She Carried The Change Too Far

, , , , , | Right | August 5, 2020

A fifteen-ish-year-old girl comes to the counter with a box of candy.

Me: “All right, that’s going to be $3.75.”

Girl: “All right.” 

She hands me a five-dollar bill, and I give her $1.25 for her change. She gives me a weird look and then walks away to her friend. They talk for a while, and then the girl comes back to the counter.

Girl: “Shouldn’t I have gotten $2.25 back?”

Me: “You got [candy], right?”

Girl: “Yeah.”

Me: “And you gave me a five, right?”

Me: “Yeah, the candy was $3.75, so I gave you the right amount of change.”

Girl: “No, you didn’t. It should have been $2.25.”

Me: “Ma’am, even the register says it is $1.25.”

Girl: “But why?”

Me: “The candy was $3.75, the quarter makes $4, and the dollar makes $5.”

Girl: “Oh.”

She walks away, acting like I’m still wrong and she doesn’t want to deal with it anymore.

Coworker: “Did that just happen?”

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And Get Her A Couple Of Quills While You’re At It

, , , , | Right | August 5, 2020

The phone rings and I answer. There’s an older woman on the other end.

Customer: “Hello? I wanna see if y’all carry, uh… ink.”

Me: “Sure! What brand of ink are you looking for?”

Customer: “It’s for my printer.”

Me: “Yes, but what brand?”

Customer: “Oh. It’s [Brand], and the box says [model number].”

Me: “All right, and you said that was ink and not toner, right?”

Customer: “What?”

Me: “You’re sure it’s ink and not toner, ma’am?”

Customer: “I said ink!

We don’t carry ink cartridges by that particular brand, but we do carry toner. I put the customer on hold and use our store’s stock search function to determine if we carry the type of toner she needs. Unfortunately, we do not.

Me: “Ma’am, unfortunately, we do not carry that particular cartridge.”

Customer: “Cartridge?! I said ink!

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Living In A Completely Different Year

, , , | Right | August 5, 2020

Customer: “I want to look at the diary in the window.”

Me: “Certainly, which one?”

Customer: “There’s only one there; let me see it.”

I spot a diary in the window display and reach it out for her.

Customer: “No, no, no! How can you get that wrong?! There’s only one diary in the window and you take out the wrong book!”

Me: “Ma’am, this is a diary!”

Customer: “No, it isn’t! There was only one diary and that’s not it!”

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You Ended Up Being His Plus One

, , , , , | Right | August 4, 2020

I work day-of wedding coordination at an extremely upscale country club in the south. Because it is so expensive to join the club and host events, members expect everything to be PERFECT.

A big part of my job is making sure the wedding party and hosts are happy no matter what, so if there are any issues at all, we handle it. This happens about five hours into a reception with an open bar, wine service, and passed drinks.

A coworker speed-walks up to me with a look of slight panic.

Coworker: “There’s an issue with a guest. I need your help outside.”

Outside, a man is so intoxicated that he’s rolling in the grass like a turtle stuck on its shell, completely unable to stand up on his own or speak. We enlist some bartenders to help us half-carry him inside. We prop him up in a chair away from other guests, and he almost immediately passes out onto the table.

Bartender: “I’ll get him some water, but you need to stay here and make sure he doesn’t fall out of the chair and hurt himself.”

Me: *To the other coordinators* “I’ll stay here with him. We need to figure out if he has any friends or relatives who can take him home. Don’t bother the hosts if you don’t have to. Oh, and maybe get a trash can, as well, in case he vomits.”

It turns out the man was at the wedding completely alone, leaving his wife and kids at home in another state and knowing no one in town except the groom. Along with another coordinator, I spend the next hour physically keeping this semi-conscious, significantly-larger-than-me man in his chair and holding a trash can up to his face as he vomits, sometimes missing the can and getting on me. The smell is unbelievable.

A few guests notice, and we have to keep a permanent unfazed, pleasant expression saying, “Oh, don’t worry at all! This happens all the time.” Eventually, the — also very intoxicated — groom spots his friend.

Groom: “Heeey, [Friend]! How you doing, buddy? Looks like you’ve had a great time.”

He sees my coworker holding the man’s shoulders to keep him from falling forward out of the chair while he heaves into the trash.

Groom: “If I knew I could get a back rub out of it, I might just be sick next!” *Winks* “Well, I don’t want anything to do with this, but he’s a great guy, so take care of him.” *Wanders off*

The wedding finally ended and we were able to get the man into a wheelchair and roll him to the guest shuttle back to his hotel. An absolute angel of a guest and her husband volunteered to chaperone him and make sure that he got to his room safely. If I hadn’t smelled like vomit, I would have hugged her.

After all this, I still had to pack the married couple’s overnight bags, deal with a hissy fit from the bride, clean up the reception space, and accommodate last-minute requests from the host to pack items she was supposed to bring home that night and hold them for the next morning. By the end, we’d been on our feet for more than eight hours straight with no breaks or food.

We were not tipped.

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Not So Pretty In Pink, Part 6

, , , , , | Right | August 4, 2020

I’m a customer, watching all this happen in a single visit of barely an hour.

My family and I enter a fairly busy fast food restaurant and start placing our order at the kiosk.

The door bangs open and a woman in a pink camo shirt carrying a to-go bag storms up to the cashier. [Cashier] is a tiny, soft-spoken Hispanic woman most customers adore. The woman proceeds to upend said bag on the counter and throws her receipt at [Cashier]. I can’t understand much of what is said, aside from swear words and “wrong” over and over, due to her screaming and her heavy, unidentifiable — to me — accent.

To her credit, the cashier apologizes calmly, fixes the order, and delivers it without so much as batting an eye.

We sit down to wait for our order to come out. A few minutes pass, and another woman, also wearing pink — this time a pullover — suddenly starts hollering across the dining area about how her table never got their coffees and, “What the f*** are y’all doing back there?” Again, this crazy lady and her humiliated-looking daughters are placated with minimal trouble.

My family’s order arrives, and we eat in relative silence, only giving each other weirded-out looks and making “holy crap” comments.

As we prepare to leave… you guessed it… another lady, this one decked in pink from head to toe, comes in. She starts screeching about how dumb they were yesterday for screwing up her order, how she should get a refund and a replacement, how all the “d*** Mexicans” should stop f****** over our society, etc. Every other word out of her mouth is an expletive, and she starts banging on the counter and kiosks.

The exit we need is past her, and as violent as she is becoming, we think it better to stay put and well clear.

The manager, a very large black man, comes out and tells the woman that she is being refused service and banned, and she goes berserk. Luckily, a quick call to the cops has her hightailing it.

I don’t know why pink was suddenly the color of choice for crazy, but it definitely swore me off wearing the color myself for a bit.

Related:
Not So Pretty In Pink, Part 5
Not So Pretty In Pink, Part 4
Not So Pretty In Pink, Part 3
Not So Pretty In Pink, Part 2
Not So Pretty In Pink

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