(The membership-based shopping warehouse where I work does not have a photo center, but does receive photos that were ordered online. I am responsible for the photos as they arrive — organizing a list of photos that have arrived with phone numbers and names, finding a home for them, organizing them alphabetically by last name, calling the customers when the orders come in, etc. Just before Valentine’s Day, one woman makes an order for a photo, but doesn’t come in to collect it. In early March, one of my coworkers calls the woman and leaves a message.)

Coworker: “[Customer #1], my name is [Coworker], calling from [Store]. Your photos have arrived and will be waiting at the service desk.”

(A few weeks later, in late March, I call her again and leave an almost identical message on her machine. I call again after a few more weeks and finally reach her. It’s now May 1st.)

Me: “My name is [My Name], from [Store]. I’m calling for [Customer #1] about some photos we have been holding for you. If you still want them, I have them at the service desk. Or I can destroy them for you, since they are unpaid.”

Customer: “Well, what are they? It’s been so long I don’t even remember what I ordered.”

Me: “I honestly don’t know, ma’am. I didn’t open the package to look.”

Customer: “Oh, okay. I’ll be there to pick them up.”

Me: “Thank you, ma’am. Have a great day!”

(I hang up and think nothing more of it. Three days later, a woman comes to the service desk.)

Me: “Hi, how can I help you?”

Customer: “I’m here to pick up photos.”

Me: “For whom?”

(She gives me one first name and two different last names which both start with the same letter. I grab my photo records and check for the last names she gave me. They’re not there. Just in case I missed a delivery on one of my days off, I open the cabinet where we keep the photos and look under the last names she gave me. Nothing. I turn back to her with my photo list.)

Me: “When did you order them? Sometimes th–”

Customer: “I don’t know. It’s been so long.”

Me: “What was the name again?”

(She repeats the two names she gave me.)

Me: “Well, I have something for [Other Name]…”

(I think it’s a long shot — same first name, but different last name.)

Customer: *frustrated* “Yes! That’s it!”

Me: “Oh, okay!”

(I grab her photos from the cabinet.)

Me: “These haven’t been paid yet. I need your membership card.”

Customer: “Which ones are they? I had to go to [Other Location] to get them; it took so long.”

Me: “Let’s open it together.”

(I carefully open the envelope and remove a small canvas and cardstock frame.)

Customer: “Oh, I’ll take that one.”

Me: “Okay, I need your membership card.”

(She thrusts her card at me and starts shifting impatiently, talking about how she came here with her dad several times and we never had her order. As I apologize for the inconvenience, I scan her membership card and the barcode on her photo envelope. As I do so, I notice the name on her card matches her photo order.)

Me: “Oh, you know, when you place an order, the name on it will match your membership. If you don’t change your name with us when you legally change it, it won’t update on your card or your orders. You know, that might be why we couldn’t find it before. But I’m sure we called you. In fact, I know I left a few messages…”

(Her expression darkens immediately.)

Customer: “I don’t see why you’re being so rude!”

Me: “I’m sorry? I’m not trying to be ru—”

Customer: “Yes, you are!”

Me: “Oh, no, ma’am, I’m definitely not trying to be rude. I was just—”

Customer: “No! You’re being rude!”

Me: “I— I’m sorry?”

Customer: “We tried! And you said! My mother had cancer!”

(Stunned, I try not to anger her further. I hand her the receipt for her transaction and she tries to snatch it from my hand, twice.)

Me: “I hope your mother recovers.”

(She yanked her shopping cart back toward herself and stormed away, still fuming. To be honest, I was freaking out a little when she left. Customer complaints do lose people jobs for no good reason, after all!)

(I work at a family-owned pizza parlor. I receive a call for delivery, and I swear the caller is housing an angry demon, based on the crashing noises in the background.)

Me: “This is [Restaurant]. How may I help you?”

Caller: “Um, yeah, can I order a pizza I don’t want?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Caller: “Like, I don’t want it now…”

Me: “Oh, you want to order ahead?”

Caller: “Yeah!”

Me: “Okay, we can do that.”

Caller: “I need it ready by seven… o’clock… pm.”

Me: “Sounds good. What did you want to order?”

Caller: “Oh, uh, a small cheese pizza.”

Me: “Okay! We’ll have it ready for you!”

(There’s a huge crash from his end.) 

Caller: “Good Lord! I need to make that a large, please!”

Me: “Yes, sir… Um, can I have a name for that order, please?”

Caller: “Ben.” *another huge crash* “Fine! Benjamin if you want me to be formal.”

Me: “Thank you, sir. Your pizza will be ready at seven.”

(I work at a family-owned pizza parlor. An older lady orders a supreme with extra-extra cheese. This is about thirty minutes after she left with her pizza.)

Customer: “You gave me the wrong pizza!”

Me: “I’m sorry about that, ma’am. What did you order and what did we give you?”

Customer: “I ordered a supreme and you gave me a f****** cheese pizza!”

Me: “Ma’am, were you the order with extra cheese?”

Customer: “Yes!”

Me: “Did you look under the cheese?”

Customer: “What? Why would I… Oh, sorry about that.”

Me: “That’s quite all right, ma’am. Have a nice day.”

(I am working Box Office this time with only one other person. My General Manager called the other one not to come in because we had been slow all week. As it is Saturday and storming, we get swamped. Customers are to the parking lot , and we have to ID everyone as we have 6 R-rated movies going on. To say the least, my co-worker and I are already upset. Then comes a knock at the Box Office door. Thinking it’s my other co-worker having been called in, I go to open it only to be faced with two very large, angry men. Immediately I’m mad because Box Office is essentially a safe. They both hold up their tickets to me.)
Man #1: You guys gave us the wrong ticket!
Me: If you go around to the front, we can get those exchanged for you.
Man #1: I’m not getting back in that line for you to fix your fucking mistake! Give me the right ticket!
Me: I cannot do refunds through Box Office door. You have to go around.
Man #2: You won’t fix your fucking mistake? I’m not getting in that line!
Me: Then I’m not exchanging your ticket.
(I shut the door in their faces to return to my customers only to see them go to the back of the line, wave their tickets at me, then cuss at me over the line of customers, through the glass. I wave at them and take care of my customer. They stomp off yelling at me again.

Later the very same night, a young boy and a teenage girl come up to my line where I am the only employee left. They try to buy tickets for an R-rated movie, for which I ask for their ID.)
Girl: I’m seventeen and he’s thirteen, but I’m his aunt.
Me: Are you his legal guardian?
Girl: No, I’m his aunt.
Me: Does he live with you?
Girl: Yes, he lives with my parents who are his guardians.
Me: Then you are not his guardian, and I cannot let him into this movie.
Girl: Why the fuck not?
Me: We have a policy that states –
Girl: Fuck you and your policies! Go fuck yourself!

(I had to call a manager on her to make sure she didn’t sneak the boy into the movie. They stomped off.)

A man came up to my till with a stack of the Economist. All but throwing them at me, the following conversation ensues:
Customer: “You need to be stocking [the magazine] on the front shelf here. I brought some for you to stock.”
Me: “Sir, the space on our register aisle is paid space that was purchased by the magazines you see. It’s not up to me to decide what to stock, so I can’t put them here.”
Customer: [Getting angry] “What do you mean? You need to change that! These need to be up front! I’ll stock them for you.”
Me: “You could be removed from our store for rearranging our stock like that. Tell you what–I’ll stock them.”
Customer: “Wait, really?”
Me: “Yes.” [I grab the magazines and put them on a cart of other materials to be put back in their sections] “I’m stocking them back to where they go, because they don’t go up here. Anything else?”
I wrapped up the sale, and thanked him for coming in. I have not seen him since.