “That’s fine.”

(She finishes the transaction, gives me the receipt and my bag, and tells me to have a good day.)

Me: “Excuse me, do you have my change?”

Cashier: “You bought ten items. Your total was $10.57.”

Me: “Oh, my gosh! I thought you said seven, not ten! I’m sorry! But thank you for the penny!”

(I usually have my wits about me a bit more than that! She was so confused about my confusion, but so sweet to patiently help me!)