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.

I am working a closing shift. Because our store is small, we don’t have maintenance to clean our bathrooms like the other stores in our chain, so a coworker and I share the duty. By this point I have only been there a few weeks.

Friday of that week rolls around, and it’s my turn again. I clean the women’s room. All good and fine. Then, just before I start on the men’s restroom, a regular barges in saying he needs the restroom. He is in there a while, so I do my closing returns. I finally see him leave, and I go to clean the men’s room.

That’s when I see it: he has drawn smiley faces in his own waste all over the walls. I run and get my manager. He shakes his head. “Looks like the Friday Night Bandit has struck again.”

According to him, the same guy has been doing that for the year we have been open.

(The spousal consolidation student loan I have with my wife has been sold to a new student loan company, as happens often with loans. I get the paperwork and immediately notice a mistake. Someone has swapped my father’s name for my wife’s name and listed him as cosigner. We all share the same last name, which is being used by both of us at every point in this conversation.)

Representative: “Hello, this is [Representative]. How can I help you?”

Me: “Yes, I noticed that, at some point when my student loan was transferred to your company, someone seems to have mistaken my father’s name, John [Same Last Name] for my spouse’s name, Mary [Same Last Name]. So, you are listing my father as my spouse and cosigner for this loan. As this is a spousal consolidation student loan, only my wife has ever been a cosigner this loan, and every other loan for that matter, so this is an error on your part.”

Representative: “So, what is your father’s name?”

Me: “John [Same Last Name].”

Representative: “No, I need your father’s name, not your spouse’s name.”

Me: “That is my father’s name. I am married to Mary [Same Last Name]. My father is John. That is the problem.”

Representative: “Okay, you’re not married to John?”

Me: “No, that is my father.”

Representative: “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Are you divorced from John?”

Me: “No, again, that is my father. I am married to Mary.”

Representative: *with great confusion in her voice* “So, you’re married to both John… and Mary?” *insinuating a polygamist marriage*

(I’m getting frustrated, so I start to talk slowly and deliberately.)

Me: “No… again… John is my father. At no point have I ever been married to my own father. For the entire length of this loan, I have only been married to one person: Mary.”

Representative: “Okay, I think I understand now. However, in order to change your spouse’s name, I need documentation that you have never been married to John and only married to Mary.”

(I pause for a second while trying to figure out how in the world to do this.)

Me: “So, what kind of documentation do I need to send you to prove that I have never been part of a legally recognized incestuous homosexual polygamist marriage?”

(Long pause…)

Representative: “I’m not sure; I will have to call you back after I speak to the manager in the special issues department. Can I call you later today at [my phone number]?”

(After two months and numerous calls, I finally convinced them that I was not married to my own father and wife at the same time. It’s scary that I owe these people money.)

I work in a computer lab that offers patrons free internet access with their library card. We have a strict No talking on cell phones in the lab. This exchange happens when one patron doesn’t want to get off her phone.

Me: Ma’am you’ll have to step out into the hallway if you want to use your phone.

Patron: *Completely ignores me*

Me: Ma’am, excuse me. You’ll have to step out into the hall if you want to use your phone.

(In a very rude tone the patrons answers back)

Patron: I heard you the first time!

Me: Okay, well can you please leave the lab. Many of our patrons are trying to complete homework assignments and such.

(The patron rolls her eyes and continues to talk on her phone. AT this point my manager gets involved.)

Manager: Ma’am this is your last warning before we kick you out for the day. Please leave the lab while you talk on the phone.

Patron: I heard you!

Me: Obviously not, please leave the lab.

(the patron gets up to leave, but as she’s passing me she starts cussing up a storm.)

Me: Okay, Ma’am that’s enough. Leave the library for the day.

(As our policies states that if we kick a patron out of any part of the Library, they are effectively kicked out the whole library until they can talk to a supervisor. We also have to walk the patron to the front doors and make sure that they leave.)

Patron: F*** you, you dumb B****. GO back to your F****** desk and go F*** yourself. Go follow someone else.

Me: *Silent*

Patron: B**** you don’t know me. I’ll F******-cut you!!

Me: Okay, while now your banned from this library and our sister branch.

(A famous US retailer closed a number of its stores earlier this year, including the last one in our city. I take a temporary job there working the final clearance sales. This takes place during our final week, a few days after Hurricane Harvey hits Houston. Our city is hours north, in the next state, so the weather doesn’t affect us. A customer has two common questions.)

Me: “Hi. How may I help you?”

Customer: “When is [Store]’s last day?”

Me: “It’s [date], this coming Sunday.”

Customer: “Okay. What are you doing with the stuff that doesn’t sell?”

Me: “I’m sorry, I haven’t been told yet. I can get a manager if you like.”

(I don’t expect to be told since I am not involved in that aspect of the closure.)

Customer: “Oh… you know what should be done with it? Send it all down to Houston. The victims need the help; they can use all this.”

Me: *resists the urge to roll eyes and forces self to use a polite tone* “Yes, ma’am. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

(What was she thinking? The whole store is almost empty and 90% of what we have left isn’t merchandise; it’s movable racks and a couple of display tables, mostly empty. I moved from Florida, where serious hurricanes are a fact of life, and have been through them. Believe me, store fixtures aren’t what those poor people need.)