Sounds Like They’re On The Wrong Side Of The Prison Bars

I live in a small village in New York, and we have the “privilege” of having three prisons. The store I work in happens to be a twenty-four-hour gas station, so a fair share of our regulars are prison guards. They come in before and after their shifts for coffee, smokes, and papers.

Most are decent enough; they just want their quick bite, cheap coffee, or whatever before their shift. Some might be a little short with us, but their job is literally to oversee a subset of the population that they have to establish their authority over basically all day, so I don’t hold it against them. But there’s one who comes in that I loathe: [Rude Guard].

I have never met a more entitled, argumentative person in my life. How dare the rules apply to her?! How dare a lowly peon like me enforce them?! How dare I BREATHE in her vicinity without her express permission?! You get the gist. [Rude Guard] and I have had our fair share of encounters during my stay in this job, but this one really took the cake.

It’s going on midnight, and I see a familiar phantom pull into the parking lot. In walks [Rude Guard], and she shoots me a nasty look as she heads toward our beer cooler. I take a deep breath and prepare for war. That look is my one and only warning.

By the time she makes it to my register, there is a person in front of her, and a couple is directly behind her. As she places her beer on the counter, she sneers at me.

Rude Guard: “Do you need to see my f****** ID?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, our store policy is we have to ID everyone who is purchasing beer. Yes, even if we’ve IDed you in the past. It has to happen every time.”

I will admit it’s a rule that is a bit tedious, as we DO have regulars that we could technically confirm as being of age because we’ve seen their ID multiple times in the past. I’m quite sure the forty-year-old dude who buys beer every weekend will never one day suddenly turn sixteen. But rules are rules, and we don’t get to make common sense judgment calls in this job, no matter how many headaches it would cure or prevent.

Rude Guard: “You are so f****** rude! Here, see it?!”

She whips out her guard ID, which she KNOWS I can’t accept.

Me: “Ma’am, I need to see a state-issued ID such as a driver’s license, permit, non-driver’s ID, or even a passport.”

I’m gritting my teeth so hard I’m sure one is going to break.

Rude Guard: “This is a f****** state ID, you idiot! I work for the G**d***ed state!”

Me: “Ma’am, as I have mentioned many times, I cannot accept an employer-issued ID.”

She finally shows me her driver’s license, and I ring out her purchase.

Rude Guard: “That’s f****** bulls***! You’re just f****** jealous because I have a real d*** job and you work in a s***ty gas station.”

I’ll admit I finally lose my patience with this woman at this point.

Me: “A real job? So, the paychecks issued to me are fictional? The taxes I pay don’t go to the state? I work my butt off in this store thirty-five to forty hours a week and support a family of four on this non-existent job!”

Rude Guard: “It’s not a real f****** job if you only make minimum wage.”

Me: “Everyone in this store makes more than minimum wage.”

Rude Guard: “You’re a rude liar, and I don’t have to take this s*** from a welfare b****!”

Me: “You’re right. You can take your purchase and leave the premises, and if you ever talk to me or any other coworker that way again, I will ban you from the store.”

Rude Guard: “You can’t ban me! You’re a f****** cashier!”

Me: “Right now I’m cashiering on this shift because the store needed it covered, but most days I lead this store on the second shift. If I ban you, trust me, you’re banned.”

Rude Guard: “I’m gonna f****** call your f****** manager, you rude b****, and when she hears about this, she’s going to fire your stupid a**!”

Me: “Ma’am, I fully encourage you to call my boss and tell her that I did my job and properly ID’ed you, and that you caused a big scene, were using obscene and abusive language on one of her employees, and did not leave when asked to. That’ll guarantee you a ban from the store.”

Rude Guard: “Your f****** manager is going to fire you. You f****** stupid b****.”

Me: “Smile, you’re on camera!”

She turns, gives me a venomous look, and heads for the door.

Me: *In the most sickeningly sweet voice* “Have a wonderful evening, and thank you for choosing our store.”

I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head.

The next morning when the store manager came in, I told her everything that happened. She personally guaranteed me that if [Rude Guard] ever spoke to me again like that, not only would be she banned, but the prison where she worked would get a formal complaint. This was the best of the four managers we had during my stint in retail.