(I am waiting for my order in a popular pizza shop. It is late and very busy. A group of rowdy teenagers have just left with a few pizzas, and one of them storms back in to yell at the cashier.)

Customer: “Hey, b****! You didn’t cut my pizza right!”

Cashier: “Ma’am, I am so sorry. I can cut it properly for you.”

Customer: “No, just f****** forget it! You guys suck! You better give me some free cheese bread for all the d*** trouble you put me through! Can’t you do anything right?”

(At this point I see the pizza, and it is just a little bit uncut for one of the slices. I know the girl is only doing this to get some free food. I walk up to her.)

Me: “Do you want some bread?”

Customer: “What?”

Me: “Tell me how many breads you want. Name any number. How many friends do you have with you?”

Customer: “Um, there are eight of us.”

Me: *to cashier* “Please make me four orders of cheese bread and give me two liters of soda.”

(I pay for the food and hand the girl the receipt.)

Me: “Here. I know what your intentions were. How dare you yell at someone for free food? You’re worse than a beggar. Now, apologize to the nice lady, and take your food when it’s ready. I hope you feel guilty eating it.”

(By this time my order had already come out and the whole shop cheered and clapped. The teenager was red in the face and just stared at her feet the whole time her order was being made.)

(I work part-time at a department store. I am in a bad mood about some trivial things when a very nice man comes up to the cash register to buy something. We are having a pleasant, even fun, conversation. After I learn that he is from a foreign country, I ask:)

Me: “Are you here [in Southern California], for business or pleasure?”

Customer: “Pleasure. I am here with my two little kids.”

Me: “Have you been to [Amusement Park #1]?”

Customer: “Yes, and to [Amusement Park #2], [Amusement Park #3]… All over.”

(Then he points to a surgery “bump” on his mostly bald head and says matter-of-factly:)

Customer: “I have a brain tumor, and I won’t be here much longer. I want to leave my kids with as many pleasant memories of me as possible.”

(I was so shocked that I didn’t know what to say, so I just continued in silence. Then, he went to buy something in another department, but before he left the store, he came out of his way to shake my hand and thank me. I felt ashamed of myself for being in a bad mood over such trivial things.)

Some friends and I are at a party over Halloween weekend. One of them is dressed as the Good Fairy and carries a wand which is handmade of pretty thick wood, painted, with a star and glitter. She’s also a bit of a goody two-shoes, and every time someone swears she’ll tap them on the head with her wand and say, “The Good Fairy doesn’t like that!”

As the night goes on, people get progressively drunker, and a guy none of us knows has been bugging her for a while. We’re trying to get away from him when he grabs her breasts from behind. She swings around and smacks him in the face with the wand so hard she breaks it in half. “THE GOOD FAIRY DOESN’T LIKE THAT!”

He got kicked out.

(I work at a 24-hour taco place in a college town, and I usually do graveyard shifts. We get our fair share of drunk students and strange characters. One regular customer, a lanky, scruffy-looking guy with a backpack, who smells like marijuana, comes in three or four times a week between midnight and 6:00 am. He always gets two tacos and a cup of water, pays with cash that often includes larger bills, leaves a dollar plus his coin change in the tip jar, sits at the same table if it’s available, eats quickly, consolidates all his trash into one basket, washes his hands in the bathroom, and leaves. He gives polite smiles, says all his pleases and thank you’s, and never has any complaints, but he does not make small talk and responds with one- or two-word answers when chatted with. That said, I much prefer a quiet, polite customer to a loud, rude one. The thought that he might be a drug dealer has occurred to me, but he’s a good customer and I have no interest in causing him any trouble if my unfounded theory happens to be true. One night at about 4:00 am, he comes in, does his normal routine, and is sitting at his usual table eating when another customer, obviously drunk, comes in and approaches the register.)

Drunk Customer: “Hey! You’ve got to give me a bunch of free tacos. Your manager said so.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Drunk Customer: “Are you f****** deaf? Free tacos. Uh, like, twenty of them.”

Me: “Sir, we don’t usually give tacos away for free, and my manager hasn’t told me anything about this. Can I ask why he said you should get free tacos?”

Drunk Customer: *he huffs and rolls his eyes like I’m a complete idiot* “B****, it’s not your business. Give me tacos! Tell the [Mexican slur]s back there to get ’em started, now, b****!”

(The regular jumps out of his seat and walks quietly up behind the drunk customer.)

Drunk Customer: “If you don’t give me twenty free tacos right now, I’m going to beat your f****** a**!”

Regular: “[Drunk Customer].”

Drunk Customer: “Who the f***—”

(He whirls around to see the regular standing behind him, shaking his head slowly. The drunk customer freezes like a deer in the headlights.)

Drunk Customer: “Uh, hey, [Regular].”

Regular: “No.”

Drunk Customer: “Hey, man, I was just—”

Regular: “No. Leave.”

(The drunk customer practically bolts out the door. The regular looks up at me and smiles politely.)

Regular: “Have you called the cops?”

Me: *still a little shaken and confused* “What? The cops? N-no?”

Regular: “Okay. Are you going to?”

Me: “I don’t— Should I?”

Regular: “No, thank you.”

(He then sat back down as if nothing happened, finished his tacos and water, consolidated his trash into one basket, washed his hands in the bathroom, and left. I gave him his tacos for free the next couple times I saw him, but his routine still hasn’t changed.)

(I’ve gone to the hospital for an ultrasound scan. On my way to the hospital, I am caught in a flash rainstorm and have no umbrella, so I am completely soaked through by the time I arrive.)

Doctor: “Ms. [Surname]?

Me: “Hi.”

Doctor: “Oh, you poor thing; you’re soaked though.”

Me: “Yeah, it was raining really hard out there.”

(We enter the ultrasound room.)

Sonographer: “Hi. I’m [Sonographer], and I’ll be doing your scan today. If I could ask you to lie on the bench…”

Me: “Sure. Uh, I’m sorry; I’m going to make it a little damp, I think.”

Doctor: “Don’t apologise; we’re just sorry you’re so wet. Wait, hold on. We have spare hospital gowns somewhere.”

Sonographer: “In the waiting room. I’ll grab one. Hopefully your clothes can dry a little when we do the scan.”

(She goes out.)

Doctor: “Right. Let’s see if I can switch the air-conditioner off in here, or get it to run hot.”

Me: “Thanks!”

Doctor: “Not a problem.”

(The sonographer comes back with a hospital gown, so I get changed. After the scan is done…)

Doctor: “All done. Do you have to be anywhere? Otherwise, maybe we could see if there’s somewhere for you to sit so your clothes can dry.”

Me: “That’s very kind, but I have to go back home and carry on working.”

Doctor: “Hmm, I wonder if we can get you a hairdryer for a quick solution, then.”

Sonographer: “Let me think…” *pause* “I’m pretty sure we don’t have any we can use, but if you take the first left, there are some toilets with a pretty good hand-dryer, which you might be able to stand under.”

(I ended up having to rush back, but I was extremely grateful to the doctor and sonographer for trying to find a way to dry me off!)