(Our store is pretty busy but the last rush is just winding down. The phone rings. My coworker answers the phone; I’m unable to hear what he’s saying for a few moments.)

Coworker: “Just a second, ma’am.”

(Turns to me.)

Coworker: “Anybody turned in any groceries today?”

Me: “No, what’s up?”

(He turns back to the phone before answering me.)

Coworker: “I’m sorry, ma’am, we haven’t had any turned in but let me get your name and number and we’ll call if they are.”

(He takes down her name and number before hanging up, then turns to me.)

Coworker: “She put her groceries in the wrong car.”

Me: “She put her groceries in the wrong cart or car?”

Coworker: “Car. She even said the interior was different but she didn’t think anything about it at the time.”

(Nods head.)

Me: “Okay, then.”

(We both fell into bouts of laughter.)

(I’m cashiering, heavily pregnant, and not ready to put up with much. Over walks an older man with a frozen pot pie and ice cream. I work at a bag-less store, and it costs a nickel for a paper bag, 10¢ for plastic. He stands at the end the belt, looking at the toothpicks.)

Customer: “Can I get this stuff in a bag?”

Me: “Yes, you can. They’re 5¢ for those ones.” *gesturing to the paper stack*

Customer: “I am not paying for a bag. I bought it, and I deserve a bag!”

Me: “I am sorry, but by not offering bags for free, we can keep our prices lower than other stores. If you go to another store, the price of your bag is already added to the price of your groceries, so you’re still paying for it in the end. This way we can sell ice cream for $2.49 instead of $5.29. Would you like to purchase the bag, sir?”

(The man chucks his potpie down on the belt; it skips and hits me. Then he smashes his ice cream down, damaging the product, and storms off.)

Customer: “I’ll go somewhere they won’t charge me for a d*** bag, then!”

(And off he went to drive four miles away and pay more for his ice cream. Meanwhile, after filing an incident report because I had been hit by the potpie, my manager wrote the damaged product off, and we had potpie and ice cream on break that night.)

(I am cashiering, and about six-months pregnant with a belly that is really showing. I am used to my regulars pushing their cart around to the end so I can scan larger items without lifting them, and think nothing of it when an older woman pushes her cart to the far side of the belt. I reach in and pick up her bag of pizza rolls, scan them, and proceed on to scan a 7oz package of turkey. As I set the turkey back down, on top if the frozen pizza rolls, she hits my scale with her fists, and stares me down with venom in her eyes.)

Customer: “You’re going to break them. Don’t touch the stuff. Just ring it up.”

(I am confused, and pick up her eggs to scan, and she yanks them out of my hand, all the while going rabid in front of my very eyes.)

Customer: “I told you not to touch them! You already broke my pizza rolls. You always break everything!”

(She is near tears, and I am kind-of scared of her, so I page my manager. My manager takes over and after a long time of coaxing her to let him, he manages to scan every item. The whole time, this woman is spitting out her teeth about how I break her pot pies, smash her bread, and bruise her apples. Being hormonal and agitated, I walk over to the woman, and in front of my manager say:)

Me: “I expect an apology from you. I have never done a thing to you, and had done nothing to deserve this emotional payload on top of me. You make me feel bad, you make me look bad, and this is my JOB. Please do not come through my line again. If you do, ask for the manager. I will not serve you again.”

(I turned around, weeping furiously, and took a break. The next day, she came in with a red rose, and apologized to me… but as she walked out the door, she screamed, “Don’t let them get your baby. Don’t let them kill your baby!”  My manager overheard, and told her she was no longer welcome on our establishment.)

(I work in a very small retail store with a large display window facing the street. We are just a building away from the center of the town, which is pedestrian and car heavy, especially during the tourist season. The display window is decorated with green and silver, with statues and other ornamental objects on display for the people walking by. All are for sale. The phone rings, and as the only one working, I answer.)

Me: “Thank you for calling [Store]. This is [My Name] speaking. How may I help you?”

Customer: “Yeah, hi! You had a statue on display in the window; I needed to know the price. It’s a [description of statue].”

(I walk over to the window; there are three or four statues that could be the one. I grab the most likely and check the price tag.)

Me: “I’m looking at one that’s priced at [price], but there’s also—”

Customer: “It’s the one to your right.”

(I felt every hair stand up on end as I gave him the price and then retreated to the back of the store. No one ever did come in for a statue.)

(I work as a librarian in my town. We aren’t really allowed to stay and help patrons on the computers because we aren’t qualified tech support nor do we have the time. Occasionally, I bend the rules a little and assist patrons who really need it. But today I really learned why we don’t help with computers.)

Patron: “I need help printing something from my phone.”

Me: “Is it in an email?” *this is usually what people mean by ‘on their phone.’*

Patron: “I don’t know. It’s just on my phone.”

Me: “Okay, it would need to be sent to an email and I can log you on to one of our computers to print. We can’t do any wireless printing, sorry.”

Patron: “How do I do that?”

(She leans over the counter with phone in hand asking me to do it for her. It takes a couple of tries but finally sends to her email. I log her onto a public computer and have to reset her email password for her because her “phone just knows it and she doesn’t have to log in, ever.” 15 minutes has already gone by.)

Patron: “I ordered flea bath for my cats on [Website] because I was getting a good deal.”

(I try to be polite and sound interested. However, it’s after lunch time and I’m starving.)

Me: “That’s great.”

Patron: “Yeah, but it was written in some foreign language I can’t read so I don’t trust it. I’m sending it back. But the guy was from Texas! I thought it’d at least be written in American.”

Me: *just nods head; I never respond to remarks like this*

Patron: *pointing to the screen* “The page won’t send me the return label. Why?”

Me: “I’m not really sure. It must be the website. It says to try again later. It could be running slow.”

(We try a few more times to open the email. She decides to call the website’s customer support number to get an answer.)

Patron: *on the phone with support* “I really don’t know what you’re saying. I don’t understand all this computer stuff. Talk to this girl that’s helping me.” *she shoves her phone that’s been pressed against her face into mine*

Me: “Hello?”

(I try not to act disgusted by using a stranger’s phone as I tell him exactly what the page says and he understand immediately what happened. The seller created the shipping label wrong so the site couldn’t process it correctly. It would be another week before it’s fixed and she could return her flea bath. The phone call lasted another ten minutes.)

Patron: “Well, okay. If I don’t get the label then, do I just throw my stuff away? I don’t trust it.”

Me: “I guess so. I’m just going by what the support guy said.”

Patron: “Okay. Anyways, I thought the flea bath was written in Mexican or something. I can’t read that so I asked my daughter to come look at because she took Mexican in high school. But she said “Mama, I can’t read that. It ain’t Mexican.” So I’m guessing it’s probably United Kingdom language or something. I can only read American. Thanks for all your help though!”

(She left the computer without getting her label and I rushed to lunch in bewilderment at her story. When I came back from my break, I learned that she left her contact information in case we ever sold our book carts or card catalogues. You know, the two main things we use daily. I won’t be bending the rules again any time soon.)