(I am the office manager at a family entertainment company and, since it’s so small and the owner is terrible with technology, I’ve spent years taking over the business side. The company has the owner’s name in the title, so I’m either mistaken for her, or people think I can’t help them.)

Me: “Thanks for calling [Company]. This is [My Name].”

Customer: “I would like to talk to [Owner]. We met last week and I want to book an event.”

Me: “Great! I’m actually the office manager, and I handle the bookings, so I can help you—”

Customer: “No, I need to speak with [Owner].”

Me: “But, sir, she is just going to have to give you back to me, because I handle the calendar—”

Customer: “I ain’t got all day, honey. Just put [Owner] on the phone.”

(I give up and ask the owner to stop what she’s doing to talk to the customer who has now insulted me. Since the owner does not do anything when it comes to the schedule, she chats with him for a minute and then, when he inquires about booking, this happens.)

Owner: “Well, yes, we would love to come out to your event! I don’t handle the bookings, though, so I’ll have to give you back to my office manager. She’s great; she’s the backbone of our company. We wouldn’t be running if it wasn’t for her!”

(As I get back on the phone…)

Me: “Hello, sir! So, what day would you like to book?”

Customer: *sheepishly* “Well, let’s look at …”

(I was annoyed at the customer, but he turned out to be a pretty nice guy and has made sure not to try to ask for the owner ever again!)

(I am working as a cashier at a small local grocery store. It is around 6:00 pm, so I am the only cashier open. We tend to have a lot of older people who shop at our store who do not have a lot of money. An older customer is checking out in my lane. I have already scanned the majority of her items; she has about seven items, and her total comes to about $3. I then pick up her third-to-last item to scan.)

Customer: “Oh, stop! I don’t know if I want those.”

Me: “Oh, I am sorry; you don’t want these?”

(I am about to put it behind the counter, for it’s very common for someone not to want an item once they get up to my point.)

Customer: “No, I don’t know if I want to buy them yet, but you can scan my other two items.”

(I do that. The customer has a confused look on her face, as if she is trying to find out if she has enough money to afford the chips.)

Me: “Do you want me to scan the chips for you to tell you how much they are?”

Customer: “No. I know how much they are; I just don’t know if I want them. They are $2.50.” *she then starts pointing and going* “Eenie, meenie, miney, mo. Catch a tiger by his toe. Out goes, Y—” *she pauses* “—O, U. Okay, I’ll get them. Oh, they are $2.50. See? I told you!”

(I work as a bagger at a grocery chain well known for its great customer service, assigned baggers at each till, and complimentary service to take customers’ carts out and load their cars. I wear a small heart monitor that has wires connected to leads on my chest, slightly visible under the shirt if I am standing straight. If my heart rate goes too fast or there is an unusual-looking rhythm spike, the monitor lets out a loud beep and I have five minutes to press a button telling it that I don’t need emergency services. If I don’t or can’t hit the button, EMTs are dispatched to make sure I’m not passed out from a dangerous rhythm and unable to get help. A nanny pulls up with a half-full cart and two young boys. One boy is probably four years old and the other is about six or seven, obviously the worst-behaved of the two.)

Me: “Well, hi there, big guys!”

(I start bagging and carefully setting things in the cart around them. The older boy stands up in the cart and leans over to start hitting me in the shoulder and upper chest, with a huge smile on his face.)

Me: “Uh…”

(I pat his head gently to move him back a bit. It’s only my second month working, and I’m afraid to talk back to any customer, no matter how young. The nanny is having a conversation with the mother on the phone, is obviously very overworked, and doesn’t see what’s happening. A few minutes later, I finish bagging and put two hands on the side of the cart to offer to take them out and load their car. I’ve quietly asked the boy to stop several times, but he keeps hitting me. It’s gentle enough, since he’s young, so I tolerate it. The nanny finally notices as she begins writing out the check.)

Nanny:  “Hey, now, she ain’t afraid of you. Stop it.”

(She goes back to her check. The older boy gets nose to nose with me, as I turn my head back to adjust my hold on the cart, and blows a very spitty raspberry in my face before landing a rather hard punch right on one of my monitor leads.)

Me: “Hey!”

(The monitor goes off. I have to pull my shoulders back so I can reach it on the back of my belt to shut it off.)

Older Boy: “OH! WHAT’S THAT?!”

(Then, he grabbed the now visible wire bumps and ripped my leads off my chest. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone as mortified as that poor nanny. Next time, when the mother actually came in with her children, the manager told her that she could no longer bring the kids into the store because her son had practically assaulted me. She left all huffy after they showed her the security tapes of her “little angel.”)

(I manage a very popular athletic shoe store. A lady in her mid to late fifties comes in with her two grown sons, one of whom I recognize from the summer camp for autistic individuals where I volunteer.)

Customer: “Can you help my son?”

Me: “Yes, of course. What can I do for you?”

Customer: “He needs these in a size 9.5 wide.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but we only carry standard width. But this style runs a little wide; would he like to try them, anyway, just in case?”

Customer: “[Son], do you really want them?”

Son: “Uh-huh.”

Customer: “No, I don’t think he wants them. We will try a size 9.5, though. And a 13 in this one for my other son.”

(I go in back and find the shoes, and when I come out I set both boxes on the bench.)

Me: “Here is the size 13, but unfortunately I didn’t have a 9.5 in the other one. I brought out a 10, though; would you like to give it a shot?”

Customer: “Where is the 13?”

Me: “Right here, ma’am.”

Customer: “Don’t be rude! Let my son get this one in 9.5, instead.”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s the same shoe. I only had 10, remember?”

Customer: “That is not the same shoe; open your eyes. This one is a little higher.”

(I take both shoes from the shelf and hold them side by side.)

Me: “No, I’m afraid they are the exact same. I can maybe check to see if we have 9.5 in the other color, though?”

Customer: “Son, do you really want the size 10?”

Son: “Uh-huh!”

Customer: “Okay. I will take the 13 and the 10.”

(I take the shoes to the register and ring her up. After she pays…)

Customer: “Why were you so mean to me?”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: “You were so mean to me. You are just like my husband. He is so mean to me, and then when I get angry, he says that I am the one being mean. Why would you be so mean to me? I am a customer. I spend thousands of dollars here; I am in here every week. You shouldn’t be mean to me.”

(This is the first time I’ve ever seen her, and she has only let her sons look at clearance shoes.)

Me: “I apologize if I came across as mean, ma’am. I am suffering from really terrible allergies, so my voice is a little harsh.”

Customer: “No, you are just a mean-spirited girl. I don’t think my son wants these after all. I want to return them.”

Me: “Okay, I just need to take some information to do a return. Can I get your first and last name, and your phone number?”

Customer: “So you can call me and Goggle me and keep being mean? I don’t think so! Just give me my money back!”

(Yes, she did say, “Goggle.” I did the return, just for the sake of getting her out of my store. My district manager called later to say that he received a complaint about me, but never found out what the complaint was because the caller started accusing him of being mean to her.)

(It’s my third day, and my colleagues are telling me stories about bad customers and workers. One of my floor colleagues is Turkish but speaks perfect Dutch — the local language — with an accent.)

Turkish Colleague: “This guy is the biggest racist you’ll ever meet. The moment I open my mouth, he screams, ‘GET AWAY FROM ME, TURKISH PIECE OF S***!’ He’s banned from the restaurant, but he isn’t getting the message and keeps– Speak of the devil, there he is.”

Manager: “I’ll go tell him.”

(I’m part Russian, and I normally speak without a trace of an accent, but I can mimic one perfectly.)

Me: “Boss, might I try?”

Manager: “Sure. If you think you can get him out of here.”

(I go up to the man and start speaking Russian.)

Man: “SPEAK GOD-DANG DUTCH, YOU A**HOLE!”

Me: *with the most comical and thick accent I can do* “Very sorry, sir. I forget I should do Dutch. Table for one?”

Man: “F*** you!” *storms out*

Manager: “That went better than expected.”

Me: “Honestly, I didn’t expect him to leave. I was about to call [Turkish Colleague] to step in if he wanted someone else.”