Rude Jerks Like This Really Burn Me Up

I work at a crematorium. We have memorial gardens, and my job is sell the sites, administration, and customer service. I like to think I’m pretty good at it. The figures definitely show an upward trend since I started four months ago.

But there’s also a cemetery out front.

The division is the car park, where there are council signs giving the name of the cemetery. People constantly call or walk in asking about sites or maintenance or help finding Grandma in the cemetery.

All I can do is explain that the council controls the cemetery side — maintenance, burials, memorials, and records — and give them their office number to call. If they’re nice and the enquiry is quick, I’ll do it for them — usually, for the nice old ducks looking to visit a friend they haven’t been to visit in years. But it’s definitely difficult to gauge whether they’re talking about the memorial gardens or the cemetery, especially over the phone; trying to figure out where to start asking questions is hard for me, being autistic. I can only desperately hope I don’t seem rude!

There is one particular middle-aged woman who doesn’t seem to get it, despite multiple explanations. This lady wants to put her mother’s ashes with her father’s. But since I don’t work for the cemetery, I can’t help her.

I’ve directed her to the council a few times, but this week, she comes back in to ask why we haven’t put her mother’s ashes into the wall niche yet. Again, I try to explain, but she just starts going off about my tone, about my lack of professionalism, and about how disrespectful I’m being.

I’m trying to be helpful and explain things, and she interrupts me, sneering.

Lady: “How old are you?”

Me: “Sorry?”

Lady: “I asked, how old are you? Hm?!”

Me: “Oh, er, twenty-eight?”

Lady: “You’re too young for this job. I bet you haven’t even lost anyone in your life! No wonder you’re so d*** disrespectful.”

I get angry and loud since it’s so fresh.

Me: “Well, actually, I lost my father six months ago. His memorial happens to be here in the gardens. The gardens that I work in. Not the cemetery. I don’t work for the cemetery.”

Lady: “Where’s your manager? If you people don’t do your jobs, I’m going to call the police! You’d just better do your f****** job, or I’ll take legal action! It’s been weeks. You don’t know how to treat people. It’s disgusting how you’re holding my mother’s ashes hostage!”

Me: “Look. I completely understand that. It’s horrible that you haven’t been able to lay her ashes to rest and say goodbye, but I really can’t help you. My manager is offsite at the moment, but I’ll give you his number.”

Lady: “I must say, your tone has been completely disrespectful. You sound like you don’t give a d***.”

I write my manager’s direct number on a business card.

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. I have autism, so that’s probably why. I truly don’t mean to sound—”

Lady: *Interrupting loudly* “So, you’re too r******d to do your job?”

She snatched the paper out of my shaking hand before storming out the door. My anxiety levels were absolutely through the roof.

We’ve received emails and calls of complaint from three different family members so far. I’m guessing she’s telling them all to contact us specifically.