Customer: “I need to book a birthday party. How much advance notice do you need?”

Me: “Okay, we can do that. We need at least one week of advance notice.”

Customer: “Well, that won’t work! I need it to be next Sunday!”

Me: “No, that’s fine. That’s a week, so we can do that.”

Customer: “What time is my party going to be?”

Me: “We have one spot open that day. Our only available spot for [date] is 10:00 to 11:45.”

Customer: “Well, that won’t work at all! We have a very important church event that morning. What other times do you have?”

Me: “There are three other parties going on here that day. The 10:00 am spot is the only one open.”

Customer: “What if we did it earlier in the day? Can’t I do that?”

Me: “We open at 10:00.”

Customer: “You are inconveniencing me! Fine, what about Saturday?”

(I check the system, and see that we have three parties on Saturday as well. I groan inwardly because I can just tell this is going to be a problem for this customer. Also, I shouldn’t be booking a party less than a week in advance, but I figure that since it is nearly a week, my boss won’t mind too much.)

Me: “There are three parties Saturday as well, but there are two spots open. You could book your party from 4:00 to 5:45 or from 6:00 to 7:45.”

Customer: “Ugh! This is not going to work for me! You people are very inconvenient about this; it’s like you don’t even want people to have their parties here!”

This story is part of our Birthday Party Roundup!

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(I work as a hostess and cashier in a 24-hour diner while in high school. One of the waitresses is basically the epitome of all diner waitresses; she’s in her 40s but looks older, she has a gravelly, whiskey-and-cigarettes voice, she takes no crap from anybody, she’s very popular with all our regulars, and she’s absolutely unflappable. It’s a weekday in the summer, late evening, after the dinner rush but before the bars close and all the drunks come to us, so it is quiet. My manager and I are standing behind the main counter near the cash register talking, and [Waitress] has just refilled coffees for three guys in a booth and is standing there chatting, holding the half-full coffee pot in her right hand. She is mostly talking to the two guys on the left side of the booth, and apparently the guy on the right side thinks he isn’t getting enough attention, because all of a sudden he reaches out and grabs her butt cheek.)

Me: “Oh, my God, [Manager]! Did you see? That guy just groped [Waitress]!”

(The manager heads for the gap in the counter to go intervene — I don’t think he knows what is coming, just that it won’t be pretty — but without even missing a beat in her conversation, [Waitress] just turns her hand over and pours the entire remaining contents of the coffee pot into the groper’s lap.)

Groper: “F***! S***! You b****!”

(At this point, one of his buddies “helpfully” tips his glass of water into the groper’s lap, and my manager is laughing so hard that he has literally fallen on the floor. The ice water bath does cool the guy’s scalded scrotum enough that he is able to get up and come yell at someone less likely to conk him with the coffee pot than [Waitress], and as [Manager] is still on the floor and thus out of sight, that’s apparently going to be me.)

Groper: “Did you see her pour coffee on me? I want her fired!”

(I am a particularly baby-faced 16-year-old at this time, so how he thinks I have the authority to fire anybody, much less this waitress literally old enough to be my mom, is beyond me. I look to my manager for help, but he’s still down, laughing so hard he’s wheezing. Nonetheless, I’m pretty sure he’ll have my back if I need it; he’s like that.)

Me: “Yeah, I saw it, right after I saw you grab her butt. We don’t have to put up with that.”

Groper: “You… I… She can’t! I’ll call the cops! Yeah, that was assault. I’ll call the cops!”

Me: “Well, I guess you could. Or you could just hang around; there’s usually a couple of them dropping in around now for some coffee before they go round up drunks. They like to sit in [Waitress]’s section, so that’ll be convenient. You can tell them your version, and we can tell them how she was so startled her hand slipped after some pervert grabbed her butt, and we’ll see which one they think is assault.”

(At this point the guy just shrieks and stomps out. One of the busboys who’s come out of the back to see what the commotion is about starts to run after him, since he’s walking out on the bill, but our manager, who has managed to regain his feet, waves him off — it’s just coffee, not worth chasing an angry customer into the dark. Meanwhile, the other two guys who were with him come up to the register, and even though they’ve gotten separate checks, they pay his, too, so that works out.)

Groper’s Buddy: “Sorry about him. His girlfriend dumped him, and he’s totally been acting like an a**hole.”

Me: “I think you might have your cause and effect switched around there, but yeah, okay.”

(I work at a movie theater. An older gentleman comes up and buys six tickets for himself and a group of friends for the upcoming weekend. He’s a bit cranky while selecting his showtime and seats, but otherwise the transaction goes smoothly. When it comes time to pay, things take a turn. He pulls out a wad of papers and throws them at me without even making eye contact.)

Customer: “Use these.”

(I unfold the crumbled papers to find about a half-dozen receipts.)

Me: “Um, these are receipts.”

Customer: “Gift card receipts. Use ‘em.”

(I look again. They’re receipts for gift cards he’s purchased for the theater from the local [Retailer]. They literally just say “Gift Card” and the amount he paid — no card number, no scan bar, nothing that I can use.)

Me: “Do you happen to have the cards that you purchased? I can’t just use a receipt like this.”

Customer: “I’m not an idiot.”

Me: “I didn’t say you were.”

Customer: “Use ‘em.”

Me: “Unfortunately, I can’t. I either need the gift cards themselves or the sixteen-digit serial number from the back of the cards to redeem them.”

Customer: “Look. I’m not an idiot.”

Me: “I didn’t say you were.”

Customer: “Use ‘em, then!”

Me: “Sir, I have no way of using your gift cards with just these receipts. I either need the cards themselves or the serial number from the back.”

Customer: *deep sigh* “It’s always a different story from you clowns! Out to get the little guy while you line your pockets.”

Me: “Sir, the way the gift cards work has never once changed in the seven years I’ve worked here.”

Customer: “I. Am. Not. An. Idiot. If I couldn’t use these receipts, why would I have thrown out my gift cards, then? Huh?”

Me: “Wait, what? You threw out your gift cards?”

Customer: *after a pause, looking concerned* “I didn’t say that! I’m not an idiot! Just use the receipts!”

Me: “Sir, I can’t.”

(This back and forth continued for another two minutes. The customer kept insisting that he “wasn’t an idiot” and becoming angry that we couldn’t use his receipts. A nearby manager even got involved, and it just continued on in the same circle of idiocy. The customer ended up throwing some cash at me for the tickets and leaving. So, he bought gift cards, immediately threw them away, and then threw a hissy fit when he couldn’t use the gift cards he threw away… but don’t worry, he made sure to let us know he “wasn’t an idiot.”)

(It’s been a long day with difficult customers. A customer that I’ve never seen before walks up to my window and slaps some cash down on the counter.)

Customer: “Put this in my account.”

Me: “Sure thing. What’s your name?”

Customer: “And I want my balance.”

Me: “Absolutely. What’s your name?”

Customer: “I think there’s $200 here.”

Me: “Okay, what’s your account number?”

Customer: “I don’t know that.”

Me: “No problem. What’s your name?“

Customer: “You don’t know me?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry.”

Customer: “But I come in here all the time! Why should I give you my name?”

(The following flies out of my mouth before I can stop myself…)

Me: “Or I could just put this $200 in my account…”

Customer: “[Customer]! It’s [Customer]!”

Me: “Thank you! Here’s your receipt, with your balance. Have a great evening!”

(I didn’t get in trouble. My supervisor was laughing too hard to do anything.)

(I am serving a customer when an older woman comes up and speaks to me in a language other than English.)

Me: “Sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

(The older woman shrugs and wanders off.)

Customer: *in a snooty voice* “She was speaking Arabic; she asked you for a bag.”

Me: “Oh, did she? I’ll get her one when I’ve finished serving you.”

Customer: “You don’t speak Arabic, then?”

Me: “Uh, no.”

Customer: “You mustn’t be very well-travelled, then.”

Me: *annoyed now* “Unfortunately not. I’m afraid I only speak four languages: English, Spanish, French, and Polish. Had she spoken to me in any of those languages, I could have responded, but unfortunately I have not yet learnt Arabic.”

Customer: “Well, I speak the language fluently. It’s quite an important language in Australia.”

(I’ve just finished an Anthropology course on migration in Australia, so I know this fact.)

Me: “You’re right; it’s currently spoken by almost 1% of our population.”

(She went red at this and we finished the transaction in silence.)