(A girl comes to my counter with a bottle of wine. She’s clearly underage; about 13 or 14.)
Me: “You can’t buy that, you’re too young.”
Customer: “What?! No! I’m twenty-two!”
Me: “I’ll need to see your ID, please.”
Customer: “I left it in my car. ”
Me: “Then you can’t buy this.”
Customer: “Fine, then! I’ll go get my mom and she’ll tell you!”
Me: “Alright, you do that.”
Customer: “MOM!” *runs off*
(She never came back.)
(I’m a female working in a gas station and it’s close to midnight. The customer is obviously drunk, which means I can’t sell him alcohol.)
Customer: “You’re the kind of pretty thing I’m not allowed to touch.
(He proceeds to our beer cooler and takes one bottle out of a six-pack.)
Me: “Sir, I can’t sell you that for two reasons. One, you are obviously drunk and store policy says you can’t buy alcohol. Two, if you were sober it would have to be the whole six-pack or nothing.”
Customer: *stares at me for 30 seconds and then pukes on his coat*
Customer: “Am I sober enough now?”
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(A young teenage girl comes up to my till and places several bottles of alcopops on it.)
Me: “I’m sorry, miss, but as you don’t look over 21 I am afraid I am going to have to ask to see some ID for these.”
Girl: “What? I’m old enough. Obviously. Like, I never get asked for ID.”
Me: “Well, I’m afraid I still need ID.”
Girl: “Why are you being rude? I told you I am old enough.”
(This continues for a few minutes until I get fed up.)
Me: “Look, you obviously don’t have any ID so I am not going to serve you. If you want to complain you can go to customer services.”
Girl: “Fine!”
(Ten minutes later, my supervisor comes over.)
Supervisor: “I just heard you got a complaint. I must say that I am very disappointed.”
Me: “I’m sorry. I just lost it, I guess.”
Supervisor: *laughs* “Oh, no. That’s fine. Just that we all had a bet on how long you would last. If only you would have lasted a little longer.”
(A little while after this, the girl returns. She’s led by a much older man who I guess is her father. He places on my till the exact same items his daughter had.)
Man: “Right. I want these and before you ask, here is my ID.”
(He pulls out his driver’s license and waves it in my face, smirking to his daughter. He obviously thinks he is being really clever.)
Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t sell you these.”
Man: “Why the h*** not?! I’m plenty old enough!”
Me: “Yes, sir. But it is also quite obvious that you are buying them for this girl, which means I can’t sell them to you.”
Man: “I want to speak with your supervisor.”
(I call my supervisor over and explain the situation. The man jumps in before she can respond.)
Man: *to Supervisor* “So, what you gonna do? You gonna sell me these d*** drinks and fire that little s***?!”
Supervisor: *calmly* “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I will give you thirty seconds to get out or I will call the police. Buying alcohol for a minor is a criminal offense.”
(He left in a hurry, muttering furiously to his daughter. Sometimes, with the worst customers, you find the best coworkers.)
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(This is early December, when most of the companies have their big night out. A visibly drunk patron needs to be asked to leave due to inebriation.)
Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but I think you’ve had enough for tonight, and I think it’s best if you call it a night.”
Customer: “What? I’m not druuunk! You’re ouuut of yoooour mind!”
(I guide the drunk customer to the door, which he immediately grabs a hold of to resist being led out of the bar.)
Customer: “I’m not leaving! You’re going to have to call the cops to get me out of here!”
Me: “Well, sir, if you take a look over at the table with the people looking very intently at us… that’s the police department’s Christmas party.”
Customer: *leaves, rather expediently*
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(Note: 1-1-2 is Germany’s version of 9-1-1.)
Me: “1-1-2, what’s your emergency?”
Caller: “Oh, my god! Help me! Help me!”
Me: “Calm down, please. Can you tell me what happened, if someone is hurt, and where you are?”
Caller: “I’m at home, and my brain stopped working!”
Me: “Your brain… stopped working? Sir, if your brain would stop working, you would be dead. Can you tell me exactly what happened? Are you bleeding?”
Caller: “No, no. But my brain stopped working! At least half of it! Oh, my god, will the other half stop working as well?! Will I die?! My wife was right! I can’t believe it!”
(At this point, I’m unsure what to do. The man is really in a state of panic, but sounds otherwise fine.)
Me: “Sir, is your wife at home? Can I speak to her? If not, please tell me exactly what you did when your… brain stopped working.”
Caller: “I watched soccer! And drank beer! My wife always told me ‘When you don’t stop that crap, your brain will stop working’ and now it did! I was sitting on the couch and turned my head to look at the clock and suddenly I can’t move my head anymore because the left side of my brain stopped working! Help!”
Me: “Sir, it sounds like you only cricked your neck!”
(I start describing him what a cricked neck feels like and he agrees that this is indeed his problem and that he’ll see a doctor in the morning. I’m about to end the call, when…)
Caller: “Hey, dude…”
Me: “Yes?”
Caller: “Is she right?”
Me: “Who?”
Caller: “My wife. You seem to know a lot about medicine and stuff, so can my brain really stop working from watching too much soccer and drinking beer?”
Me: “Well, alcohol is known for indeed killing brain cells when you drink too much, but you won’t–”
Caller: “Oh, my god! Thank you! I thought she was only kidding me, but when you say it, then I’ll stop! Thank you so much for saving my life! Thank you!”
Me: “Wait, I didn’t say–”
Caller: *hangs up*
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