Stop Trucking Swearing

(I am working as a desk worker for a vehicle impound company. I have a male coworker who stays in the office to keep me safe and to actually go and get the cars, so that I stay safely behind the wall.)

Me: “Hi there. Can I help you?”

Customer: *angrily* “Yeah, I’m here to get my truck you stole.”

Me: “Alright, I just need the vehicle information. VIN number, make, model, and color.”

Customer: “Yeah, it’s [VIN number].”

Me: “Alright, here it is.”

(I print out the statement of charges and take them to the window.)

Me: “So, here’s a breakdown of your charges: your total is [price], and I’ll need to see proof of ownership and a photo ID.”

Customer: “WHAT?! I’m not paying that! This is bulls***! You guys f***ing stole my truck, and you expect me to pay to get it back?!”

Me: “Sir, I must ask you to refrain from swearing at me. It says here your car was towed because your registration expired over a year ago. I’m sorry, but I can’t release your vehicle to you without this fee.”

Customer: “F*** you! How the f*** do you expect people to afford this s***?!”

Me: “Sir, please calm down. If you can’t afford it today, I have to inform you that it’ll continue to go up by [cost] every day until you can.”

(At this point, he lunges through the iron bars and grabs my wrist. My male coworker jumps up, but I manage to pull away. The man takes off out of the office. My coworker watches him out of the window.)

Coworker: “If he comes back, stand back a little. He does that again, just duck.”

(Sure enough, the customer comes back about an hour later. He seems calmer, but my coworker still stands up and grabs one of the many baseball bats he keeps throughout the office building. He stands off to the left of the window, out of sight of the man.)

Customer: “Alright, how f***ing much is it again?”

Me: “Sir, please refrain from swearing. Here’s your price breakdown.”

(I hand him the statement and he looks over it, getting more agitated.)

Customer: “What the f*** does all this s*** mean? You motherf***ers are trying to rob me blind! No one could afford this! You’re all a bunch of f***ing* thieves!”

(At this point, he reaches through the bars again, almost touching his face to the bars. I jump back, and my coworker swings the titanium bat, smacking against the bars and making a horrendous ringing sound.)

Coworker: “You get out—now! Or next time, it’ll be your head!”

Customer: *reeling* “Oh yeah, tough guy?! Come on out here and say that!”

(My coworker heads for the door separating the office from the customer area. As he opens it, the customer sees my coworker, all 6’1″, 250 lbs of pure muscle that he is, and takes off out the door, into the car with whoever was driving him, and they peel out of the parking lot. As far as I know, he never came back for his truck.)