Our location is closing in a few days. There are only three of us currently working: me, a coworker, and the manager. This particular coworker and manager have known each other for years, so she is the favorite. She is complaining about our location closing. I’m sorting old paperwork for shredding.

Coworker: “I should just walk out.”

Me: “Uh-huh.”

Coworker: “I’m serious. I’ll quit today!”

She’s been threatening this ever since they told us we were closing. The only way to get her to stop is to acknowledge her every so often until she runs out of steam.

Me: “Mhm.”

Coworker: “Everyone is telling me to stick it out. What if I want to walk out, huh? No one can stop me.”

Me: “That’s true.”

Coworker: “Thank you! It’s nice to have some support.”

I give her a thumbs-up and return to my shred pile.

Boss: *From across the lobby* “[Coworker]! Cut it out.”

Coworker: “Why? It’s true. I should leave and never come back.”

Boss: “THEN DO IT!”

Coworker: “What?!”

Boss: “You’ve been saying the same thing for weeks. If you’re not gonna leave, then shut your mouth!”

Coworker: “I’ll do it. Watch me.”

Boss: “Good! Then [My Name] and I can get our work done in peace!”

Me: “Do I need to separate you two?”

Coworker & Boss: “NO!”

Me: “As long as you don’t mind having an audience.”

We have a small popcorn machine for customers, and I’ve just popped a fresh batch. I head over to it, scoop myself a bag, and return to my paperwork pile while snacking on my popcorn. They are still shouting at each other.

Coworker: “Well, [Boss], if you feel that way about it, I QUIT!”

Boss: “YOU SAY THAT ALL THE TIME! It doesn’t count unless you leave right now!”

Coworker: “That’s just what you want, isn’t it?!”

Boss: “I want to get this closing done in peace! If that means you walk out a few days early, THEN GO!”

Coworker: “You WANT to be short-handed?! You’ll be stuck with [My Name]!”

Me: “Hey, that’s rude!”

Boss: “AT LEAST SHE KNOWS WHAT SHE’S DOING!”

My coworker lets out a scream and stomps into the back. My boss goes into her office and slams the door. I’m trying really hard not to laugh. A regular walks in about thirty seconds later. She approaches me with an expectant look on her face.

Customer: “Hey, [My Name]. What’s happening in here? Everything okay?”

Me: “Everything’s great!”

Customer: “I thought I heard yelling when I was in the parking lot.”

Me: “I can tell you that it wasn’t me.”

My customer snorted. I gave her a “shhh” signal and she snickered. I got her taken care of and she exited. [Coworker] did not quit. However, the next few days were a lot quieter!

Most French people assume that most English don’t speak any French… which is true to a fair extent.

My father and I went into a pub in England. In there were two Frenchmen, chatting away. As well, there was a young woman serving at the bar, plus another two men at another table — seven people in all. The two Frenchmen were well-heeled, yuppyish, I guess up-and-coming managers in finance or consultancy. Actually, it was unusual to see French people in this pub; although it was a popular tourist town, this wasn’t London, and it was in an obscure part of town that many locals didn’t really know. So French people would not reasonably expect to encounter other French speakers.

I’m afraid to say I took a dislike to them — not because they were French but because they were obnoxious. As well as looking and sounding like they’d been drinking for a few hours, they would also make occasional disparaging remarks about the décor (okay, it could’ve been better), “les Anglais”, my father’s hat, etc., all while looking down their noses at us and the two men on the other table.

Although my father and I both speak some French, we just ignored them, getting on with our own chat and beer. The barperson came round the pub to pick up empties, etc. Then, she stood on the bar footrail, leaning over to reach something behind the bar. 

One of the Frenchmen, watching her bend over, exclaimed in French something very crude.

The barperson froze. My father and I froze, too, staring at the two Frenchmen. Also, the other two people stopped talking and stared. The barperson righted herself and walked back behind the bar.

The [Barperson] said something under her breath, clearly in French, maybe street French, but I didn’t quite understand.

The Frenchmen clearly understood, and I’m sure they noticed the atmosphere had changed, but they pretended not to notice and continued with their beers.

One of the men at the other table spoke up in fluent French, “So, which part of Paris are you from?”

The man’s partner, asked, also in French, “Le [Redacted]ième?” (A rough part of Paris.)

This seemed to catch the Frenchmen unawares. One of them started to reply in English, then switched to French, and he seemed about to say where they were from, but he stopped. Then, they quickly finished their pints and slid out.

So, all seven people in this obscure English pub could speak French.

I’m a server working on a busy Friday night when I get a family of three: a dad, a mom, and a guy who we can plainly see is in the military. He looks young and is very flirtatious.

Me: “Hello and welcome! I’ll be taking care of you.”

Son: “Thank God we got a hot one.”

Me: “Ha. Okay. What can I get you to drink?”

Mom & Dad: “Water, please.”

Son: “I’ll take a peach margarita.”

Me: “What kind of tequila?”

Son: *Starts to smile* “Which do you prefer?”

Me: “Don Julio is top shelf here.”

Son: “Great. I’ll take that.”

Me: “Okay. Can I see your ID, please?”

Son: “I’m not sure if I have it. I just got home from the military and I’m looking for a good drink and good company.” *Winks*

Me: “Okay, but I can’t serve you unless you have ID.”

Son: “All I have is my military ID on me. I don’t know if it has my birthdate on it, though.”

As a bartender as well, I know it does.

Me: “That’s fine. I’ll just look at it quickly.”

The son smiles really big and winks again.

Son: “Okay… here you go.”

I take the ID and flip it over to see his birthdate.

Me: “Wait… you aren’t twenty-one. You just turned nineteen.”

The son loses his smile and takes back his ID.

Dad: “I’ll take the peach margarita.”

Me: “Sorry, but I can’t serve a drink he ordered to you.”

Dad: “But he’s in the military, for Christ’s sake!”

In my head, I’m thinking he just got out of boot camp. At this point, I’m pretty pissed at all the time they’ve wasted. I’ve been sat again, and I know I’m not going to get a tip from this family.

Me: “Sir… I don’t care if he’s in the Avengers. He isn’t twenty-one and looks it. I’ll get fired on the spot.”

Dad: “Can we request another server?”

Me: “If you don’t like this table, you can go back to the host and put your name down for another table and server. The wait is forty-five minutes. I’ll be right back with your waters if you decide to stay.”

I then turned around and greeted my next table. They did stay but complained about everything, so the manager went by. They tried ordering the drink with him, and since I had already explained everything to him, he carded the kid and said, “I’ll bring you a virgin peach margarita on me.”

No tip on $40.00.

During my customer service days, one customer was being extremely verbally abusive to me, interrupting me when I attempted to answer her questions, and yelling at me for interrupting her — I thought she was done blabbering at me.

I finally snapped and muted my mic until:

Customer: “Are you still there?!”

I unmuted my mic.

Me: “Yes. I was simply doing as I was raised to do and waiting for you to finish speaking so I could answer the many questions you have. It is the polite thing to do.”

I used this same tactic on her six times during the call before she realized I would say that and start over until she let me actually finish talking. Quality and my bosses never said a thing about it.

I work in a library. We had a patron who allowed her eight-year-old child to run roughshod and unsupervised all over our library. The girl left nasty, profanity-laden notes for my staff to find. We warned the mother multiple times that her daughter needed to remain by her side while in the library.

One day, one of my staff, who suffered a disfiguring injury to her hand some years ago, received a note from this child making fun of her hand. The girl also made some snarky comments to my employee’s face.

My employee handed me the note. I was so furious, I saw red. I confronted the mother and showed her the note.

Me: “You need to take your daughter and leave.”

I consulted with my trustees and we agreed to ban them both for a month.

The mother came back in and tried to argue with me.

Mother: “My daughter is just a baby! It isn’t right for a public library to ban us!”

Me: “It is totally unacceptable for your daughter to harass my staff with her comments and notes.”

The mother actually looked me in the eye and said:

Mother: “What my daughter did wasn’t harassment!”

Me: “You and I have very different ideas of what harassment is.”

She left and didn’t come back for a long time. I’ve barely seen them since.