(I have just finished helping a guy and his wife find booties for their dog, and the guy keeps thanking me for my patience.)

Customer: “You’ve been great. You know, as a thank you, next time I’ll bring you in some rubber.”

Me: “…thank you?”

Customer: “Yeah, this is real grade A stuff, that NASA uses. We’re supposed to throw the unused stuff away, but it’s real good rubber and I’ll bring you in some.”

Me: “Um, well, that’s all right. I’m just happy to help.”

(Our store works on the basis that you order the item and it is fetched from the warehouse. One customer has come several times and asked to try on work shoes from us. The third time, he brings his wife. This happens ten minutes before closing.)

Supervisor: “I’m sorry, but this is the third time this week you’ve come and tried these shoes, I’m going to have to ask you to make a decision.”

Wife: “So, you are telling us to make a decision now?!”

Supervisor: “I’m sorry, but that is merchandise, and we need it to be in decent condition for the customer who buys them. Your husband has been here twice already, and my colleague says you’ve tried the same shoe each time. Furthermore, we’re due to close soon, and we need to make sure everyone has been served and their items picked by then.”

Wife: “Fine, if you’re going to be like that, you can take your shoes back!”

(The husband takes the shoes off, puts them in the box, and slams them on the counter, but she’s determined to have the last word.)

Wife: “You’ve lost a sale!”

Supervisor: “I don’t mind!”

(I am a 17-year-old student, working part-time in a major supermarket chain as a checkout operator. Because of UK law, persons under the age of 18 must have approval from someone over 18 before they can sell alcohol, and my store requires that person to physically come to the checkout and type in their ID and password to authorize the sale. In this case, the customer is clearly old enough, ripped, and covered in tattoos.)

Me: “I’m really sorry to keep you waiting, but I’m afraid I have to get approval from someone over 18 before I can sell you this.”

Customer: “I’m over 18. Consider it approved.”

Me: “I’m afraid that it has to come from someone that works here, but I’ll have my supervisor over here just as soon as I can.”

Customer: *getting increasingly irritated* “Just put it through. They don’t have to know about it.”

Me: “I can’t sell alcohol without a code. My machine completely locks up as soon as it picks up alcohol, and I need someone over 18 to physically come here and override the lock-out. I promise you, my supervisor will just be a moment.”

Customer: “That’s a dumb-a** policy. Just type in their code or something.”

Me: “I’m afraid that’s actually the law. Section 153 of the Licensing Act of 2003 states that a responsible person is committing an offence if he or she allows a person under the age of 18 to perform the sale or supply of alcohol, unless the sale is approved by that or another responsible person. I don’t know my supervisor’s code, and if I was able to just sell alcohol, then the store could easily lose their licence, and both myself and all the managers could be fined.”

(At this point the customer loses it. It’s been less than two minutes since this entire exchange began, but he leaps at me over my checkout, grabbing me by the collar of my shirt and pulling me towards him.)

Customer: *shouting* “Listen to me, you f****** b****. I didn’t come here looking for a f****** lecture. Do you know who I am?”

(He shakes me a bit and moves right in my face, our noses about a centimetre from touching. A lot of people are watching, but none step in. I’m actually a black belt in three different martial arts, and more than capable of defending myself, but given that I am relatively new to the job and can see my supervisor on his way, I decide not to lash out.)

Customer: *as loud as he can* “I’m the f****** national wrestling champion. I’ve got hundreds of trophies, dozens of medals. What the f*** have you got, you whiny c***?

(My supervisor arrives, taps the guy on his shoulder, and nuts him straight in the face. He drops to the floor clutching a bleeding, and probably broken, nose. My supervisor flips him onto his front and pulls both his hands up behind his back, zip tying his hands together, and pulling his phone off his belt.)

Supervisor: “Hey, when you’ve got a minute, can you get the police down here? No rush.”

(I love my supervisor.)

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Me: “Good evening, [Sushi Restaurant], how can I help you?”

Caller: “Hi, can I get a Maryland roll with no sushi?”

Me: “Well, there is nothing called ‘sushi’ in that roll. Sushi isn’t an ingredient, it’s just what the roll is. It’s a sushi roll. There’s no raw fish or fish eggs in that roll, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Caller: “No, I just don’t want any sushi.”

Me: “Do you mean no seaweed or rice in the roll?”

Caller: “No, I want the seaweed and the rice. I just don’t want sushi in my Maryland roll.”

Me: “Okay, well, I can assure you there will be no ingredient called ‘sushi’ in your roll.”

(I put the roll through as usual, and when the caller came to pick it up, they didn’t complain. I still don’t know what they were asking.)

(Sometimes a can of paint is mixed incorrectly, thus creating the wrong color. When this happens, the gallon or quart is marked down to a lower price, significantly less than the original price, and labelled as a mis-tint.)

Customer: *walks to register with quart of mis-tint paint* “I have to tell you…”

Me: “Okay…”

Customer: “I don’t need all this paint. I just need a little bit of it. Like, only a small amount.”

Me: “Okay…”

Customer: “…so, can you open this and just give me that much?”

Me: “Um… No. I can’t open a fresh quart of paint and remove a portion of the contents.”

Customer: “Well, I don’t need the whole thing!”

Me: “Well, I can’t take some out then put it back on the shelf.”

Customer: “Fine. Then just charge me for how much I’m going to use.”

Me: “So, you want me to charge you for ONLY the amount you’re going to use, but GIVE you the entire quart?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Me: “No.”

Customer: “Then take out what I need.”

Me: “Why don’t you buy the entire quart? It’s only $5.00 when it used to be $22.00. That’s a great buy.”

Customer: “Because! I don’t need the entire thing!”

Me: “This is a mis-tint, it’s marked down to less than half the cost.”

Customer: “No! It’s not a mis-tint! The person in your paint department is an a**-hole and doesn’t know how to mix paint.”

Me: “I’ll be sure to let him know that.”
Customer: “Y’know what? Forget it. I don’t want it.” *buys only a soda then leaves*