I work for [Pizza Place #1] as a delivery driver. I pull up to a house and notice another car pulling up right in front of me from [Pizza Place #2]. We get out at the same time and look at each other.

Other Driver: “100 Fifth Street?”

Me: “Yeah, same here!”

At that, the homeowners — a couple — step out of the house. One of them is carrying a stopwatch.

Customer #1: “Ah, man! It was too close to call!”

Customer #2: “You both arrived at the same time!”

Me: “Did you bet to see who would arrive first?”

Customer #1: “Yeah! My wife insists that [Pizza Place #2] is faster, and I said it was [Pizza Place #1], so we thought we’d test it.”

Other Driver: “Well… if it helps, I had two other stops on my route before you, so I could have been here quicker.”

Me: *Laughing* “I had two others, too.”

Customer #1: “Darn it! We’ll have to try another time!”

We all laugh, and they accept both pizzas and tip us both generously. I tell the store about the funny interaction, and we all laugh about it.

A few weeks later, we get an online order through, and one of us notices that the address looks familiar.

Me: “Oh, my God! It’s them again! Quick! Get that pizza prioritized! I have to beat the other guy!”

Laughing as we go, their pizza is pushed to the front and I am out the door within minutes, making sure they’re my first call this time, not my last.

I pull up to their driveway, and about twenty seconds later, I see my rival pulling up, too.

Other Driver: *Laughing* “D*** it! You beat me! I figured I would try to get out here faster, but—”

Me: “Yeah, I tried the same thing!”

The customers laughed with us again, and I was proclaimed the winner! They promised not to make us race again (it’s not safe), and we each got tipped $100!

Now, every time they put an order in, I don’t rush over, but I do make sure they’re first on my route… just in case.

I’m working at the only checkout lane in a small corner shop in a small town in Scotland. The weather has been bad lately, so a lot of locals who usually drive to the larger supermarkets or people who would usually be spending their weekend in the town are forced to use our little shop.

A younger man is in the queue, and he is making his personal distaste for having to wait his turn quite loudly known.

Young Man: “F*** me, this store is slow! What are you doing up there, counting it out on your bloody fingers?”

Me: “Sir, I apologise, but it’s just me today, and we’re not usually this busy. I am going as fast as I can.”

Young Man: “Well, your fast-as-you-can is slower than a snail with [derogatory term for people with a developmental disorder]. Hurry the f*** up!”

At that, the older woman immediately in front of him in the queue turns on him.

Old Woman: “Listen, boy. This is one of the few stores in the area that still accepts checks, I have a big fat checkbook in my bag that I am happy to use, I have nowhere else to be today, and I have forgotten my glasses. Don’t… test me!“

He was silent for the rest of his time in line. The scary old lass somehow got a staff discount… 

Related:
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 3
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 2
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman
Tell Me You’re In Scotland Without Telling Me You’re In Scotland
Nothin’ Like A Good Old Existential Meltdown

I work in a store with twelve employees total. Seven have been here for at least two years, and the rest are high turnover. At this point, there’s no one over thirty-five, and for some odd reason, an overwhelming three of us — who happen to be among the seven — have a name that used to be popular but dropped off the charts by the time any of us were born. Let’s say the name is Gertrude.

The only person in charge of hiring is the owner, but we’re often handed resumes, which is expected.

One day, during a slow day with just a coworker and me working, my coworker is off helping an elderly woman around the corner and I hear a squeal.

Coworker: “Oh, my God!”

I hurry toward them to find [Coworker] with a sheet of paper and the elderly woman actually looking rather pleased with a somewhat cheeky smile on her face.

Me: “What’s going on?”

[Coworker] hands me the paper, which turns out to be a resume, trying to stifle a giggle.

Coworker: “She also wants a job.”

Me: “Oh? Well, we’ll leave it for [Owner].” *To the woman* “I’ll be sure the owner gets a look. I’m not sure what’s going… on.”

That is when I notice the woman’s name: Gertrude. Oh. Now I see what the big deal was. I look at the woman, who is grinning like crazy now. My coworker also notices her look.

Me: “Ah.”

Coworker: “Wait, did she know…?”

Woman: “I heard you had all the Gertrudes here. I’m retired, but I just have to work here now.”

So, now we have thirteen employees and four Gertrudes. She’s the only one who came on purpose — and is actually of the age you’d think someone named that would be. She’s eighty-one.

It was a sold-out weekend at our hotel because of a major corporate convention. Guests were coming in from all over the country. The rooms were assigned by the housing bureau and paid for by their employer. It had been a crazy night with people finding out they had roommates, a non-smoker being assigned a smoking room, and two hated competitors being assigned to the same room (intentionally done by their boss, with notes not to move them).

One of our last arrivals for this group was a man named Robin. Immediately after Robin checked in, he returned to the desk with a young lady in tow.

Robin: “There must be a mistake; I’m in a room with a woman I don’t know.”

Lady: “I’m sure he is a nice guy, but staying in a room with a strange man…”

Me: “I apologize, but we didn’t assign the rooms; they were assigned by the housing bureau.”

Robin: “Could I pay for my own room?”

Me: “Unfortunately, we’re sold out.”

There was a hotel on the other side of downtown that had rooms — but of course, all the convention meetings were at our hotel. I did point out that if they could find someone in a single room to switch with, I would be more than happy to reassign the rooms. They retired to the bar to figure things out.

I later saw them together at the convention’s social hour. They approached me and said they would make it work, and they asked if I could send up a pair of robes.

A year later, I’d forgotten all about Robin and his roommate when I received a call to come to the desk. There at the desk were Robin and his roommate, both with wide smiles on their faces. She was holding her hand up in that way all new brides do to show off their rings.

That weekend a year before was the start of their whirlwind relationship. They had just gotten married and decided to spend their honeymoon in the city where they’d met. I helped them plan their sightseeing activities and made restaurant suggestions.

They returned for the next two years that I was at that property. The last I heard, they had a child on the way and had relocated to our area.

Several years ago, I got the chance to participate in a plus-size fashion showcase as a model. This was my first — and so far only — modeling gig, and even for getting into the show, I was still majorly nervous.

Mind you, I had plenty of support! My husband and the rest of my family all thought this was a cool opportunity and were happy for me, and my fellow models, especially those who did this for a living, were encouraging and sweet. On top of that, we were getting to model gorgeous pieces from some stores that I really like.

However, my nerves came to a head at my second fitting. Picking out my outfit to represent [Store #1] was very easy, but at [Store #2], nothing seemed to be working. I’m not only plump, but I’m short, and even with my show-day heels on, the pieces I was trying on just didn’t seem to sit right.

Our fashion coordinator, who did final sign-offs on the outfits we would wear, must have seen my frustration, because she called me over and pulled a sleeveless purple jumpsuit off the rack, along with a faux fur coat.

Coordinator: “Let’s give this a try, okay?”

I changed into the jumpsuit, and I looked at myself in the mirror. I loved the color, but again, the fit didn’t seem right. [Coordinator] seemed enthusiastic, but I was now in a pessimistic mood.

Coordinator: “We’ve got the right look here, especially once you put on the coat.”

Me: “Ugh, I just don’t know! I’m not feeling it!”

[Coordinator] rolled her eyes a bit, but the next comment was delivered with kindness.

Coordinator: “[My Name], this is my job. Do you really believe that I would let you onto the runway in an outfit that I wasn’t 100 percent certain of?”

For whatever reason, that was the comment that finally helped calm my nerves. And of course, she ended up being right. With the coat, the outfit was sensational, and I got MANY cheers when I walked in that particular outfit at the show!