A customer comes up to the register holding a gas can.

Me: “Hello.”

Customer: “How much gas will a two-gallon gas jug hold?”

Me: “Two gallons.”

Customer: “No, I mean, how many gallons will a two-gallon gas jug actually hold?”

I respond with a blank stare for a moment.

Me: “A two-gallon gas jug will hold two gallons of gas.”

Customer: “Well, I didn’t know! I’m just trying to help out a friend.”

Me: “So, you want to get two gallons of gas in a gas jug? Okay! What pump are you on?”

Customer: “No! Listen to me! I want to get as much gas as I can. And I have a two-gallon gas jug. I want to put as much gas in it as it’ll hold!”

I stare blankly at her again, and I guess it dawns on her what I said.

Customer: “Oh!” *Laughs* “I get it now. A two-gallon gas jug… two gallons… I’ve really been answering my own question with my question, haven’t I? And you just repeated what I was telling you.”

Me: “Yes, ma’am. What pump would you like for me to put it on for you?”

Customer: “The pump I’m parked on.”

Me: “Which pump are you on?”

Customer: “I dunno. It’s the one that I parked at.”

Me: *Frustrated* “Okay. Which vehicle is yours?”

Customer: “The white one.”

Me: “Which white one, ma’am? There are three white cars out there on pumps.”

Customer: “Well, the white one that is mine.”

Me: “Would you mind looking out the door and telling me which white vehicle is yours?”

Customer: *Looks out the door* “Oh!” *Laughs* “I see what you mean! I’m the one all the way on the far end!”

Me: “Okay. So, you want two gallons of gas on pump four? That’ll be $4.34.”

Customer: “$4.34?! For two gallons of gas? Why so high?!”

Me: “Gas is $2.17 a gallon. $2.17 times two is $4.34.”

This was my very first transaction after taking over the register this afternoon.

When I worked in the deli department of a supermarket, I’d enjoy interacting with customers, especially when it was slow. If they had a good attitude, I’d joke with them, and they seemed to really appreciate it. One morning, a woman came up and ordered three or four items, which I got while I chatted with her, and she thanked me and left. A few minutes later, she returned.

Customer: “I forgot to order something.”

Me: “No, no! You left! You’re done! You don’t get anything else!”

Customer: *Laughing* “But I have a very fussy nine-year-old at home!”

Me: “Oh. Well, that’s different. What can I get you?”

I’m standing at the end of my register, as we’re supposed to do when we don’t have customers. A man approaches.

Me: “Hi, there. Ready to check out?”

I gesture toward my register.

Customer: “Yup.”

He unloads his groceries and pulls his phone from his pocket to show me.

Customer: “I just got my first smartphone. How cool are they?”

Me: *Smiling* “They are pretty cool.”

Customer: “Hey, what’s your last name?”

The cashier at the register behind him turns and gives me a “WTF?” look.

Me: *Pauses* “Why?”

Customer: “I want to add you on Facebook.”

Me: “Um, I don’t have one.”

Customer: “Seriously?”

I give a small, uncomfortable laugh.

Me: “Seriously.”

Customer: “How is that possible?”

Me: “I don’t want one.”

Customer: “Why? What are you hiding?”

Me: “If I told you that, it would defeat the purpose of not having one, now, wouldn’t it?”

Customer: “Oh. I guess so.”

The rest of the transaction is silent. When the man is out of earshot, the cashier at the next register shakes her head.

Cashier: “What a creepy little weirdo.”

Me: “And that’s another reason I don’t have a Facebook.”

In 2008, I was a young, intrepid stock person at a big box all-purpose store. I had a working knowledge of where pretty much everything was in the store because I was all over the place, but the grocery department had its own stock team specifically, so I wasn’t as knowledgeable there.

I am of Lebanese descent, and I was working in south Florida at the time. For those that don’t know, south Florida has a significant Cuban population, but not so much Middle Eastern folks. I got confused for Cuban all the time because I had the darker skin tone similar to a lot of Cuban folks. I also speak fluent English, Arabic, and French, but I was born and raised in the Midwest, so my accent gives no indication that I might be of Middle Eastern heritage.

On this fine afternoon, I was wheeling an empty tub back to the stock room after having emptied out one department over. Walking through the main aisle next to grocery, I heard an “EXCUSE ME!” It was not rude but definitely not polite, either. I turned to find a woman in a really fancy hijab and jewelry standing there with her husband.

Me: “How can I help you, miss?”

Customer: “I’m looking for [specific item] but I can’t find it.”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not as familiar with the grocery section so I’m not sure where that is. Let me grab one of my colleagues for you. One moment.”

I could see one of the other customer service guys in the grocery section, so I radioed him to come over and help her out.

Me: “He’ll be with you shortly, miss.”

Customer: *Tersely* “Thank you, but I’m in a hurry. I thought you worked here and knew your store.”

Me: “I’m sorry, miss, I don’t really work in this section. [Colleague] is coming right down the aisle now.”

Customer: *To her husband, in Arabic* “They always get these stupid kids to work in these places, but they don’t know how to do their job. This fatso doesn’t know his head from his a**.”

The husband gave the woman a look, probably because he saw my expression turn from my customer service smile to a frown. I was having an internal debate about what to do next when her husband spoke.

Customer’s Husband: *In Arabic* “Stop talking. I think he understood what you said.”

Customer: *In Arabic* “Of course he didn’t. He’s an idiot. He doesn’t know his hands from his feet.”

It’s an Arabic idiom that doesn’t translate well.

Me: *In Arabic* “Actually, I understood every word you said. I don’t appreciate being called fat and stupid. An older lady like you should know better than to insult people trying to help you. Worse, you wear your hijab like a hypocrite, pretending to be devout, yet you abuse your perceived social lessers? You should have some respect for yourself.”

The woman looked like she had been hit by a truck. Her olive skin turned ghost white, and she sputtered at me.

Customer: “You… you speak Arabic?”

Me: *In Arabic* “Obviously, I do. Maybe next time you’ll think before you insult people who help you when you think they can’t understand.”

The woman grabbed her husband’s arm and dragged him out of the store, completely mortified. I could hear her husband yelling at her in Arabic that he’d warned her not to be a b**** all the time, especially when she doesn’t know who understands her. I wasn’t personally that offended, but I won’t deny that it was satisfying to scare some sense into her.

I’m a woman in my twenties and I’m a mechanic at an auto shop. This regular comes in all the time to get his oil changed and everything on his 2007 truck. He usually requests that I perform his oil change because he likes the way I do it. I realized the other day that I hadn’t seen [Regular]’s truck in a while, but I didn’t think much of it because I was promoted from oil change tech to a higher level where I do more than just oil changes, and I assumed [Regular]’s oil change was now being done by one of the oil change techs.

After some months, I get [Regular]’s truck in for an oil change. I don’t realize anything is wrong until after I finish and turn in the keys and see [Regular] arguing with the service advisor. I go on to my next job, and after [Regular] leaves, I go talk to the service advisor.

Me: “What was [Regular] angry about?”

Service Advisor: “He was trying to get us to reimburse him for the money he spent buying his own filters and oil. He’s been changing his own oil for the last few months because he couldn’t get an appointment with you to change it for him, and he wanted us to pay him because he’s been ‘doing our job for us.’”