I work in a library.

Patron: “I’ve been a patron of yours for a long time, and I love taking notes in the margins of books I particularly enjoy. The only problem is that, with the latest one, I’ve taken a few too many, and I really don’t want to have to erase them. Is there anything you can do about that?”

Me: *Pretty perplexed* “Umm, you really shouldn’t write anything in any of our books, please.”

Patron: “I know! It’s just pencil marks. I usually erase all of them before I return the book, but it’s just so many this time.”

Me: “No, you shouldn’t do it at all. It damages the paper!”

Patron: *Laughs* “Well, I learned something, then. So, what can you do about that?”

Me: “I’m gonna have to ask you to replace that book.”

Patron: “I can just give you any of my own books, right?”

Me: “No, it has to be the same title. You buy it new and bring it here. It also takes time and effort to get it ready to check out with our system, so I’m asking you again to please not damage any books you borrow from us.”

Patron: “All right, all right. There’s a library discount, though, right?”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Patron: “If I buy a book for the library, the bookstore has to give me a discount.”

Me: “There is a discount, but it applies only to books the library purchases directly. If you damage one, you’ll need to pay the regular price.”

Patron: “What a bother!” 

You’re telling me, ma’am!

In grad school, I worked the circulation desk at the library attached to the law school. All of the full-time reference librarians had law degrees as well as library degrees but did not work professionally as lawyers. They were legally not allowed to give out legal advice. They could help patrons find legal resources but they could not interpret the law.

Frequently, community patrons would try to get free legal advice from the librarians — or would come in and pester students who also could not give legal advice — and would get frustrated when the librarians would refuse. The librarians understood that sometimes people were in a tough spot, but it was not worth opening themselves up to a potential lawsuit should the patron later say they acted on the librarian’s legal advice.

One day, as I was at the circulation desk, I could hear the reference librarian speaking with a patron on the phone. He was obviously asking for free legal help, and she kept trying to explain that she couldn’t do that. If he came into the library, she could help him find resources and he was welcome to do his own research, but she could not interpret the law for him.

After several minutes of this, she eventually stopped and quietly hung up the phone.

Librarian: “Oh, my!” 

She saw my confused look and explained what the caller had been saying.

Librarian: “He finally got so angry with me that he accused me of being a member of the Klan and hung up on me! But the joke’s on him; I’m Catholic and they hate me, too.”

I’m the author of the clock shop story where the woman called two different numbers for the same clock.

Sometimes, when my bosses went out on house calls to fix or move grandfather clocks, I would be left alone in the workshop. Usually, this wasn’t a problem, and I was comfortable helping customers and answering the phone. This particular day, however, nearly broke me.

A customer comes in through the front door and I greet him and ask how I can help him. He is an older man, about my height, and he seems harmless — keyword: “seems”.

Customer: “I want to pick up my clock.”

Me: “Sure, no problem! Did you schedule to have it picked up today?”

Customer: “No. I shouldn’t have to schedule to pick up my clock. You’ve had my d*** clock for nearly six months now, and I want it back!”

This was, unfortunately, not an odd occurrence. Due to the volume of clocks and the fact that my boss had health issues, our average turn-around time was often up to six months. Even worse were cuckoo clocks, as only my boss could work on them.

Me: “Oh. Um, well, I’m sorry, but we have a policy that you have to give us up to two weeks’ notice if you’re going to pick it up without service. Did you tell them you were coming?”

Customer: “I’M PICKING UP MY D*** CLOCK AND YOU CAN’T KEEP IT FROM ME!”

Me: “I’m not trying to, sir, but we have a policy—”

The customer whips out his phone.

Customer: “What if I called the police because you won’t give me back my property?”

Me: “You’re well within your rights to do that, sir.”

Now, while I’m not terribly excited to have someone threaten to call the cops on me, it gets worse. He starts muttering to himself in German. He has no accent, and even I can tell the German is poor. This man is clearly a born-and-raised American.

Customer: “Do you speak German?”

Me: “No. I speak English and French.”

The customer mumbles some more in German.

He makes a big show of calling a phone number, out loud, in German. It isn’t the cops, and instead, the store’s phone begins to ring. I don’t even bother picking it up. Instead, I go around the counter to where the panic button is stashed, and if I press it, the cops will actually come — to my aid, not his.

The customer leaves a heated message and talks about how useless I am for not giving him his clock.

Customer: “There. Now you’ll be sorry.”

Me: “Have a nice day, sir.”

The customer spoke more in German, though this time I had a distinct feeling he was insulting me.

I got his license plate and the make of his car as he left, immediately called my bosses, and sat outside with my water bottle for a smoke. When my bosses returned, they recognized the man. Apparently, he was a known problem customer and his clock was supposed to be the last they would do for him. And, he was a known Nazi sympathizer.

I was told later that when my bosses confronted him, he was all smiles and didn’t understand that threatening someone was bad, all because one of my bosses went by her maiden name which is distinctly German. This fool even thought they were kidding when they said they would ship his clock back to him and have him trespassed if he ever set foot in the workshop again.

I quit not soon after. No one could pay me enough to deal with actual, literal Nazis.

Related:
Not So Permanently Closed Minded

I’m at my local off-licence (liquor store) buying a few bottles. I’m in shorts, a T-shirt, and flops, so I’m very obviously a customer. A rough-looking dude sidles up to me.

Dude: “Hey, you work here?”

Me: “No, mate, just shopping.”

He looks at me suspiciously and then sloooooooowly reaches out an arm, grabs a bottle of cheap spirits, and shoves it into his shirt. He squints at me for a moment, as if to check whether I am going to do anything about it, and then sloooooooooooooowly reaches out and grabs another bottle, stuffs it into his shirt, and saunters out of the door. I pass a real employee.

Me: “That guy just walked out with two bottles.”

Employee: “What? Motherf***er! Well, what were they? You’re going to have to pay for them!”

I didn’t end up paying for them, but the manager wouldn’t let me leave until the police arrived, which took a while. The manager was then shocked when I had him charged for, among other things, gripping my arm and refusing to let me leave and common assault.

When my husband and I bought our first house, it had stood empty for a little while, so our next-door neighbors, an older couple who had a big golden retriever, had gotten used to using the yard as their dog’s potty. When we moved in, we let them know very nicely that we didn’t appreciate this and that they needed to keep their dog in their yard and pick up after him if he went in our yard.

They sort of kept their dog in their yard when we were around to see, but dog piles kept turning up on our lawn. I spend months seething about this but hadn’t managed to catch them in the act. (This was in 2004, so well before doorbell cameras.)

Then, one summer day, I was in the yard doing some gardening, and the neighbor lady was out in her yard doing the same. And the dog was out, too, just romping around. As I watched, he romped over into our front yard, squatted, and deposited a sizable pile.

Me: “Ma’am, come pick up after your dog. As soon as I finish weeding here, I am going to mow the lawn, so the poo needs to be gone before then.”

Neighbor: *Not looking around* “Yeah, yeah… I’ll get around to it.”

Oh-kay.

It took me about twenty minutes to finish the weeding. The pile was still there. 

Me: “Ma’am, excuse me—”

Neighbor: “I said I would get around to it!”

Something in me snapped. I went into the garage and got the shovel. I scooped up the pile and whipped it as hard as I could at the side of the neighbors’ house, where it stuck to the siding.

This got her attention, and she stared at me wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Me: “I don’t want to ever find any more of your dog’s s*** in my yard, okay?”

Two weeks later, there were contractors at the neighbors’ house, putting up a fence around their yard.