A load of school kids like to hang around outside our little shop. They don’t buy anything; they just get in the way of people trying to get in or out, or they hang out on the road itself messing around.

We have a lot of elderly customers who complain, and many go elsewhere as the kids don’t get out of people’s way and their language can be pretty offensive. I don’t blame them.

We have tried moving them on ourselves, getting the schools involved, and even reaching out to parents to help. No one seems bothered; they think it’s fine because “kids will be kids.”

This all changed when one of my regulars nearly hit one of the kids in his car after they stupidly jumped in front of him to prank him or something. I waited for the ambulance to get him oxygen as the kids ran off laughing.

Eventually, every lunchtime I would go outside the shop and loudly read from a textbook, sometimes physics, sometimes history, sometimes whatever I could download. I was giving them more school on their lunch, and they hated it.

Not only did they leave my customers alone, but the local paper somehow got wind and the shop got loads of publicity for teaching pupils for free. So, thanks, I guess, kids!

I had a regular customer that was a guy in his late seventies. One time, he came in with a buddy. I waved and welcomed him in. He curled his finger at me to have me walk over to him. When I did, he said to his buddy:

Regular: “I told you I could make her come with one finger.”

I was in shock and honestly didn’t even know what to do but walk away from him. I never again acknowledged his existence when he was in the store.

\My mum is visiting, a very rare occurrence as we live so far away, so we’ve gone out for a special afternoon tea. The place is busy with almost every table full when two women and an approximately three- or four-year-old boy come in. They’re sat down, and a waitress takes their order and brings their drinks. It isn’t long before the little boy starts grumbling.

Boy: “Mum, toilet!”

Mum: “Mmm, in a minute.”

Boy: “Nowwwwwwww!”

Mum: “Wait.”

Boy: “No, nowwwwwwww!”

This back and forth continues as the boy gets louder and louder while both women are staring at their phones. Eventually, an angelic waitress appears.

Waitress: “Hi, guys, shall I take him downstairs to the toilet? Or I can show you where it is?”

Mum: “Yeah, great. [Boy], go with the lady.”

They’re gone for a bit and the boy is then brought back up, holding the waitress’s hand. All is calm for about five minutes before he suddenly starts screaming in a high-pitched whine. The sudden noise makes all of the tables stop their conversations and stare at the boy.

We all wait for the two adults to do something, but both are still staring at their phones. The mum is taking photos of her pretty frappe and doesn’t seem to notice. After a few minutes of intermittent screaming, the waitress reappears.

Waitress: “Hey, buddy, how’s your drink?”

The boy suddenly stops screaming but carries on, sobbing and hiccupping.

Boy: “I-I-it’s okay.”

Waitress: “Can I get you anything else? Is it okay if I get him a cupcake or something?”

Mum: “Mmm, yeah, he can have whatever.”

The waitress gives him a cupcake, and he slowly starts eating it so there’s a few minutes of silence before the screaming starts up again. Another table of guests gets up, looking irritated, and leaves. Once again, the waitress seems to be hoping for the adults with the boy to intervene before she steps forward again. This time, she doesn’t even speak to the Mum.

Waitress: “Hey, buddy, do you want to see something cool?”

He nods silently.

Waitress: “Okay, come see. We’re about to ice a cake!”

She takes his hand and leads him behind the counter. The adults are seemingly taking selfies and photos of their cakes because they don’t acknowledge he’s left. They’re gone a little while. When they come back out, the waitress has given him a cloth and he’s helping her clean empty tables while she sprays them with cleaner. She’s doing a great job of keeping him distracted, but eventually, she gets called away, so she takes him back to his table where he promptly begins screaming again.

This time, a manager approaches.

Manager: “Hey, how is everything?”

Other Woman: “Yeah, good.”

Manager: “Great, I’m glad to hear it. Could I please ask that while you’re enjoying your food, though, your son just keeps his voice down? It’s a small space and the noise carries.”

Mum: “Yeah, yeah…”

Predictably, this does not work, and he’s soon screaming again.

Manager: “Hey, fella, I hope you’re not feeling too sad. We don’t like tears in here!”

The boy smiles and wipes his eyes a bit.

Manager: “Okay, remember to use your inside voice.” *Whispers* “Like thissss.”

It lasts a couple of minutes before the screaming starts again. The manager wearily approaches, and the mum stands up suddenly, snapping her fingers.

Mum: “Fine, fine. Give us a to-go box; we’re leaving.”

They left quickly with no thank-you to the waitress who had babysat her son for most of the meal. We asked later, and the manager had apparently added an extra service charge onto what they did pay.

My immunocompromised husband works for the library, which means working for fundraising events. Donors come in the evening, have some hors d’oeuvres, and hear a speaker or look at some rare/old materials pulled from the archives — and yes, that person holding the tray is a librarian!

During most of the health crisis, they’ve suspended in-person events like this, but recently they’ve started up a modified version with no food and a mask requirement.

At the first new event, most of the donors follow the rules, but one man walks in masked and then slips it off. And then, of course, he all but dares the staff to say something by walking up to them and starting up conversations. Finally:

Husband: *Coldly* “No.”

Donor: “What?”

Husband: “I’m not talking to you.”

Donor: “Excuse me? Why?”

Husband: “Because you aren’t wearing a mask!”

Donor: “Did you not hear that the governor is lifting the mask mandate—”

Husband: “Did you hear that the library is lifting its mask mandate? Because I get emails about every policy change like that, and I didn’t see one saying no more masks. If you got a message about it from the library that I missed, I would love to see it.”

Donor: “The other staff didn’t—”

Husband: “I don’t care what the other staff did. I’m not standing here inhaling everything that comes out of your mouth.”

This continues, the donor blustering and my husband staying firm and (let it be said) very unfriendly to this patron of the library.

My husband’s boss, a sweet old woman in her seventies, comes over to see what the hubbub is.

Boss: “What’s going on here? Why are you talking to him like that?”

Husband: “This guy keeps pulling his mask off when he thinks you aren’t looking.”

She turns to the donor.

Boss: “Put on the f****** mask.”

Related:
An Ugly Side Of Society Has Been Unmasked, Part 22
An Ugly Side Of Society Has Been Unmasked, Part 21
An Ugly Side Of Society Has Been Unmasked, Part 20
An Ugly Side Of Society Has Been Unmasked, Part 19
An Ugly Side Of Society Has Been Unmasked, Part 18

I work at a chain of car dealerships. We’ve been having problems with errors in customer data input — wrong names (angering customers), wrong addresses (leading to returned service reminder letters and customers angry they weren’t reminded), and wrong phone numbers (customers angry nobody called them to say their car was ready).

To solve this, we start running basic checks on the data entered every day, and to encourage our colleagues to up their game, we run a competition: the most accurate dealership in the chain each month gets a prize. And it is a good one; management seems serious about this. The staff members doing the input get cash. The other staff members who might also collect data get a bottle of good wine each. The service and sales teams get points that lead to a Christmas bonus. It is a really good deal, considering that the minimum it asks is typing a name and address correctly.

After four months, there are some stand-out members of the chain. One even appoints a member of staff to check data entry each evening to make sure it is correct. That staff member is delighted, having complained of being bored on her evening shift.

But one of the sites is consistently bottom. They never win; they are never even close. And the staff there start to get annoyed at this.

As the database administrator for the dealership chain, I make a point of visiting each site once a month to see if there are any issues or improvements the users need. As the time for the fifth month of prizes comes round, my boss goes on holiday.

I do my rounds of the dealership sites. I get good feedback from each of them, some useful enhancements that the staff wants, and a really good list of bugs and “features” that they can live without. I thank them all. Honestly, the feedback is so very useful, and everybody, including me, will benefit from the updates I can do from it.

The failing site also contributes, and their additions are just as useful. But as I am leaving, the managing director — the top man at the site — calls me into his office.

Managing Director: “The results from here aren’t good enough.”

Me: “I agree. But we can work on it. With a bit of effort, maybe tweaking the prizes, we can—”

Managing Director: “No. The results from here aren’t good enough and it’s your fault.”

Me: “Oh, do your people need more training? I can easily arrange that. I’m sorry if they haven’t—”

Managing Director: “No. It’s your fault. You need to change.”

Me: “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

Managing Director: “You need to change things so that we win each month. If you don’t, I’ll get you sacked. [My Boss] isn’t here, so you’re f***ed.”

Me: “This is entirely inappropriate. I’m leaving.”

Managing Director: “If you leave without swearing you’ll make us win each month, my mechanics will have you beaten up and [My Boss] will agree.”

Me: “I’m leaving now.”

I walk out and call human resources. I explain what happened.

Human Resources Rep: “Well, it would be easier for everybody if you just did as he asked, wouldn’t it?”

And they hang up.

Obviously, I quit there and then, only to get phone calls from senior human resources begging me to return. They arrange a conference with me and the managing director. He denies everything he said and loftily announces:

Managing Director: “We’ll agree to disagree on what I actually said.”

I told him to go fornicate with himself.

Oddly, the company, with no prompting, paid me the statutory redundancy pay-off — a month’s pay for each year with them — plus extra and gave me a glowing reference, and they gave me and my husband a free slap-up dinner at a local very expensive restaurant.

The managing director left his job a month later to “explore other opportunities,” and the group itself dramatically collapsed a few months later when the sponsoring car manufacturer pulled their contract… because the data they were getting was suddenly so poor.