Me: “Thank you for choosing your local [coffee shop]. What can I get started for you?”

Customer: *yelling* A grande vanilla latte!”

Me: “Okay, a grande van—”

Customer: *angrily* “I’m not done! I want that absolutely no foam, and with whipped cream!”

Me: “All righty, a gran—”

Customer: “I am not done! It has to have three honeys in it, with cinnamon and nutmeg!”

Me: “Would you like that sprinkled on top, or steamed into the milk?”

Customer: “On top! Steamed in is disgusting!”

Me: “You got it. A grande vanilla latte, with three honeys—”

Customer: *condescendingly* “I said, NO FOAM!”

Me: “Ma’am, I am repeating your entire drink order back to you to ensure that it is correct, and I was not finished. You have ordered a grande vanilla latte, with three honeys, no foam, with whipped cream, and cinnamon and nutmeg on top. Is that correct?”

Customer: “Yes!”

Me: “Perfect. Is there anything else I can get you?”

Customer: “A venti peach citrus infusion with no ice!”

Me: “Did you want—”

Customer: “Make sure there’s no ice! I’m not drinking it now!”

Me: “Did you want that sweet, or unsweet?”

Customer: “Sweet! It’s not worth drinking if it isn’t!”

Me: “Absolutely. Is there anything else I can get for you tonight?”

Customer: “No!”

Me: “Fantastic, we’ll see you at the window with your total.”

Customer: “Repeat my drinks again!” *haughtily* “I don’t think you got them right!”

Me: “It’ll be [total], around the corner!”

(She keeps demanding her drinks repeated, but my baristas and I ignore her. Finally, she pulls up to the window.)

Customer: “You need to remake my drinks! You wouldn’t repeat them, and you have them wrong!”

Me: “I have a grande vanilla latte, three honeys, absolutely no foam, with whip, cinnamon and nutmeg sprinkled on top, and a venti peach citrus infusion, sweetened, but with no ice, because you aren’t drinking it now. Are these the correct drinks?”

Customer: “That’s what I ordered, isn’t it?”

Me: “Then it will be [total].”

(She grumbles, pays, and receives her drinks.)

Customer: “This can’t be mine! There are no stickers!”

Me: “I made them as you ordered them, ma’am, before the stickers were printed. I hope you enjoy your drinks, and have a lovely evening.”

Customer: “I want to speak to your manager! You have been rude, and you made my drinks wrong!”

Me: *smiling sweetly, as my patience has finally paid off* “Ma’am, I AM the manager.”

(She goes completely white, and speeds away. Five minutes later, I get handed the phone by one of my baristas.)

Me: “This is [Name], how may I help you?”

Familiar Voice: “You’re the manager?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am?”

Customer: “You have a horrific barista in your drive through, claiming to be you! She was so rude! She kept interrupting, and she made my drinks wrong, and I want a refund and an apology!”

Me: “Did you have the grande vanilla latte, with three honeys, absolutely no foam, with whipped cream, cinnamon and nutmeg on top, with a venti peach citrus, sweetened, with no ice, because you aren’t drinking it now?”

Customer: *somehow still oblivious* “Yes! So, she told you about me! I want her fired for gossiping about customers!”

Me: “Actually, ma’am, that was me in the drive through, and I am the one who made your drinks to your exact specifications.”

Customer: “I asked for the manager, not the rude b**** in the drive through!”

Me: “Ma’am, that ‘rude b****’ is still me, and I am still the manager. Given that you have now escalated to verbal abuse, I will be putting in a report to corporate, and I am terminating this call.”

Customer: *starts screaming unintelligibly*

Me: *click*

(I am standing behind the desk, inputting stock data into the computer inventory, when a customer approaches the desk. I enter the last number on the stock item – less than one second – and look up.)

Me: “Hi, how can I help?”

Customer: “You can start by dragging your eyes away from that screen you seem so glued to.”

Me: “I’m sorry? I—”

Customer: “It’s extremely rude to keep playing your computer games when there’s someone waiting to be served. I don’t appreciate being ignored.”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m very sorry you felt ignored. It wasn’t intentional and I apologise. It won’t happen again. Now, what can I do for you?”

Customer: *huffs and puffs and heaves a big sigh* “I’m looking for [Book] by [Author]. I can’t seem to find it on the shelves. Do you have it in stock?”

Me: *turning to the computer monitor* “Let me look it up for you.”

Customer: “You’re doing it AGAIN!”

(I am one of many baristas working for a major name coffee brand that’s known throughout the world. Being located in the state where said brand was founded, we expect to see a lot of interesting things when folk come for their much needed java. That said, I don’t think we expected for two police officers to come in one day and ask for my manager to come to the counter. I’m manning the register next to him as the following takes place.)

Officer #1: “Yeah, um… okay, we’re still not sure how to take this, but we got a 911 call from someone at this location stating that the store was a terrorist cell working to murder its patrons.”

Manager: “Really?… wow… that’s… I don’t know what to say about that. I mean, you know us [Officer #1]. You come by pretty regularly on your patrol to get coffee from us.”

Officer #1: “I know; that’s why I’m letting you know, just in case this gets escalated further. We’re pretty sure it’s a prank but… well… I mean, it’s safe to say that this was the last thing we expected dispatch to ask us to check out.”

Officer #2: “Don’t worry, we’ll report that we’ve checked you out and all seems as it should be.”

(The two officers make to leave.)

Random Customer: “Wait! Where are you going?”

(We all turn to see a tiny old lady [who I served a little while ago] staring at us with a mix of fear and anger.)

Officer #1: “Uh, I’m sorry, ma’am, can we help you with something?”

Lady: “I called you in here to stop these d*** terrorists from killing these poor, God-fearing Americans! Aren’t you going to do something?!”

Officer #1: “I’m sorry, ma’am, are you saying you’re the one who placed the call to 911?”

(The lady storms up and grabs the container of artificial sweetener on our condiments bar.)

Lady: “Look at this! Do you know what’s in these? Aspartame! Sucralose! Neotame! Chemical death in every packet! These people are terrorists, aiming to kill everyone who comes in here!”

(There is a pause as the sudden screaming causes the other customers to stop talking and see what’s going on. The lady starts pointing at random people.)

Lady: “You! You! YOU! You all put this in your coffee! You’ve let these heathens poison you! Every single one of these is death in a packet! You’re all going to die before the day is gone! This isn’t a coffee shop! It’s a d*** morgue!”

Officer #1: “Okay… well… now that we better understand what’s going on, perhaps you’d like to accompany us to our squad car, ma’am? We can put you in touch with the people who can help you further.”

Lady: “Yes! Get me the FBI! Get me the NSA! Every single one of these d*** coffee bars has these! Poisoning and killing Americans everywhere! They’re turning our country into a giant graveyard!”

Officer #1: “Yes, well, again, can you please accompany us outside?”

(The lady clings to our container of sweeteners.)

Lady: “I need this! Evidence of terrorism! Murder!”

(The officers look to us.)

Manager: “Uh… sure. Go ahead.”

Lady: “Yeah, I know who you are! You and your whole terrorist sect are finished! This will not go unanswered! All these packets! How many have you killed already?!”

(The officers finally get the lady out of the shop [with our sweeteners] and into the squad car. Officer #1 comes back in.)

Officer #1: “Okay, I am so sorry about that. We had no idea that was a serious call. We’ll make sure she doesn’t come back here again.”

Manager: “That’s fine just… wow…”

Me: “Yeah… well… it gets better.”

Officer #1: “What do you mean?”

Me: “I served her. She put four of those packets of death in her coffee!”

(I work the overnight shift alone from 10 pm to 6 am. I usually get the local cops in at the beginning of my shift, since they are starting their shift as well, and they also come by a few times a night, just to check in and say hi. Around 3 am one Sunday morning, another regular, who is shy and has a social disability, comes in to get his coffee and wait for his ride. As I’m finishing with him. two teenage boys come in.)

Me: *to regular* “Thanks for shopping at [Gas Station] and I’ll see you tomorrow.” *to teenagers* “Can I help you two with anything?”

Teenager #1: “Yeah, I’d like some cigarettes. [Brand].”

Me: “Certainly. I’ll just need to see some ID.”

Teenager #1: “I left it at the house. Can you let it slide this once? Besides, I only live right down the street.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I can’t sell to anyone that looks under 30 without an ID. Besides, if you live right down the street, then it should be no problem to get your ID.”

Teenager #1: “C’mon, man, just let it slide this once. I can tell you my birthday. It’s [date].”

Me: “Well, sir, if that is your birthday, then you are only 16. I can’t sell the cigarettes to you, but feel free to get anything else.”

Teenager #2: “Here, I’ll get them then. I just turned 18 and I have my ID.”

Me: “Sorry, sir, but I can’t sell them to you, since I know you are buying them for your friend, who I know is underage.”

Teenager #2: “But I’m 18!”

Teenager #1: “Don’t be a d***. Nobody will notice at this time of night.”

Me: “Sorry, but it’s not worth my job.”

(The two teenagers leave, and I see them go up to my regular, who is still waiting in the parking lot, and talk to him for a minute. My regular walks back in.)

Regular: “Can I get a pack of [Cigarette Brand Teenager Asked For]?”

Me: “I actually can’t. I know you don’t smoke, and I know those boys just asked you to get them cigarettes. Tell them I’m not selling them cigarettes, and they can’t get anyone else to buy them for them.”

(My regular leaves and talks to the teens. He gets picked up around five minutes later, but the teens are still loitering. I ignore them, as there isn’t anyone else in the store or parking lot, and start to mop while the store is slow. About 20 minutes later, the teens come in and get some nachos, making a mess in the process. As they come to check out, I notice the reek of alcohol.)

Teenager #2: “I’d like these nachos.”

Me: “Certainly, sir. Can I get you anything else?”

Teenager #2: “Yeah, I’d like a pack of [Same Cigarette Brand].”

Me: “I told you 20 minutes ago that I wouldn’t sell you cigarettes. Now, you need to pay for the nachos and leave.”

(They end up grumbling, but pay for their food and leave. However, they don’t leave the parking lot, and instead hang around eating their food. I ignore them again and start making coffee. About ten minutes later, one of my older regulars shows up. He stops to talk to the boys on the way in, and then comes into the store.)

Me: “Hey, [Older Regular].”

(All the coffee is fresh, and once I finish with the trash, I can take a break and come outside and chat.)

Older Regular: “You know those boys are asking for people to buy them cigarettes, don’t you? I told them I wouldn’t, and that you knew I didn’t smoke anyway.”

Me: “Okay, well, I’ve had about enough of this.” *I go outside and talk to the teenagers.* “You guys need to leave now. You can’t loiter here, and you can’t keep harassing my customers to illegally buy you tobacco.”

Teenager #1: “Well, why don’t you make us? We ain’t doing nothing!”

Teenager #2: “Yeah, and this wouldn’t have happened if you’d been f***ing cool about it.”

(Fed up with this, I call dispatch, and explain to them about the two drunk teens. Two minutes later, I have three cop cars pull in and corner these two kids. One tries to run and is caught almost instantly. My regular and I go outside to watch.)

Cop: *also a regular* “Hey, [My Name]. These two the only ones who were bothering you?”

Me: “Yeah. So, what are you going to do to them?”

Cop: “We’ll take them down to the station and throw them in the drunk tank. We’ll call their parents once they sober up. Usually putting the fear of God in them is enough. Call us if they ever show up on your shift again!”

(My regular and I walked away laughing. It certainly made the rest of my shift more enjoyable, and the teens had a great story to tell at school Monday!)

(The clock has just hit five pm, and a lot of our out-of-uniform stock workers are turning up. To customers, these workers appear as random other customers, as they are simply wearing casual clothes. I am working behind the counter of our printing section, in uniform. A good friend and coworker of mine comes through the counter, out of uniform. There are no customers in line, so my friend and I do a stupid handshake. Thirty seconds later, out of nowhere, a line of about five customers forms. A senior lady who has a medical face mask on approaches me.)

Lady: “That was a cool handshake!”

Me: *realizing she must have seen it, trying to be friendly* “Yeah, I guess you could say that!”

Lady: “Is that how you normally greet your customers? I want one!”

Me: “No, he’s actually a worker here—”

Lady: *cuts me off* “No, no, no… I WANT one. I want that greeting!” *she holds out her fist for a fist-bump while moving closer towards me*

Me: *I can feel the eyes of the customers in line staring, observing this bizarre interaction, so I try play it off politely.* “Ah, sorry, I reserve those greetings for friends.”

(She’s still edging ever-so-slightly forward with her fist out.)

Lady: *by this point, she’s behind the printing counter with me* “Is this how you guys did it?”

Me: *I’m trying to think how to get this lady away from me quickly and quietly, so I decide to give her a fist bump in the hopes she will move along…* “Uh, yes, here you … go?” *fist bump*

(Customers are all watching, like a small crowd.)

Lady: *laughs maniacally* “Ah, that was wonderful, I feel so young!”

Me: *Thinking that that’s enough, and this lady is completely insane.* “Is there something else I can help you with?”

Lady: “No, that will suffice for the day.” *stares into my soul via my eyes*

Me: *hoping she’ll move on out from behind the counter* “Okay, then!”

(I wait for her to move along, but she doesn’t. She moves further into my department.)

Me: “Excuse me, ma’am? You can’t go that way. You’ll need to move out from this area, I’m afraid.”

Lady: “Oh.” *mumbles something I can’t comprehend*

(She finally moves away and I turn to face the line of customers and ask, “Who was next please?” as I try act like nothing strange has happened.)

Next Customer: “What the h*** was that all about…”