I used to work as a supervisor in the customer service department of a supermarket in a well-off suburb in Melbourne. The store was on the corner of two streets, so our loading and delivery bay was on the side of the store, on the less busy street, rather than at the back of the store as is common.

We had many obnoxious, rich regular customers. The least favourite customer of the entire department was this guy.

Me: “Hi, [Customer], how can I help you today?”

Customer: “Close your d*** delivery door. It’s absolutely disgusting. Customers shouldn’t have to see that.”

Me: “Oh, sorry about that. We must be getting a delivery; I’m sure they will leave soon.”

Customer: “That’s unacceptable. I already said customers shouldn’t have to see that. That’s ridiculous. Customers should never see that. You shouldn’t ever open that door!”

Me: “The delivery bay door?”

Customer: “Obviously, the delivery bay door. I’ve already told you that.”

Me: “So, let me confirm. You would like for me to make them stop opening the delivery bay doors.”

Customer: “Finally!”

Me: “Okay, great, and how exactly do you propose that we get any products into the store to be able to sell them to you?”

Customer: “F*** off, smart-a**!” *Storms out of the store*

Related:
It’s All In The Delivery, Part 2
It’s All In The Delivery

I work in a larger newsagency in a shopping centre in Australia. It is a Saturday, and there is a very large lottery jackpot being drawn tonight, upwards of $120 million AUD. We have all three registers at our lottery counter open, which is a very rare occurrence, and have scheduled extra staff to deal with the huge number of people buying tickets today. The line for the lottery counter wraps the entire way around the store and down a few aisles.

Me: “Hi, who’s next, please?”

Customer: “Hi. Can I please have five $20 quick-picks for tonight’s draw?”

Me: “Sure, no worries.”

I print them for him.

Me: “That comes to $100. Was that cash or card today?”

Customer: “Cash, please.”

He pulls a giant bag of silver coins out of his bag and starts pulling out a handful of coins to start counting them.

Me: “Absolutely not.”

Customer: “What, why?! It’s legal tender.”

Me: “Are you serious? I’m not accepting that.”

Customer: “But why?! You have to take it!”

Me: “I do not. Aside from the fact that I legally only have to accept up to $5 worth of coins, have you looked around? All of these people are waiting, and no one has time to wait for you to count out your coins and for me to then double-count them to confirm you have paid the correct amount.”

Customer: “But you could just—”

Me: “No. Either find some notes, pay by card, or get out of the store.”

He complains, but he pulls out a card and pays while staring daggers at me.

Me: “Thank you, and have a nice day!”

Next Customer: “Was that guy for real? What an a**hole!”

This story reminded me of a similar experience.

This occurred in the 1980s. I was a young woman and loved having fun with my hair. At the time, it was black and red on top, all gelled up in a new-wave flourish, with at least two rat tails. It was glorious. I still get a kick when I look at old photos.

A stranger grabbed my arm in the street.

Stranger: “Don’t wear your hair like that!”

I turned around in astonishment, and my astonishment only grew when the woman shouting at me turned out to be in her fifties with hair that was an ugly bright orange colour that can only happen when you apply the wrong sort of henna to grey or white hair.

She looked far more ridiculous than I did. I was doing it for fun and art, and she presumably was doing it to convince people she still had the flaming red hair of her youth.

I don’t think I said anything; I just turned and walked away, shaking my head.

Related:
She Seems A Hair Insensitive

Many years ago, when I was around sixteen years old, I had carefully budgeted my pay from my casual part-time job to buy some presents for my friends. (I can’t remember whether it was Christmas or birthdays.) I was at my local shopping centre (which is in a lower socioeconomic area), and when I was about to leave, I was pulled to the side by a pop-up kiosk guy selling some kind of fancy-looking nail care.

Kiosk Guy: “Can I get some of your time to look at our range of nail care? This red sea salt buffer will do you wonders.”

Me: “Look, mate, I’m a student, I work only a few hours a week, and I budget my money. Plus, it’s all spent and I’ve got no money left.”

Kiosk Guy: “That’s no problem. Let me have a look at your nails, I’ll show you how nice it is, and you can look at it for the future.”

He started showing me the product, and again, I made it clear that I had no money and wasn’t going to be making a purchase, but I didn’t have the confidence to just walk away at that age. He showed me a “sample” of how it worked by buffing one of my nails and putting a serum on it.

Me: “It sure is nice, but it looks pricey.”

Kiosk Guy: “Well, if you buy it today, I could give you a great discount!”

Me: “Ah, that’s nice, but I know you couldn’t bring it down to a price I can afford.”

Kiosk Guy: “Of course, I could! The price to buy this kit at a spa or online is $160, but today I could do it for $100!”

Me: “Ha! Yeah, nah, I still couldn’t afford that.”

Kiosk Guy: “You know what? You seem like such a nice girl who could really use this product. How about just $80 for the kit?!”

Me: “Remember when you pulled me over here and I said I was on a budget and had no money? And during this conversation, I told you that I am still in school and won’t be able to afford this?”

Kiosk Guy: “I’m sure I can find you a deal on one of our products. How much could you spare for a purchase today?”

Me: “Five dollars is what is left in my account right now.”

Kiosk Guy: *Confused* “Just five dollars?”

Me: “I told you I wouldn’t be able to buy anything today. I wasn’t having you on.”

The Kiosk Guy just looked at me so stunned and confused, and I just stood awkwardly for a few moments and walked away.

I work at a high-end restaurant. Due to how crazy the world has been over the last few years, getting staff in and staying has been a struggle. Tonight, we have three new staff on the floor, I’m stuck manning the bar (as we can’t find a trained bartender at present), and my boss is running the door and floating. No biggie, things flow great.

We have a table of twelve dining. They’re high-maintenance but well-behaved enough, but they’re being served by one of our more trained “new” staff, being a month “older” than her colleagues.

As the night rolls along, a woman from the large table pulls that particular server aside and asks to speak to the owner. My boss, unfortunately, just had to duck out early due to an emergency. Of course, this leaves me running the floor while still stuck rush-closing the bar to cover his absence.

Server: “Oh, I’m so sorry, he just left! But our manager [My Name, which is very feminine] is in the bar. I can get her if you like?”

Before the server can run and fetch me, who has no knowledge of the interaction, the woman stands from the table and walks INTO the bar. Of course, I am confused about why this woman is in my bar but want to stay professional and friendly.

Me: “Hi, is everything all right? Can I help you with something?”

She completely ignores me and brushes past me to the young male staff member I’ve just pulled off the floor to help polish a few glasses.

Customer: “Hi. You’re the manager, I presume?”

My coworker gawks in confusion and looks at me for help.

Me: “No, ma’am. I’m the manager. Is there something I can help you with?”

She turns around and stares for a moment like she’s just seen me.

Customer: “Oh! Uh, I just wanted to say… Umm, I just wanted to tell you [Server] was… very good.”

Me: “Wonderful, thank you. Yes, [Server] is amazing and absolutely one of our best. I’ll be sure to pass on your compliments to the owner. I really do appreciate the feedback.”

Customer: “Right… Yes… Thank you.”

Do I really have to be a six-foot male to manage a restaurant?