(I was a customer service manager for a company that insists on calling its customers “guests.” We had built a reputation for our flexible return policy. I’m near the cash registers and get a call on my walkie-talkie for “guest assistance” at the return desk. I approach to see a middle-aged man with a vacuum cleaner.)

Me: “What can I help with? Did you need some assistance, sir?”

Customer: “I bought this vacuum from you guys and it doesn’t work. I want to return it.”

(I notice that the vacuum is extremely dirty and heavily-used; however, due to our return policy that allows for it, I decide to move forward.)

Me: “That’s no problem, sir. Do you have the receipt?”

Customer: “I do.”

(He hands me the receipt. It is two years old.)

Me: “Oh… I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do this return for you. Our company policy is a return with the receipt or card the item was purchased within 60 days, or 90 days with [Store Credit Card]. This receipt is two years old.”

Customer: “That’s what the girl behind the counter said, but I want my money back! It doesn’t work!”

Me: “Well… It looks like it worked for a while.”

Customer: “No! I took it out of the box and it didn’t work!”

Me: “You left it in the box for two years?”

Customer: “YES! Now tell this b*** to give me my money back! I bought it from you. It’s your responsibility to return my money!”

Me: “Well, sir, I’m sorry, but I can’t complete this return for you. You had two years to figure out it didn’t work. If you’re so desperate to get your money back, you can always try scamming the manufacturer out of their warranty. Have a nice day.”

Customer: “I’m calling your boss! You’ll take this broken piece of s*** whether you like it or not!”

Me: “You can always leave it in the garbage on your way out. Have a nice day.”

(The customer leaves, angrily banging the vacuum on things as he heads out the door.)

Coworker: “‘I took it out of the box and it was broken!’ Was that before or after he vacuumed the whole neighborhood?”

(In our hotel, the guest must enter their last name and room number to connect to Wi-Fi.)

Guest: “I can’t connect! My room is 606.”

Me: *brings up 606’s reservation* “What is your last name?”

Guest: “[Hyphenated Last Name].”

Me: “Right, that’s what it says on your reservation.”

Guest: *tries again* “It won’t work!”

Me: *internal sigh* “May I see your phone?”

(I take his phone and see that he has entered just the first part of his hyphenated last name, rather than the whole thing. When I point this out, he gets haughty and upset.)

Guest: “You asked for my last name! It’s [Hyphenated Last Name]!”

Me: “Yes, and you have to put it all on there or it won’t accept it.”

Guest: “REALLY?!”

(I wondered if we should put in, “You Must Put All Of Your Last Name Here,” at the prompt.)

(I live in Central America, and I work for the US branch of a famous online retailer. We’re halfway through the call and I’m waiting for some changes to go through in the customer’s account. The customer then asks me one of the most dreaded questions all off-shore customer service agents fear.)

Customer: “So, where are you located?”

Me: *groans inside and braces for the worst* “Costa Rica.”

(We’re heavily encouraged to not lie, even though a great deal of customers react negatively.)

Customer: “Oh, wow! I’ve heard a lot about Costa Rica from my friends who have been there for vacation!”

Me: *relieved* “Oh, really?”

Customer: “Yeah! They loved the beach and the jungles! Can you see the beach from where you are? I’d love to be able to watch the beach from my office. Do you guys even have computers and Internet? I’ve heard cellphones are new to you!”

(The customer then rants about huts, lack of electricity, and mosquitoes carrying deadly tropical diseases.)

Me: *laughs nervously and tries to butt in* “Sir, the changes went through. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

Customer: “No, no! Thank you! You guys have fun. I hope to join you one of these days! Bye!” *hangs up*

(The customer must have thought I was assisting him from my private office on the second floor of a palm tree holding a banana to my ear, accessing his account on my fire-powered coconut computer and palm screen, and joining the nearest pool bar for piña coladas between calls. As sad as reality was for me, I hope the thought at least brightened his day.)

(The store where I work is very small and has lots of small breakable items, with rather narrow aisles just big enough for a wheelchair. One morning, a woman comes in pushing an oversized shopping cart, the kind used in hardware stores for lumber. She barrels it in through the door and into a display.)

Me: “Excuse me, ma’am? I’m afraid we don’t have the room for that cart in here.”

Customer: “What do you mean? I purposefully brought it here to shop!”

Me: “There’s just not enough room to maneuver it around.”

Customer: “Well, that’s ridiculous! I guess you don’t want my business.”

(With this, she left. I ran after her, asking her to take the cart, but she just flounced down the street and disappeared around the corner. The cart was blocking the entrance to the store, so I maneuvered it back outside, and temporarily left it on the sidewalk while I figured out what to do. I called our store owner, who arrived a half hour later. We decided to call the big box hardware store whose name was on the cart. It turned out the closest location was a seven-mile walk away. The owner called someone with a pickup to come get the cart, but while we waited, the local patrol cop came in to ask why there was a huge cart blocking the sidewalk. The cart ended up barely fitting in the pick-up truck. A few weeks later, that same cop came by to tell us that the woman had brought the same kind of giant cart to another downtown business, this time a jeweller. We started worrying that it was some sort of scam, but nothing was stolen in either case. Why she was walking a giant cart miles down the street to shop at tiny stores remains a mystery.)

(I am a cashier at a grocery store, checking out a mother and her teenage daughter. The daughter is doing a little dance while humming to herself.)

Customer: *looking at her daughter* “Ugh, teenagers are weird.” *to me* “Do you have any teenagers?”

Me: “Pardon?”

Customer: “Do you have any kids that are in their teens?”

Me: “Um… no… I’m eighteen.”