Regular Race Issues

, , , , , | | Right | May 15, 2019

(In between my semesters at college, I work at the local fabric and craft store. During my years working, we come to know this one regular that most of the staff hates seeing. She will be in the store for several hours shopping, and when she finally comes to the cutting counter, she is very particular about who cuts her material and how they cut it — in other words, a huge pain. She is also known for being a pain at the checkout and each visit always involves her calling corporate with a complaint that, when investigated, proves she is making things up. Eventually, corporate starts ignoring her calls. In one of my last encounters with her, she wished that another customer would get into a car accident after she let them cut in line and they didn’t thank her. I’ve returned for a summer and I’m working closing when I realize that I have not seen this regular yet, so I ask my coworker about her.)

Me: “So, [Coworker], I haven’t seen [Regular] in some time. Has she been in here?”

Coworker: “You didn’t know? She got banned.”

Me: “Banned?! But how?”

Coworker: “It started when she tried to use one 40% coupon on every single item she had, claiming that because she was such a valued customer buying so much stuff, we should do that for her. [Manager] explained that our policy was one coupon per item and that we cannot change it. So, [Regular] then started calling [Manager] the N-word.”

(For context, [Manager] is a six-foot-tall black woman.)

Me: “I knew [Regular] was bad, but I didn’t know she was racist!”

Coworker: “It gets better. [Regular] then hung around telling every customer in the store about the terrible N-word woman and how she was going to shoot her in the parking lot later! [Manager] had enough and, once she got word of this, called the police.”

Me: “Did [Regular] get arrested?”

Coworker: “No, she was long gone before they came. But they got her information and recommend that [Manager] never let [Regular] into the store again, and that they were going to her house to let her know that she’s not allowed at the store anymore.”

(Sure enough, it’s been years and that regular has never once returned to store.)

Bombarded With Booze

, , , , , , | | Related | May 14, 2019

(My family and I go on holiday to ski, and we do the usual skiing holiday stuff: go down slopes, stay in chalets to eat and rest, gather for dinner in an osteria, and so on. I am only a few years old, so most of my time there is spent with a ski teacher, but one day my mom leaves me in the care of my 14-year-old sister and her tagalong friend. After spending most of the afternoon going down gentle slopes and playing in the snow, my sister and her friend decide to stop at a bar for a bit. We are in Italy.)

Sister: “Hey, [My Name], you want hot chocolate, right?”

Me: *nods*

Sister: “[Friend], go pick up two bombardini and a shot of vodka.”

Me: “What’s a bombardino?”

Sister: “Hot chocolate with whipped cream!”

Me: “Oh.”

(I trust her on that and wait at the table. Then, my sister’s friend comes back with two tall glasses full of a brown liquid topped by whipped cream, and a tiny glass of clear liquid.)

Sister: “Here. Be careful, it’s hot!”

(I take a sip. I immediately feel a very, very bitter taste in my mouth, as my stomach churns and my mouth feels cottoned. I get up in a panic and run outside the bar’s palisade before stopping, kneeling, and vomiting profusely. My sister’s friend runs up to me.)

Friend: *yelling* “Why did you actually let him drink it?!”

Sister: *shocked* “I didn’t think alcohol could be that bad for him.”

(For the uninitiated, a bombardino is a cocktail composed of eggnog, brandy, coffee, and whipped cream. When I got back to the hotel, I looked absolutely miserable, my mom forbade my sister from watching over me for a long time, and I got a distaste for alcoholic drinks.)

Made A Boob Of Herself Via Yours

, , , , , , , | | Friendly | May 13, 2019

(Our college has a small gym and locker room with three shower stalls with curtains for privacy. In fact, the locker room has a lot of little options and ways to change privately so you don’t have to walk around naked if you don’t want to. I’m more introverted and modest, and I greatly appreciate the privacy while my friend who, although she doesn’t walk around in her birthday suit every day, is much more comfortable with her body and is very extroverted and talkative. She’s in the middle stall with me humming quietly to myself to the right of her, and a frustrated sounding woman to the left of her, indicated with some grunts and sighs. Suddenly, the woman to the left of her stops her shower, wraps herself in a towel, and marches over to my friend’s stall, yanking the curtain.)

Friend: “Hey!”

Woman: “Would you stop the—” *pause* “Whoops, sorry. Wrong one.”

(I freeze and realize that the woman was probably upset with my humming and had thought my friend was doing it. I already stopped when I heard the commotion, but she apparently still wants to give me a piece of my mind because I hear her squeaking footsteps coming towards me! The woman is just about to reach my stall before my friend manages to slide out of her shower and stop her, blocking the woman’s way by spreading her arms and legs out like a barrier.)

Friend: “NO!”

Woman: *recoiling and almost shrieking* “Gaaah! Put on a towel!”

Friend: “Well, hey! You were the one who wanted to see ’em without permission! I’m not letting you see my friend without theirs!”

Woman: “Ew, ew, EW! EwewewewEWWWW!!”

(I hear the woman squeak away and chuckles from other women who are standing in line for the shower. I poke my head out, seeing my friend still standing in the way of my stall, dripping wet and completely nude.)

Me: “I, um… thank you. I didn’t know how fast I could’ve grabbed my towel without slipping.”

Friend: *still standing there* “No problem.”

Me: “She freaked out more than I thought, though. Why was she so grossed out?”

Friend: “That… was an accident. When I slid in front of her, she had been reaching out to grab your curtain away, and well… she kiiiind of grabbed my boob, instead.”

Me: “…”

Friend: “Just a light slap, on the left one. A gentle cup. Definitely wasn’t intentional on my end and completely doubt it was intentional on hers, but it happened. She kind of scratched it when she pulled away, but it doesn’t hurt—“

Me: “[Friend]?”

Friend: “Yeah?”

Me: “Your shower’s still on.”

Friend: “OH, CRAP!”

(We finished up quickly and laughed about the experience afterward. Thankfully, there weren’t that many other people in the line that we took shower time away from, and they all forgave us anyway. We occasionally see that one woman, but she never makes eye contact with us now. I don’t hum to myself anymore, though, just to prevent the situation from ever happening again!)

Playing A Game Of Duck, Duck, RAGE

, , , | | Right | May 13, 2019

(I run sideshow games at an amusement park, and because of all the negative stereotypes of carnival games portrayed in movies and such, many people often wrongly believe that the games are rigged. One of the games uses a fishing rod to pick up a duck with a hook in it. Each duck has a different colour dot underneath it to identify the type of prize the player could win. The best prize is a stuffed bulldog and there are two ducks out of fifty that have the proper colour needed to win one.)

Customer: “How do I win one of those bulldogs there?”

Me: “You need to pay for a turn to play the game. Then, if you manage to pick up a duck with that rod that has a certain colour underneath it, you can choose that prize.”

Customer: “Pfft, probably rigged, anyway.”

(He then leaves for a few minutes and comes back when I’m serving two other customers who are playing the game.)

Customer: “Oi, give me one of those bulldogs!”

Me: “You have to play the game to win one, sir. I can’t just give it to you.”

Customer: “How the f*** am I supposed to win it when all the games are rigged?”

Me: “The games aren’t rigged, sir, but if you feel that strongly about it, you don’t have to play.”

Customer: “Give me the toy, then.”

Me: “Sir, I have already said that you need to play the game first to win the toy. If you don’t think you can do it, then you can probably buy a toy just like this in a store somewhere.”

(The customer then goes on a rant about how he’s already paid to get into the amusement park and how I am trying to scam him with a rigged game.)

Customer: “Give me the toy or I’ll jump over there and f****** smash you.”

(I get a bit nervous at this point as he is much bigger than I am and looks like he could really hurt me.)

Me: “I wouldn’t do that, sir; there are children around and a security guard just over there.”

(I signal my coworker to call the security guard over.)

Customer: “I swear to God I’m gonna smash your f****** head in.”

(The security guard was almost there at that point. The customer realised this and, after a few more curses, he left. I was still shaking with nerves an hour later.)

Pushing Through The Chairs Of Anxiety

, , , , | | Learning | May 13, 2019

(My middle school math teacher seems to have had a severe problem with me and has no problem showing it. My learning disability does at times affect my work, which she doesn’t like, and if I come to see her during her after-school tutoring sessions that she holds for any student needing extra help, she rails on me for not understanding the work, and quickly loses her patience and refuses to help, telling me I am wasting time that the other students in the tutoring session need. All the while, she keeps going easier and even coddling students who do even less work or are even disruptive in class. Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to contain her dislike for me to my academic performance. In her class, desks are set up in quads pretty close together, meaning if you are sitting at the side of the “square” directly back to back with someone sitting at the square right next to yours, it is hard to get out of your seat unless the other person scoots their chair closer to their desk to let you out. I should also note that I’ve never exactly been thin.)

Teacher: “[My Name]! Come hand out these worksheets!”

(I attempt to get up only to see that the classmate behind me has his seat pushed out so I can’t get up.)

Me: “[Classmate], could you move your chair in, please?”

Classmate: *moves his seat in barely an inch, not enough to let me get up, moves it back, and laughs*

Teacher: “[My Name]! I told you to get up! Now!”

Me: “There’s not enough room…”

Teacher: “Stop slacking off!”

(I try again to get the classmate to move his chair, but he ignores me. I’m getting more and more upset since she’s continuing to yell at me in front of the class, even though all this is going on in front of her eyes. The deskmate right across from me tries to help by pulling her desk back so I can push my desk forward to make room, only to be yelled at by the teacher, as well, for moving the desks.)

Me: “I can’t get up with [Classmate]’s chair out like that!”

Teacher: *rolls her eyes, condescendingly* “[Classmate], move your chair in so she can get up.”

(The classmate moves in a little bit, just enough to let me get up, but before I can…)

Teacher: “Move in more than that! She’s fatter than you and needs the space!”

Me: *speechless*

(I wish I could say that was the worst of it. I missed a week of school due to my father passing away. I was attempting to catch up with my classes once I was back, and I attended one of her tutoring sessions. This time, due to still being in a pretty fragile state, the harsh treatment I received made me burst into tears. Her response was to just coldly say, “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you just because your dad died!” That didn’t just shock me, but the other students in the room, as well. All I could do was grab my stuff and leave. The following school year, my mom was pulling me out for winter break a few days early so I could go on a trip with extended family, since this would be my first Christmas without my father. I went around to all my teachers to get holiday homework beforehand, and all were understanding and gave their planned assignments. When I went to this teacher, she scribbled some equations in my notebook and said that was it. I foolishly took her at her word. When classes started back up, I learned the homework was an entire section of our textbook. She railed on me for not doing the work, and when I tried to remind her she didn’t tell me what the work was, she sneered that that’s what I get for missing school. That following year, I ended up in the same high school with a bunch of classmates from middle school and we decided to get together and visit our old stomping ground one day after classes let out. When we arrived, we found four teachers sitting together in one of the classrooms: three of my favorite teachers, including two who had been such a comfort after my dad died and even came to his funeral, and THAT teacher. I got a petty little thrill at her shocked and offended expression when I deliberately ignored her, turned my back to her when speaking to the other teachers, and went around hugging all of them except for her. That’s what you get for being mean.)

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