My partner and I (both male) have been driving across the country to visit his dying mother. We are told on the journey that she didn’t make it through the night, and of course, my partner is devastated.

Exhausted both mentally and physically, and now no longer needing to rush, we pull off the freeway and end up in a cute little restaurant in a small town. We order, we sit, we chat, and at some point, my partner breaks down. I lean in and give him a huge hug to help him through.

Through all this, we haven’t noticed that it’s Sunday midday, and the restaurant is filling up with an after-church crowd. As I am consoling my mourning partner, I hear:

Customer: “Disgusting! Get that s*** out of here!”

I look up to see the father of a family, all in their Sunday best, staring at our little booth from their table.

Customer: “My family doesn’t need to see s*** like that!”

Normally, I am not one to suffer homophobes, but I am exhausted, and the last thing my partner needs is a scene, so I call the waitress over.

Me: “Excuse me, ma’am. Please cancel our breakfast orders. We’ll just pay for our coffees and go.”

Customer: “D*** right! Get out of here you f****** [slur]s!”

The waitress turns on her heel and stares down at the customer with a gaze of fire.

Waitress: “You shut that mouth of yours, Horace! These two gentlemen have done nothing to you!”

Customer: “They’re doing that stuff in front of my kids! I don’t care who they bang, but leave my kids out of it!”

Waitress: “Who spoke about ‘banging’ anyone, Horace? Why are you so obsessed with the sex lives of gay men?”

Customer: “I’m not! I just want to have a nice Sunday lunch with my family without having to see that!“

Me: “Ma’am, I appreciate what you’re doing, but we’ve had a long night, and we really would just like to pay for our coffees and go.”

Customer: “Yeah, get out of here, groomers!”

The waitress puts her hand up and gives me a reassuring wink.

Waitress: “Horace, as far as I can tell, these nice gentlemen have just sat down and had a hug. You’ve just come out of a Catholic church. Are you sure you want to start accusing people of being groomers?”

Customer: “Stop twisting the facts!”

Waitress: “Stop bothering other customers who are literally doing nothing to you! You either apologize or you get out and you’re not welcome back!”

Customer: “You can’t do that! You don’t own this diner!”

Waitress: “Maybe not, but [Diner Owner] has been wanting to ban you for years, and you’re about to give me the excuse to do it!”

The father stares in silent rage but stands up and snaps his fingers at his family to all leave with him. As he’s leaving…

Customer: “I’ll tell the entire church about this! You won’t get any of our business!”

Waitress: “You promise?”

He storms out, and the waitress turns to us.

Me: “You really didn’t have to do that; I really hope you’re not losing business because of us.”

Waitress: “Honey, trust me; it’s the business we can afford to lose. You found us off the freeway, didn’t you? Plenty of other folks do. You look like you need a hearty breakfast and a calm minute or two. Let me get those for you.”

It ended up being an amazing breakfast! We drove that route twice more over the next couple of weeks as we organized and attended my partner’s mom’s funeral, and we stopped in that diner there and back each way.

Thanks to that waitress for being an ally in a moment when we really needed one! 

Related:
When They Wear Their Sunday Best Expect The Sunday Worst

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I had my own home on Airbnb before, but I am a messy person and it was hard to keep the shared kitchen tidy. Instead, I put a fridge, stove, etc., in an upstairs bedroom, and I marketed it as an apartment.

I received an enquiry asking if I would accept a family with young children for a month, and asking me to call a certain phone number. It is obviously against Airbnb’s terms, but I called anyway. I said that I had no issue with children, but I was not equipped, either. It also wasn’t a real apartment; it was the upstairs of my house.

Social Worker: “Look. I’m a social worker trying to sort out emergency accommodation for a single mum with kids aged seven and three and a baby. Let me know if you can get something together and what it costs.”

We came to an agreement, and I spent a day babyproofing the house. My social circle began offering everything for a young, homeless family.

The following day, an Asian woman in Muslim dress arrived with her children. Let’s call her Sarah from, say, Burma. She spoke English. I am a middle-aged white male. I showed her round and let her get settled in.

She knocked on my door the next day.

Me: “Hi, Sarah. How are you? How are your accommodations?”

Sarah: “My kid is reaching for the kettle. I need a solution. Are my kids too loud?”

Me: “Can you show me? Your kids are fine. Children will play and be noisy.”

She demonstrated how the toddler was pulling things off a table. I went to [Furniture Store] and bought some extendable table legs to raise it up. I took them to Sarah.

Sarah: “No, I don’t need them anymore. I moved it. I need a double buggy, though.”

In two days, Sarah had rearranged her whole apartment: beds, fridge, everything. She just closed the door of the makeshift kitchen. I was happy that she had made it her home.

Me: “Maybe I know someone with a double buggy in their attic. I will ask on Facebook.”

I got a refund from [Furniture Store].

Later, I got a message from Sarah on Whatsapp.

Sarah: “Can you get me some bread, milk, and butter when out? I’ll pay you.”

Seriously? I’m not responsible for your shopping.

Me: “Sorry, unavailable today. There is a corner shop at [Location]?”

By this point, she had obtained a double buggy from somewhere. I learned she was an asylum seeker, which I was fine with.

Sarah: “Do you like beef ravioli? The food shelter gave me this, but it isn’t halal.”

Me: “I… Okay, sure.”

I felt a little guilty eating food intended for a hungry person, but I hoped it was a one-off.

I came into the house one day to a heavy smell of dampness upstairs. Sarah had done three washes of clothes and hung them up in her “apartment.” That can cause mould and pests like silverfish.

Me: “Hi, Sarah. You know you can hang stuff outside, or in the kitchen, too? I have the dehumidifier running. The air probably isn’t good for your children.”

Sarah: “Okay.”

She continued to hang things inside. She needed to be comfortable in her own home, so I didn’t press the issue while I thought of alternatives.

Another day:

Sarah: “My fridge doesn’t work. The orange juice is frozen.”

I put a thermometer into the fridge and checked the next day. Sure enough, it was -1C (30.2F).

Me: “My fridge-freezer works. Let’s swap them round.”

I took her fridge-freezer. She was right, so I scrapped it and bought another.

Sarah: “Would you like some more beef ravioli? I have about seventeen tins of food I can’t eat.”

Me: “Where did you get this?”

Sarah: “The food bank left it in a bag outside the house, and then they phoned me. I keep anything that has a halal label or is vegetarian. I can’t eat the rest.”

Me: “I will eat it. What food bank?”

Sarah: “[Charity].”

Me: “Thanks. I will ask them to check that it is halal.”

I contacted the charity and explained that Sarah was Muslim, and when they donated things she couldn’t eat, someone else went hungry. I only provided her with a home; I hadn’t the time to chase them to take it back.

The worst part was trying to get paid on a monthly lease. I did not have a direct contact, but the social worker dealt with me.

Me: “Hi, [Social Worker], can you check with Accounts Payable that they received my invoice?”

Social Worker: “Yes, they received that to be paid via [Emergency Housing Fund].”

A week later…

Me: “Hi. No payment has been received and it is overdue. Please tell them that if it isn’t paid by tomorrow, I make Sarah and her children — seven, three, and one, homeless overnight. Also, I will come to their office and read them the riot act.”

I received payment immediately.

Out of all the businesses I have run, Sarah must be my favourite client. She fled persecution to my country for safety. She feeds and homeschools her children on next to nothing from the government. When she needs something, she asks for it. Or better, she asks for forgiveness instead of permission. I found she has a very strong case for asylum.

I had surgery, and something went wrong during recovery at home. Both the surgery and what went wrong are gross, so I’ll spare you the details!

I went back to the hospital and they set about making the problem right. And they did, quickly and efficiently, as it was something that happens about 10% of the time.

I was recovering afterward in a side room. The door was open, and all I’d been able to hear for HOURS was nothing but fellow patients and their relatives complaining to the nurses. They complained about the parking. They complained about the food. They complained about the choice of TV channels. They complained about the variable mobile phone signal. One woman complained about the wait to get surgery AND how quickly the appointment came so she couldn’t arrange for someone to water her houseplants for her four hours in hospital. The man in the room opposite complained that the disposable surgical gown he was wearing wasn’t soft enough. One woman physically stopped a healthcare assistant with a tray of pills in his hands in order to complain that the coffee machine didn’t do the thing she usually ordered from her local chain coffee shop.

Honestly, I was in Not Always Right entitled customer Hell. 

My usual policy — be nice to people in service industries because I’m also a human being — was ramped up to eleven, and I pushed through the pain I was in to try to be charming and funny and non-demanding with everybody I saw.

I was laying there with a cannula (drip) in my arm when it suddenly slipped out. My husband, who is more likely to panic in such situations than I am, shouted out the door of my room for help.

The main nurse who had been dealing with me all day appeared, in her coat, with her handbag, and with her car keys in her hand.

As my husband was explaining to her in panicked tones about the cannula, I was horrified. 

Me: “You’re done for the day! Go home! Someone else will deal with this! Go away! Go home!”

She was so lovely about it. She calmed my husband — he really doesn’t cope well with medical stuff — and then said she’d deal with it.

Me: “You’re done for the day. Go home! Off you go! It’s fine; someone else will deal with it in a minute. It’s fine!”

She grabbed my arm, popped the cannula back into place, put new tape on it, and turned to leave.

Nurse: “I only did that because you boys were so nice all day. Good luck with the rest of your treatment.”

Me: “You didn’t have to do that. It’ll be fine if—”

Nurse: “I hope I never see you again.”

I burst out laughing — which hurt! — and so did my husband. She gave us a wink and left.

The treatment worked, I’m almost fully recovered, and she has never seen me again — which is EXACTLY what both of us wanted, for the same reason. Nurses: you are wonderful.

Related:
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 16
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 15
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 14
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 13
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 12

I was behind the bar loading the dishwasher in front of a couple on seemingly a first date. She was picking at pasta while he was sipping a beer. From the beginning, the vibe was off; she looked deeply unhappy and he kept speaking for her.

She asked if he had seen “Fleabag”, and he responded that it was a “show for women” and he didn’t really get it. She kept quiet and continued to pick at her pasta. He left to go to the restroom, and I turned to her.

Me: “Well, I really like Fleabag.”

She laughed quietly.

Woman: “Is he gone?”

I nodded.

Woman: *Whispering* “Please help me…”

It turned out she was on a terrible bad date and didn’t know how to leave. I asked her for her phone number, had my coworker take over, and headed to the back to call the woman. In between two tables, I called and pretended to be a hysterical friend.

Me: “Can you come mad quick? My boyfriend just broke up with me, my house is on fire, and I’m locked out!”

Immediately, she got the check and dipped out.

Five minutes later, she called me back to check to see if her date was still there. I confirmed he had left.

Woman: “Thank you so, so much! I’m on my way back!”

She ran back in and gave me a huge hug, shouting about how she just wanted to eat her pasta in peace!

She sat back in her seat, and we got her a glass of wine and s*** on this terrible dude with her.

It was such a sweet moment. It was so nice to see her actually enjoying herself for the first time all night!

My manager (and owner) of the little convenience store I work in is a scary old Eastern European lady. Her family franchises a bunch of the stores in the city

I am working a night shift, and [Manager] is in the office Facetiming relatives in her home country. A customer comes in. From his overall swagger and attitude, plus my experience working the night shift, I know he’s going to be trouble.

Customer: “Sup, sexy. I want my smokes, but I don’t want you to be a b**** about the ID.”

Before I can even speak a word, my manager barrels out of the office faster than a woman of her age really should. She suddenly grabs the customer’s arm and forcefully walks him toward the exit.

Manager: “Out! You! Out! You no talk to her that way! She a lady! You talk to her like you talk to your mother!”

They get to the exit, and now the customer is standing outside.

Manager: “We try again, but this time with respect!”

The customer is confused for a second, as he hasn’t finished processing what has just happened. He eventually recovers, sheepishly walks into the store, and says to me:

Customer: “Uh… a pack of [cigarettes], please.”

Me: “May I see your ID, please?”

Customer: “I, uh… I don’t have it. Could I just—”

The customer then looks at my manager, who is standing there, looking stern, hands on her hips.

Customer: “Never mind. I’ll just go.”

It’s great to have a boss who takes no s*** from anyone.

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