(It is back in the days when gas station attendants pump gas for you, and gas is only 40¢ per gallon. It’s a hot summer day. The station is on a superhighway, so we get customers from all over the world, and our orders can vary widely. A customer drives up to the pump, but will not roll down his window. He wildly gesticulates, waving five fingers at me.)

Me: *speaking loudly at the window* “Five dollars or five gallons, sir?”

Customer: *continues to wave his hand at me*

Me: “Five dollars or five gallons, sir?”

Customer: *continues to wave his hand at me*

Me: “Five dollars or five gallons, sir?”

(The customer finally rolls down the window:)

Customer: “Five dollars.”

(He then quickly rolls the window back up.)

Me: *smugly* “Regular or high-test, sir?”

(Anyone under the age of 18 cannot legally ring up alcohol for customers. I’m 24, but people still ask if I’m old enough to ring it. The following happens on a Thursday morning. The temperature is in the negatives, and all the local school systems have the day off.)

Customer: *sets wine on the counter* “Who can ring this?”

Me: *laughs* “Anyone who couldn’t would be in school right now, sir.”

Customer: *suddenly snotty* “Well, today’s a snow day! They aren’t in school; so THERE. You COULD be too young.”

Me: “Sir, the managers didn’t know today would be a snow day when they made the schedule a week ago.”

Customer: *grabs his things and storms out*

(I’m standing in line at a popular fast-food joint, in no way looking like a worker. I’m wearing capris, a t-shirt, and sneakers. I’m also fifteen, though I look like I’m twelve. Needless to say, I’m also standing on the side of the counter where the food is ordered, not where the workers are. A customer approaches me and begins to rattle off a long, complex order.)

Customer: “Did you get all that?”

Me: *doesn’t realize she was speaking to me* “Uh… no?”

Customer: “DIDN’T YOU PAY ATTENTION?! I’M TALKING TO YOUR MANAGER FOR TERRIBLE CUSTOMER SERVICE!”

Me: “I don’t work here.”

Customer: *pause* “…get me your supervisor.”

Me: “I don’t think you understand; I’m a customer, not a worker.”

Customer: “I need to talk to your manager. If they hire Mexican children, they should at least speak English!”

Me: “I don’t think you understand English. I. Don’t. Work. Here.” *at this point, I’ve given up being polite*

Customer: “Oh… I’m sorry.”

Me: “It’s cool.”

Customer: “So… can I get a burger?”

(I work at an airport spa as a receptionist and nail manicurist, and some pretty wacky people come through here. I’m 17, but look a little younger than that. My appearance tends to attract older, creepy men to ask me strange questions. One day, a man enters the spa, and this interaction happens:)

Man: “I was wondering about a massage; what are my options?”

Me: “Of course. These are your options right here.” *I show him the list of massages available.*

Man: “So, if I get a table massage, what will you do?”

(My coworker is the massage therapist and has just exited the massage room, so she hears the rest of this conversation.)

Me: “I’m sorry, sir; I’m not the therapist, I just do—”

Man: “I AM THE CUSTOMER, AND I DEMAND THAT YOU MASSAGE ME. I AM PAYING!”

Me: “I’m well aware that you are a paying customer, but I legally cannot provide that service. I am only licensed to do nai—”

Man: “YOU MUST DO THE SERVICE, OR I WILL COMPLAIN!”

Me: “Certainly. Let me give you my supervisor’s number, so that you can complain about a service I legally cannot provide you.”

Man: *his face goes red* “I… WELL, I NEVER!”

Me: “I am a manicurist, though.”

Man: “I WANT A MASSAGE!”

Me: “Of course. Sign in here for me, then.”

Man: “I want you to do it.”

Me: “Please leave; we cannot provide you a service.” *It’s nearly midnight, and my patience has all but evaporated.*

(The man glares at me for a full minute, before literally running out.)

Coworker: “He really wanted that massage.”

Me: “Yeah, I don’t understand why he insisted on me, though.”

Coworker: “You’re too innocent to be working at an airport.”

(She explained later why he really wanted me to do it. I was not flattered.)

(A customer recently picked up a salad from our carry-out. Later, she calls back to tell us that when she got home, she found only lettuce in the box, no toppings. Because I am the manager, I just tell her to come back with the salad so we can replace it.)

Customer: *coming in and shoving the box at me* “Here!”

Me: *opening the box and indeed seeing only the lettuce*

Customer: “See? What kind of place is this? I want one with actual ingredients in it, not just this rabbit food!”

Me: *looking from her to the box* “Ma’am, I think I know the problem here.” *I close the box, flip it over, open it, and come face-to-face with the rest of the salad – all ingredients included.*

Customer: “Oh…”

Me: “Here’s your salad back, ma’am. I hope you have a great day.”