A coworker is reading a newspaper during lunch break.
Coworker: “Our artists are dying out. We’re losing so many great artists, actors, singers… and nobody to replace them.”
Me: “Yeah, what doubles as ‘celebrity’ today is mostly known for eating gunk in a jungle.”
Coworker: “Not even that, but here, another actor dead. Every week, you hear this singer is dead or that actor is dead, but you never get to read about any being born.”
Me: “…”
One of our stores does their usual “points” spiel. With every purchase, for every ten bucks you spend, you get a sticker that you have to collect, and with enough of these “points”, you can get a 10%, 20%, or 30% discount for a purchase once, depending on how many you collect.
I don’t collect them because I forget them anyway when it’s time to cash them in, so I usually hand them over to the next customer, and normally, this is not a big deal.
Normally.
Cashier: “And here are your points.”
I turn to the customer behind me.
Me: “I don’t collect these. Would you like them?”
Customer #1: *With a mix of contempt and indignation* “Do I look like I need your points?”
Me: “Uh… fine? Just asking.”
The customer behind her pipes up.
Customer #2: “Mind if I take them?”
Me: “Please do.”
Customer #1: “I didn’t say I wouldn’t take them, just that I don’t need them. I’m not poor!”
Me: “Nobody said you are. I just don’t collect them, that’s all.”
Customer #1: “Well, I will take them!”
At this point, though, she’s managed to tick me off just enough with her attitude that I don’t want to give them to her anymore. It’s not like these things are worth anything, but people who act like they’re doing me a favor by taking something out of my hand that others would at least say, “Thank you,” for doesn’t sit right with me.
Me: “Sorry, nope. You rejected them.” *Looks [Customer #2] behind her* “You asked for them, so you get them.”
Customer #1: *To the cashier* “Gimme my points! He gave them to me first!”
The cashier just looks at me expectantly.
Me: “Well, give them to me.”
The cashier gladly obliges and is visibly happy that she got out of this hassle. I hand the little stickers to [Customer #2], who thanks me for them.
Customer #1: “You can’t give her my points!”
Me: “Lady, they are, first of all, my points. What I do with my points is my business. Please stay out of it.”
Customer #1: “You gave them to me!”
Me: “No. I offered them to you; you didn’t want them.”
Customer #1: “But then I said I wanted them!”
Me: “Why would a woman who so clearly doesn’t need any handouts get upset about not getting them?”
She changes colours a few times, gasps, and then screams some profanities at me.
Me: *Leaving* “Lady, you may not need my points, but you sure need some manners.”
Quite frankly, I hate shopping during “points” times.
My mother worked for a small mom-and-pop shop, and she learned retail work there until she opened her own little shop in another town.
She got trained by a sweet lady who retired while my mother was still working there but came in every now and then to help out and to add to her very small pension. [Sweet Lady] was a kind person whom everyone on the staff loved, including the manager/owner whom she also trained. She was pretty much the heart, soul, and some other parts of that store, even at the age of seventy-ish when this story took place.
As can happen with old people, one day, [Sweet Lady] felt dizzy and had some chest pain, and people were worried she was having a heart attack. An ambulance was called. Ambulances don’t give two f***s about parking spaces, so they just parked their huge ambulance right in front of the store, which is sensible when every moment counts.
My mom was working the register, so she heard what was going on at the entrance. Cue entitled person.
Customer: “What’s that contraption out there? I could barely get into the store!”
Manager: “Lady, my apologies, but one of our workers has a medical emergency.”
Customer: “A worker? Pffft. If it was at least a customer, but a worker?! Why can’t they get sick on their own time, right?”
Manager: *After swallowing his tears* “Please leave my store while you still can. One ambulance a day is enough.”
For the record, it was just some irregularity with [Sweet Lady]’s heartbeat, and she left the hospital the same day, no heart attack. She lived to the age of eighty-three, and the store was closed on the day of her funeral. There was no staff available to run it; they were busy elsewhere, including the owner.
At the time of this story, I was seventeen years old, serving military service in Austria. (You can choose between six months of military service or nine months of civil service. Since I was kind of a rebel in school, I wanted to do civil service, not having to be ordered around that much, but my army dad convinced me to do military service.) I ended up doing my military service in a big army hospital’s dental station doing X-rays and performing other jobs I wasn’t trained or qualified for.
So, there I was, stuck in this institution I hated, having to deal with people I disliked for six months. For the record, I don’t drink alcohol or smoke (which is legal by the age of sixteen in Austria, and quite a few start at age thirteen). Even though I was always trying to be as nice and polite as possible, that already made me one of the most unpopular figures around the site, which consists of 95% men. (I am also male.)
One day, everybody was ready to leave. We were in the changing rooms. If the sergeant was in a good mood, we didn’t have to muster and could just go home. This happened about twice a week, so it wasn’t something rare.
Someone came into the room and shouted, “No mustering today!”, which was met with cheers from the other recruits. I got into my casual clothes and went to my car as fast as possible.
The next day, I was asked to the first sergeant’s office, and he was fuming. He started yelling at me.
First Sergeant: “WHAT ON EARTH MADE YOU THINK YOU COULD LEAVE WITHOUT MUSTERING YESTERDAY?!”
Me: “I… Well, somebody said there wasn’t going to be any…”
Note that I was generally socially nervous back then and not good with words.
First Sergeant: “YOU DON’T HAVE ANY RESPECT FOR AUTHORITY! I WILL MAKE SURE THAT YOU FACE CONSEQUENCES FOR THAT ACTION! NOW GET OUT OF MY FACE!”
I wandered out of the office, speechless, holding back tears. Apparently, my “colleagues” had played a prank on me. I was very close to just leaving, but that would have made military police go after me, so I had to stay. I excused myself from the dental station for a small breakdown and tried to get the day done without talking to anyone.
The next day, I was ordered into the first sergeant’s office again. He smirked at me with a big grin, pointing to a broom, cloth, and sponge lying in a corner.
First Sergeant: “I have found a great little activity for you to do. There’s a room that has been freshly painted by recruits. You’re going to clean up the mess they made. I want this room clean enough to the point of being able to eat off the floor. These are your cleaning utensils. Be done by the end of the week. You are excused from the dental station until then.”
I took the stuff and went upstairs. Little did he know, I actually enjoy cleaning stuff because it’s very peaceful, and I’m a person who uses those occasions to sort my mind out. The room was a total mess. It was probably last cleaned before my parents were even born. I took the sponge, got down on the floor, and started. I didn’t get anything besides the sponge, the broom, and the cloth. There was an old sink where the painting recruits had washed off all the brushes and utensils. Everything was covered in paint.
Three days later, I was exhausted but happy with myself; the room looked like new. Everything was shiny, from the old radiator to the sink. I had come to a point where I scratched off the paint with my nails. I was bleeding and hurting, my nails felt like they were coming off, and the sponge had a big hole in the middle, but I was deeply satisfied.
The first sergeant came to inspect my work, and I could tell he hadn’t expected me to be this precise.
First Sergeant: “Well, I must admit, you did an excellent job.”
Me: “Thanks! Got any other rooms to clean?”
First Sergeant: “No, you can go back to the dental station again.”
That was the biggest problem I had with him during my time there, and I had peace for a short while — before he started being condescending to me again, even though I did most jobs better than the others.
There were many different occasions that I could write about, and I’m pretty sure no other employer could pull through with things they used to do there. It was a frustrating time, and even though I had to do it by law, I still consider it my first “job”. At least it set the bar very low, so my future jobs didn’t disappoint me as much.
I used to live in a fairly poor neighborhood when I was still studying (poor student!). There was one dude who posed as Santa (or rather our version of it, Nikolaus) and sat there on a makeshift throne on the big plaza outside the apartment I lived in. Kids could come up to him, he’d listen to their wishes for Christmas, and he’d hand them some plush toy. For the longest time, I thought that’s some sort of thing our city does because, well, welcome to socialist Vienna.
I really thought it was some kind of city deal.
Fast forward twenty-ish years. I’m now living somewhere else, with a neat income, no longer in the neighborhood there. I happened to shop there at some point, and I saw some guy hauling out a HUGE bag with plush toys. And looking at him, it dawned on me; it was the guy from back then! He was older now, of course, but that was St. Nick from the plaza.
Me: “It’s you!”
St. Nick: “I guess so. What do you mean?”
Me: “You’re St. Nick from [Square].”
St. Nick: *Laughing* “Yeah, you one of my kids?”
Me: “Thanks, man, but I’m probably too old to be. Nah, I just saw you every year, back when I lived here. So, you still have that gig?”
St. Nick: “Gig?”
Me: “Well, the whole St. Nick gig with the town?”
St. Nick: *Laughing* “No gig, man!”
No, there was no gig. He bought the toys himself, got a license from the town to put up his throne, and handed out his own toys to the kids around the area whose parents very likely didn’t have the money to buy them any plush toys to begin with.
Now, we have a better deal: more toys, paid for by me, with the store as a supporter, giving us the toys they couldn’t sell at cost. It’s not like I have any other use for my Christmas bonus anyway; I have no family. And “St. Nick” never had to turn a kid away again because he was out of plush toys, so I’d consider that a win-win.
