(A customer comes to my till with a video game. This particular game is for ages 17 and up, but the customer looks no older than 14 or 15.)

Me: “Sir, this game is rated M. Are you over 17 years of age?”

Customer: *sighs* “Alright, hang on. I’ll be back in a minute.”

(The customer leaves the store. Later, he comes back with an older woman, who I assume is his mother.)

Woman: “Honey, which game is it that you wanted?”

Customer: “This one.”

(The customer comes back to my till once more, holding the game he was trying to purchase, with the older woman in tow.)

Me: “Ma’am, just so you know, this game is rated M, so it’s normally meant for people ages 17 and up.”

Woman: “Oh, that won’t be a problem.”

Me: “Just to double-check with you, ma’am, this game’s contents can be pretty violent, so it may not be appropriate for your son.”

Woman: *chuckles* “Oh, he’s not my son.”

Me: “I apologize. But once again, it might not be appropriate for your…nephew? Little brother? Cousin?”

Woman: “He’s none of those, silly! He’s my husband!”

Me: “Whaaaaaaaa?”

(The customer then pulls out his driver’s license, which I carefully examine. According to his date of birth, he’s 33 years old.)

Me: “Okay, so you had ID. Why didn’t you just show me that?”

Customer: “Look at how short and baby-faced I am! If I showed you my ID from the beginning, you would probably think it was fake!”

Me: “Fair enough, you got me there. I mean no disrespect by this, but I did think you were about 14.”

Customer: “Yeah, looking like this is both a blessing and a curse. I even quit drinking because it’s too much of a hassle to buy beer!”

(The customer pays for his game and leaves, while his wife is tries to stifle her laughter.)

(Note: Customer #1 is a well-known regular in her late twenties who has been coming to our store since before her son could walk. She usually sports funky hair while her son is in elementary school and likes talking to the employees. On this day, Customer #1 seems to be in pain but we’re talking as I scan her items while her son is joking about school with the bagger. Another customer, Customer #2, is waiting impatiently.)

Customer #2: “Will you all stop talking and hurry up?”

Me: “I apologize, ma’am, but this lady has quite a few items. As you can see, we’re both working as well as talking. If you don’t want to wait, you can take your things to the customer service desk where they’ll be happy to help you.”

Bagger: *to Customer #1* “Do you need help out today?”

Customer #1: “Yes, please, and thank you.”

Customer #2: “What the heck?! Why are you being so d*** lazy? Other people need help out. Do it yourself.”

Me: “There are other baggers who will happily come over and help you if you need, ma’am.”

Customer #2: *to Customer #1* “You young people are so d*** lazy these days. You probably stay home and paint your hair all those ridiculous colors. I bet you’ve never even worked a day in your life. What the h*** kind of example are you setting for your kid?”

Customer #1: “Not that it’s really your business, but you’re wrong. I worked for [local city] before my son was born. I worked at a [local gas station] until the fact that I have [chronic illness 1] and [chronic illness 2] meant I was in too much pain. I’m having a very rough day today and wouldn’t have come out if I didn’t have to pick up my medication and food. [Son] isn’t strong enough to help with the heavy things, so I’m accepting the bagger’s offer to do so.”

Customer #2: “Well, I, uh…”

Customer #1’s Son: “You’re a mean lady, and I shouldn’t act like you!”

Customer #1: “…And that’s the example I set for my son. I hope you learned something too!”

(A regular walks into the shop, makes his usual order, and pays for it. But instead of waiting at the bar, he pulls out an empty litre plastic bottle. He then pulls out a little funnel and fills the bottle to the brim with our coffee shop’s milk and stands at the bar looking smug until his drink arrives.)

Coworker: “That’s a lot of milk you’ve got there.”

Customer: “I know… I have to make ends meet somehow, with the prices that you charge. That’s like five bucks worth of milk in there.”

Coworker: “Well, sir, the other customers might want some, too.”

Customer: “I’m setting an example. How much do these cost to make? Milk, coffee, energy, wages. Less than I just paid for it. So, according to Marx’s theory of materialist dialectics, you’re extracting surplus value from me, the consumer. I’m just getting back some of what you owe me, and all the other customers should too.”

(At this point, everyone is looking at us, and the manager comes over to intervene.)

Manager: “Sir, our margins are pretty tight and that…” *points at the milk* “…is WAY more than the surplus value. Anyway, I haven’t done the calculation but I’d say most of the surplus value you contribute goes to homeless people and the ones who come in here and make themselves cinnamon milk to drink. You pay according to your ability, and they get according to their need. Yeah?”

Customer: *goes quiet and walks out, leaving his milk on the bar*

Manager: “Don’t try and school me on Marxist theory, a**hole.”

Me: “Library. How can I help you?”

Caller: “Hello?”

Me: “Hello, this is the library. How can I help you?”

Caller: “Is this [bank]?”

Me: “No, this is [library].”

Caller: “What?”

Me: “This is [library]. I believe you have the wrong number.”

Caller: “What?”

Me: “You have the wrong number.”

Caller: “What number is this?”

Me: “It’s [number].”

Caller: “What?”

Me: “It’s [number].”

Caller: “I know. That’s the number I dialed.”

Me: “Well, I’m sorry, but you either have the wrong number or dialed the wrong number. This is [library] not [bank].”

Caller: “What?”

Me: “This is [library] not [bank]. You have the wrong number.”

Caller: “So then, what’s the right number?”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what [bank]’s number is.”

Caller: “Why not?”

Me: “Well, I don’t work at nor do business with that particular bank. I have no reason to need the number.”

Caller: “What?”

Me: “You have the wrong number and I don’t know what the right number is.”

(I hang up, but the phone immediately rings again. I’m pretty sure it’s the same person, so I let it go to voicemail. A few minutes later I check my messages, and, sure enough, there’s a message from the person I had just spoken with.)

Caller: “This is [name] and I’m having issues with my checking account. I called earlier, but the person who answered didn’t know what they were talking about!”

(My partner and I are certified EMTs. We are answering a 911 response for a minor having a seizure.)

Mother: “Oh, thank god! My son is in his room and was violently shaking! I think he had a seizure!”

(At this point my partner goes in to see the teenage son, who is sitting in his bed and is not showing any symptoms of recently having a seizure. I am still getting information from the mother when my partner returns.)

My Partner: *to me* “You can stop getting info.” *to mother* “Ma’am, with all due respect needed, your son did not have a seizure, he was umm… well, no easy way to put this, but he was… pleasuring… himself.”

Mother: “That’s impossible! How dare you accuse my son of such a vile sin! He knows better! He’s a good Christian boy and would never touch himself in such a horrible way! You will transport him to the hospital for proper treatment for his seizure!”

Me: “Ma’am, your son is admitting to my partner what he was doing. He is not showing any symptoms of coming out of an actual seizure. There is no medical condition here for anyone to treat. I don’t think there is a need for him to go to the hospital.”

Mother: “You will take him to the hospital! He needs treatment!”

(After 15 unsuccessful minutes of trying to get the mother to cooperate, it’s obvious she wasn’t going to. We ended up having to transport her son to the ER. Needless to say, he was mortified and was quickly discharged.)

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