I work with home-bound dementia patients. Due to health concerns with riding public transportation during the health crisis, my agency is paying for workers to take car services to work. I have used one particular app-based service with no problem… until one Friday.

I get the car and he picks me up just fine. We turn the corner and come to a two-lane street with a stoplight on red. There are two cars in front of us.

The minute the light turns green, the driver zooms into the opposite lane and passes the two cars! He clips the front car while doing so. He does this so fast — like zero to one hundred mph — that it takes me a good minute to realize he’s stopped the car on the next street and the clipped driver, a woman, has pulled up behind him, gotten out, and is now yelling at him.

Once I can move, I grab my stuff and get out of the car, hitting the “CANCEL” button on the app. The driver, meanwhile, is arguing with the woman, saying there is no scratch or mark on her car. She demands his information and he refuses, speaking very condescendingly and insisting there has been no accident. He sees me and asks that I get back in the car.

I respond, “H*** no! You almost f****** killed me!”

Seeing me, the woman comes over and asks if she can get his information on the app. The driver continues to tell her that there is nothing wrong and implores me to get back into the car. She takes a picture of him and his license plate and asks once more for his insurance. He gets in the car and drives off.

The woman is a nurse and has to get to an emergency pickup shift, and I, of course, have to go relieve another worker who is with a client. We exchange information and I tell her I will fill out the accident form on the app. We part ways to our jobs.

I do get a response from the app, saying someone will contact me about filling out a report, but then I hear nothing for almost an entire week. Finally, I have to call up the support line and remind them we have his license plate before they send me the insurance contact number. I pass it on to the woman and let her know to contact me for anything, as I’ve saved all the texts and files with screenshots.

The worst part is, when I checked to make sure I had the driver’s name right, he was still driving even though I had filled out a report on him!

It is about an hour before a music festival starts. The festival is showcasing electronic music, and the musicians are all warming up and performing sound checks. An older woman comes up to where we are queueing.

Woman: “Excuse me, can you please tell them to turn the sound down?”

Security: “Sorry?”

Woman: “The bass is too loud. Can you please turn it down?”

Security: “Ma’am, I’m just working security.”

Woman: “Well, who do you report to? The sound is too loud!”

I try my hand at an explanation.

Me: “Ma’am, it’s a music festival. I don’t think you’ll have much luck.”

Woman: “I don’t care! It’s too bloody loud!”

I quickly — and wisely — give up, but she carries on. She storms over to the ticket office. I can’t hear the exchange, but next thing I know, she draws away from the window with a wireless bank card reader in her hand.

Woman: “You can have it back when you turn the noise down! It’s too loud!”

A man steps out of the ticket office.

Ticket Seller: “Ma’am—”

Woman: *Firmly but not loudly* “It’s too loud!”

Ticket Seller: “—if you’ll just hand me my property back—”

Woman: “It’s too loud!”

Ticket Seller: “Ma’am, I will call the cops—”

Woman: “Do it! Call them! They’ll turn the sound down! It’s too f****** loud! I am in [Public Place] and the bass is too loud!”

This festival is indeed in said public place, but it’s been known about and licensed for some months and publicised across the entire country.

Ticket Seller: “Ma’am, can you please—”

Woman: “It’s too loud!”

Ticket Seller: “Ma’am, I—”

Woman: “You can have this back when you turn the sound down! It’s too loud!”

The ticket seller makes a grab for the machine, but she pulls it out of his reach. He remains calm, as does the security guard.

Ticket Seller: “Ma’am—”

Woman: “It’s too loud! The bass is too loud!”

Fortunately, a policeman shows up in his car. The woman goes over, machine still in hand, and knocks on the policeman’s window. The ticket seller follows her. Again, I can’t hear this exchange, but shortly after, the policeman steps out of his car and walks around to the quarrelling pair. She keeps repeating her phrase, “It’s too loud!”, but the policeman eventually gets the card reader back to the ticket booth and leads the woman away.

Me: *To others in line* “Well. This could be an interesting day.”

My boss owns several popular sandwich franchise stores. He recently decided to buy a store from an owner being kicked out of the franchise. As a result of the forced sale, the former owner gave up on customer service, fired all his staff, and left the restaurant an absolute mess for us to deal with.

On our first day there, I get in early to clean and organize. We have been open for thirty minutes when a car screeches up to our storefront and an angry lady comes stomping inside, brandishing one of our sandwiches. 

Angry Lady: “I’d like to speak to your manager!”

Me: “I’m the manager, ma’am. How can I help you?”

Angry Lady: “My husband came in an hour ago to pick up my lunch. He asked for no mustard! I’m allergic to mustard!”

She slams the sub on the counter and opens it to reveal the bright yellow mustard coating the sub. 

Me: “I’m terribly sorry for the mistake, ma’am. I’m glad you noticed before you bit into it. May I have your receipt so I can refund you? Then I’ll remake your food with no mustard.”

Angry Lady: “I don’t have the receipt. I told you. My husband bought it for me an hour ago.”

Me: “That’s okay, ma’am. We haven’t been open long and have only had a few customers. I can look it up manually.”

I check the transactions from that day. No one has purchased a ham sandwich that day. Because we just bought the store, the computer displays only today’s transactions, as the previous transactions were on the old owner’s account. Any refunds must be made from him, not us.

Me: “Ma’am, is it possible your husband purchased this yesterday? I’m not seeing any sales today that match your order.”

Angry Lady: “No! He bought it today! An hour ago!”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am. We haven’t been open more than a half an hour. Are you sure it was from this location?”

Angry Lady: “Yes! It was here! We only come here! I don’t know why we keep coming back. You people always mess up our orders and give us such terrible service!”

She is already yelling very loudly; the customers in the lobby are beginning to stare and my coworker has poked his head out of the kitchen to see what’s going on. I’m a bit hurt that the blame of the old staff and owner is being put on me, but I’m determined not to let it show. 

Me: “I’m sorry you had a bad experience with this location before. We are under new management, as of today; and I will do my best to fix—”

Angry Lady: “You had better give me my money back!”

Me: “I will do my best, ma’am. If your husband bought this yesterday, I cannot refund—”

Angry Lady: *Screaming* “It wasn’t yesterday. It was today! Refund! Right now!”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but no one has made a purchase today that matches your order, especially no orders with food allergy requests. The best I can do is put you in touch with the old owner, in case the order was on his account yesterday. I will make you a new sub right now, free of charge, for your trouble.”

I start making a sub identical to the one she returned, minus the mustard. I just want her gone. She starts pacing the counter and angrily muttering. 

Angry Lady: “I can’t believe you won’t refund me! I could have died! If I hadn’t noticed the mustard, I would be on my way to the hospital right now!”

Me: “As I said, ma’am, no one has purchased a ham sandwich today. I can’t refund what we haven’t charged you. And I am replacing your sandwich for free.”

She slams her hand against the glass and screams.

Angry Lady: “THAT’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH! You are just the rudest little s***! I want to speak to your store owner! I’m going to get you fired! Every time I come in here, you give me attitude. And now you don’t want to refund me after you almost poisoned me!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’ve never met you before! We just—”

Angry Lady: “I make my husband come in for me now, because I don’t want to deal with you! And he’s told me you’re always rude to him, too. You’re not getting away with it this time! I’m gonna get you f****** fired! And I’m going to sue you for trying to kill me by poisoning my sandwich with mustard! I bet you did it on purpose!”

She is literally screaming at the top of her lungs. I was angry before, but now, I lose it. I slam her half-finished sandwich onto the counter. 

Me: “Listen, lady! I have never seen you before. This is my first day here! We just bought the store! I don’t know who you are, or why you are so rude. I am doing my best to try to help you, but you are blaming me for things that I have not done! You need to get out of my store right now!”

Angry Lady: “Liar! I know your face! You deal with us all the time! I bet you recognized my husband and intentionally put mustard on my food because you knew I was allergic!”

Me: “Lady, we make the subs right in front of you! How could I put mustard on it without your husband noticing?! Get out of my store!”

She begins a string of profanities about how terrible we are and how we all want her dead by poisoning her. She even accuses the kitchen staff of hiding mustard on the ham before we put it in the sub to trick her husband. 

Me: “Lady, if you’re as rude to your husband as you’ve just been to me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he asked for the mustard on your sandwich himself!”

The angry lady stopped, sputtered, and then turned and stomped out the door. When I told my boss about it later, he almost died laughing and told me not to worry about her. We never heard from her or her husband again.

I work for a bank call center and if we can waive a late fee for customers who are constantly late, we tell them no. I have a guy threaten me over fifteen bucks.

Caller: “Why can’t you waive my late fee?”

Me: “Because you have been late for months and we waived it last month. We can’t waive it every month.”

Caller: “Do you know who I am? I know the president of your bank and I’m good friends with him. I’ll have him fire you if you don’t waive my late fee!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, I cannot waive this fee.”

Caller: “B****!” *Click*

When I was a child, I had a “Trust CD” account set up for me at a credit union, which contained money that I obtained as the result of a personal injury lawsuit my dad won. It is a two-hour drive to the credit union, so a four-hour round trip. It is not exactly useful to have an account that way, and this credit union is behind the times and cannot be accessed via Internet or ATMs. 

When I turn eighteen in 2008, I go to get the account cleared out to be placed into a bank that is closer to where I live.

My first visit:

Me: “Hi. I’d like to check on my trust account—” *gives information* “—and see about getting it moved into a different account.”

Teller #1: “I can confirm the account is here, and it’s [amount]. But I can’t access this without your parent or guardian.”

Me: *Pause* “Yeah, you can. It’s my account and I’m eighteen now. I just showed you my ID. My birthday was yesterday.”

Teller #1: “Your age doesn’t matter. [Father] is still on the account, too.”

Me: “As the trustee, yes, but not as the account owner. It says that he is the trustee until [my eighteenth birthday]. We have passed that date. I am now, legally, the account owner. Additionally, my dad can’t come here because he’s disabled and the trip would be too far for him to do safely. He lives in [Faraway City].”

Teller #1: “Well, I can’t help you.”

The teller then just looks away like she can’t even see me anymore and stares into space pretending to wait for the next customer. Frustrated, I leave and call my dad. Despite knowing it’ll cause him a lot of pain from being in a vehicle that long due to his back injury, he agrees to come help me a few days later.

My second visit:

I’m tense but as polite as I can manage to be.

Me: “Hi, I’m here with my legal guardian. I’ve just turned eighteen, and he and I are the only names on this trust account. I want it to be released into my care, as I am a legal adult.”

I give them my information. The teller reads something on their screen.

Teller #2: “Sorry, I can’t do that.”

My dad is grumpy from being in pain.

Dad: “Why the h*** not?”

Teller: *Slightly intimidated* “B-because it’s a trust account.”

Dad: “Not since [my eighteenth birthday]; that’s the release date. Now release it!”

Without another word, the teller suddenly leaves her station. We wait. And wait. And wait. It is clear she wants us to just leave, but we decide to stay until formally trespassed, in which case, they’ll be forced to give us all the money from the account anyway.

Eventually, a manager comes to see us, and she has a super irritating fake smile.

Manager: “How can I help you?”

Me: “You can give me access to my own account. The information should be up on the screen already. As you can see, I’m now eighteen, the trust date has passed, and the account legally belongs to me. Your employee refused to release the account on [day after my birthday] without the trustee. Here he is. Now give us the account.”

The manager shakes her head “no,” still with that fake-smile plastered on her face.

Manager: “That won’t be happening today. If you won’t leave, I will call the police.”

My dad puts his feet up on the desk between us and the manager, in part to intimidate and in part to relieve his back pain.

Dad: “Okay, then. Call the cops. [County Police Chief] still works in this area, right?”

The manager looks like she’s just sucked on a lemon. The cops here are incredibly corrupt, so my dad smartly made friends with them so that if he were involved in trouble, it’d be easier for him to get out of it. My dad actually hates cops, but he does what he has to so he can keep our family safe, since he is often mistaken for being black and I am often mistaken for being white.

Manager: *Resumes the fake smile* “You won’t be getting this account. You’ll have to come back with a court order. By then, late fees will basically wipe it out anyway, so you may as well not bother.”

My dad chuckles at the idea of the challenge.

Dad: “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

So, we go to court to get a judge to force the credit union to give us the money. In the paperwork, we include the demand that no fees or deductions may be applied to the account since this issue was caused by the credit union’s mishandling of the account. I also prepare a court summons document, in case they refuse the court order.

My third visit:

My dad comes with me again despite the pain it causes him. Thankfully, he is able to take something for the pain this time so he’s not nearly as grumpy.

Me: *To the teller* “Hi. You need to close my account and issue me a cashier’s check for the entire balance. No fees are permitted to be applied, by court order.”

I give them my information.

Teller #3: *Looking scared* “Uh, I’ll just get the manager.”

This teller flees to the back room. Guess who comes out? It’s Miss Manager Sue Me! My dad speaks up before either the manager or I have a chance to say anything.

Dad: *Seriously* “If we have to tell the story to one more person, I’m going to make this a serious problem for you. You know who we are. Do what the court demands of you.”

The manager attempts to take the court order and turn to walk away, but my dad grabs her arm.

Dad: “No, you can read it right here. I don’t want any chance of you messing it up, like you did with the trust account in the first place.”

The manager reluctantly sits down and my dad lets her go.

Manager: *Fake smile* “Well, it looks like this matter is settled. Now, after fees and penalties, you’ll get—”

I speak louder so other customers can hear, genuinely getting angry.

Me: “You are refusing the demands of a court order right now. Stop trying to steal my money with your bulls***!”

Her fake smile turns into a furious scowl, and she starts being really short with us.

Manager: “Fine! I will issue you the cashier’s check—”

Dad: *Interrupting her* “For the full amount, right?”

Manager: *Growling under her breath* “Of course.”

Finally, we close the account and she produces the cashier’s check. She holds it over the table and I attempt to grab it, but she turns it toward my dad to keep it out of my grasp.

Dad: “It isn’t my account, dingbat. How many times do we have to repeat ourselves? Give. It. To. My. Daughter.”

The manager reluctantly turns to hold it out toward me again. I grab it but she doesn’t let go, and I am literally forced to play tug-of-war with her. She clearly hopes to “accidentally” destroy it. My dad slaps her wrist like one would a toddler reaching for the stove, which shocks her into letting it go.

Manager: *Aggressive, but fake-smiling again* “So, would you like to open a checking account with us?”

Dad & Me: *In unison, loudly* “NO!”

She looked genuinely surprised by our response. I took the cashier’s check to a different bank closer to where I live.

The next year, we found out that the credit union had actually failed to give us the whole amount! It was found during an audit. Thankfully, the IRS took that money, and we just had to fill out some quick paperwork to get the last of it instead of having to go to the courthouse again. The IRS was way more reasonable about the whole issue and they were happy to help us finish our association with the credit union, which included closing the trust account without penalty, since the credit union hadn’t actually closed my account that day.