This story reminded me of my first Christmas season at my old grocery store. We closed early on Christmas Eve (6:00 pm instead of 11:00 pm), and a guy came through my line about fifteen minutes before we closed. I did my standard greeting.

Me: “Did you find everything you were looking for?”

Customer: *Snappy* “No! You’re out of eggnog! How can you be out of eggnog on Christmas Eve?!”

Because IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE, dude. Everyone else in the greater Portland metro area has been buying eggnog in bulk for the last few days.

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Say That Again, But Slower

Many moons ago, I was a cashier at a local store. This store was a bit on the pricier side, which tended to result in a higher percentage of the Jane Complains. That’s the only reason I can come up with for why this went the way it did.

We had a standard credit card system that was basically the same as the ones nowadays. The customer-facing device had a number pad and three colored buttons along the side: a yellow button labeled “BACK”, a red button labeled “CANCEL”, and a green button twice as big as the other two labeled “ENTER”.

I was ringing up an older man and going through the typical instructions for the machine. We were at the final step when I made my grievous mistake. 

Me: *In a cheery customer service voice* “And then just hit the big, green ‘Enter’ button at the bottom.”

The man immediately scowled and folded his arms.

Man: “I’m colorblind!”

Me: *Still in the cheery customer service voice* “Okay! Just hit the big ‘Enter’ button at the bottom.”

He scowled even more before reluctantly pressing the button and ending the transaction in a huff.

Obviously, I was at fault for giving him all the information he needed but having the audacity to mention a color in his presence.

When I worked at a chain drug store, I had a coworker who was seventeen and smoked. I don’t know where she got her cigarettes, but it wasn’t at that store. Until the day of her eighteenth birthday when she triumphantly came to my register to buy cigarettes. I still made her show me her ID.

Me: “After all, we do have a sign that says, ‘If you are under twenty-seven, we card.’ Since I know you’re under twenty-seven, I have to card you.”

She grumbled but complied. Of course, she told the rest of our coworkers all about it.

It eventually became a joke around the store, and every time she wanted to buy cigarettes, whoever was on the register made her show her ID.

I work at a large grocery store that’s open twenty-four hours a day. Customer traffic usually dies out around eleven at night, leaving us to wander the store, restock, take inventory, and clean.

This particular night, I am on the one register we keep open. It’s getting near what we call the “pick-up” where activity starts to increase, and suddenly, every customer in the store files into my line at once, a total of eight people.

I process the first woman who is paying for a number of groceries with cash, and a young man at the very back of the line suddenly calls forward.

Irate Customer: “Hurry the f*** up!”

The line as a whole turns to look at him in a mixture of confusion and disgust.

Irate Customer: “Who the f*** uses cash? There are eight f****** people in line, and this lady is going to keep us all here using f****** cash in 2024? We have places to go, lady!”

What follows is the most delightful act of unspoken malice I’ve witnessed out of a group of people. Slowly, everyone in line puts away their cards, and once the first woman leaves, every person after her conducts a cash transaction.

The customer who yelled at the first woman grows more and more frustrated, but he is forced to wait because all of the other registers are closed. He throws random insults at the backs of each customer, pacing and walking around in circles in the queue.

The best part is when I get to the man right before him. After I scan and bag all of his items, he smiles and winks at me, pulling something out of his pocket.

Nice Customer: “Do you still take personal checks?”

Me: “We do!”

Nice Customer: “Okay. Who do I make it out to?”

Irate Customer: “WHAT THE F***?!

At this point, he throws the packet of sandwich meat and the soda he is carrying on the floor and storms out of the store. The nice customer and I watch in amusement as he walks past the woman the irate man originally yelled at; she stayed to watch the spectacle, having noticed what was happening. She gives him a wide smile as he forces our sliding doors open by hand and exits.

The man laughs as he pulls out a debit card and taps it on the reader.

Me: “Have a nice day!” 

Nice Customer: “Already am.”

Customer: “Are you a midget?”

Me: “No, I’m just short.”

Customer: “How tall are you?”

Me: “4’11”.”

Customer: “Then you’re a midget.”

Me: “No, I’m just short.”

Customer: “No, you’re literally a midget. Legally, you’re a midget.”

Me: “First, it’s ‘little person’. Second, I’m pretty sure I’d know if I had dwarfism or another medical issue, numb nuts.”

Customer: “You can’t call me numb nuts!”

Me: “You can’t call people midgets.”

Customer: “Call over your manager!”

Manager: “I’m already here, sir, and I heard your conversation.”

Customer: “She insulted me!”

Manager: “You called her a derogatory term for a small person.”

Customer: “I can’t call her a dwarf! There’s no such thing!”

Manager: “And yet here you are, being Grumpy…” 

The customer didn’t get it, but thankfully, he left at the behest of my manager.