Many years ago, I worked for a large US corporation that had multiple functions scattered among several companies. During a downturn in the business, management decided to merge teams from different units for “efficiency.” No thought was given to the possibility of culture clashes.

At the time, I was a professional doing specialized technical work in a small group. Our new manager came to see me and told me I was their choice to lead a team formed from three units performing four distinct functions. I had trepidations but my options were to take the job or a layoff, so I became a middle manager.

Among the people working for me was the man who had previously been my supervisor; that had its moments but it was far from the worst part of the job. The worst was trying to deal with two unionized groups from different companies.

In a previous career, I had been a union member, and I understand the value unions have had in getting the American workplace forty-hour workweeks and other benefits. Initially, I had no qualms about dealing with them.

This is about one woman in particular whom I shall refer to as Trashy McTrash. 

Trashy wasn’t a meth addict and didn’t live in a trailer, but otherwise, the moniker fit. She had a cheap blonde dye job, wore clothing inappropriate for her age — mid-fifties — and was a heavy smoker. Union negotiations allowed for three ten-minute smoke breaks per day; by noon on Tuesdays, she’d exceeded her week’s allowance. She stridently demanded promotions but if I gave her a task that was a bit complicated, she’d refuse, saying it was a Level Two job and she was only a Level Three. Her phone time was over the top on personal calls.

Why didn’t we terminate her? Thank union contracts. Plus, she was just one issue among many and she was skilled at tiptoeing up to the line but not crossing it. 

And then she got remarried.

My last name is moderately uncommon, somewhere near the bottom third of US names, so it surprised me when Trashy’s new husband had the same last name. She took his name, so instead of being Trashy McTrash, she was now Trashy [My Last Name]. 

This was mildly interesting, albeit slightly annoying, until people began asking me if she and I were married! Professionalism prevented me from saying what I really thought of her — especially the smoking; three family members have died from the habit — so I simply corrected the questioners. Then, I got a call from HR.

Apparently, there is a company rule against supervising spouses and he started in about having my “wife” on my team. I managed not to gag and rather stridently corrected his assumption but told him if he really wanted to replace me, I’d be more than happy to stand aside.

Sadly, that was a non-starter and I had to finish out two and a half years in the job.

A large black man stumbles in, clearly under the influence, and goes straight to the counter where I am.

Customer: “I want a footlong on white bread with everything on it.”

Me: “Uh… like all veggies?”

Customer: “Yes, that, too! Now gimme all the meat and all the cheese!”

Me: “Is this a joke? Y’know it would be very expensive to order every meat and cheese, right?”

The man then slams his fist on the counter, making me jump along with the other customers behind him.

Customer: “I know very well what I want! You calling me stupid?! You racist whore!”

Me: “Sir, calm down. I never said I wouldn’t serve you because of your skin, nor was I rude. I’m just surprised; that’s all.”

I make this man his very large sandwich. It takes a long time to make because I have to cook all the meat and try to make it look as nice as possible. The man is cussing and complaining at me the whole time and whining about his wait.

Me: “All right, sir, this sandwich is extremely messy because I couldn’t close the bun due to how many items are on it.”

I ring him up and his total is over a hundred dollars.

Customer: “Are you kidding me?! I am not paying that much for one sandwich! I got this sandwich before and it was never that much! You racist a**hole!”

He stormed out of the store, screaming and cussing.

Years ago, when I was still in college, the guys and I would occasionally sneak off-site to go to the pub at lunchtime — drink a few beers, play a game of pool, etc. It was normally empty at lunch as the regulars went to another less youth-orientated pub.

We arrived one day and found the place full; some sporting event was on. We weren’t that interested, so we found a corner and had something to eat and drink.

It was stupid noisy in there. One of my friends ran to his car and grabbed a remote. Being immature teens as we were, it was funny when he secretly turned down the volume, still funny when changed the channel, and a little funny when he turned it off altogether.

The problem was that our friend didn’t know when to stop, and no-one could tell him what to do.

I finished my drink and left with most of the other guys; the prospect of thirty pissed-off blokes angry at us was enough, especially now that he wasn’t even hiding the remote anymore.

We got back to college on time, but our friend was nearly an hour late.

He luckily didn’t come to any harm, but after the pub called the college, every student was banned for the rest of the year. Our friend couldn’t understand why everyone was fed up with him, or what he did wrong. Safe to say, he wasn’t invited along with us next year on lunch.

When I was in middle school, we got a new teacher who had terrible anger issues. He threw chairs, snapped clipboards in half, and threw a student‘s backpack out of the second-floor window for not paying attention. These are just a few examples; it was a long year. My experience with him was a bit more severe.

I was a disruptive child, to say the least — always talking, texting, passing notes, and playing around. For this reason, my angry teacher particularly disliked me. One day, as I was talking and distracting my friends, he snapped. He walked over to me, grabbed me up by my arm, yelled something, and then pulled me into the classroom closet and slammed the door. This closet was used for the Spanish teacher, so there was a chair, a little desk, and a desk lamp, but it was still very cramped. I figured he would let me out when class was over, so I waited. And waited. I started to get anxious, so I pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t move. He yelled at me to knock it off.

About an hour passed, and I heard the bell ring. I was so excited! I grabbed up all my things and started bouncing impatiently waiting for him to open up. Everyone left. He didn’t open the door. I started to cry and yank at the door but it wasn’t budging. Then, I heard a loud scraping noise and the lock turning, and three of my friends were there to help me escape!

When I walked out, none of them laughed or joked. They looked scared. I looked around and saw why. My teacher had locked the door and moved a shelf in front of it to ensure I couldn’t get out. He wasn’t in the room. He left me there. I would not have gotten out if not for my friends. 

I wish I could say I told the principal or my parents and something bad happened to this man, but I didn’t. I was a kid and thought I did something bad and didn’t want to get in more trouble. The most I can tell you is he lasted one more year before his temper finally got him fired.

I’m one of two concierges at a high-end hotel in Los Angeles, so most of the people I serve tend to be fairly cosmopolitan. A couple in their late fifties from Montana is definitely not. They have been at the hotel for a couple of days already, and my coworker has supplied them with a list of highly-rated restaurants in and around Beverly Hills, and at their request, managed to get them a last-minute table at a VERY celebrated Japanese restaurant last night.

It is afternoon and I see them heading over to the concierge desk, looking extremely upset. The wife is already yelling as she approaches.

Wife: “You’d better get our money back! That d*** restaurant made us pay three hundred dollars for that s*** they dare to call food!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m here to assist you in whatever way I can, but I do request you that lower your voice a little considering we’re in the lobby.”

The wife starts to sputter angrily, but the husband steps in.

Husband: “That restaurant your coworker sent us to did not serve us real food, and we were basically robbed, and I demand that we get that money back.”

Me: “I’m really sorry to hear you did not enjoy the food, sir, but the hotel cannot refund you money that you spent at an establishment not affiliated with us. I can, however, try to get you a comped meal at one of the high-end restaurants that we enjoy a continuing relationship with.”

Wife: “Fine, but it had better be real food.”

Not wanting to cause any further upset, I try to figure out what kind of food would appease them. I figure their complaint is the smaller-than-average serving sizes at high-end restaurants similar to the one they’ve been to, since this tends to be one of customers’ primary issues.

Me: “My apologies, ma’am, I just want to clarify that when you say real food you mean bigger portions?”

Wife: “No! I mean real food. Good American food, not that fruity garbage they fed us last night. This is an American city, for f***’s sake! How could they serve us all of that raw fish and expect us to eat it like we’re f****** [Asian slur]s?!”

Me: *Trying to not react* “Ma’am, I’ll have to ask you to refrain from using such derogatory language, or I will be unable to help you. I apologize if it was not made clear to you that you were requesting a table at a Japanese restaurant. I can book you a table at a restaurant that serves American pub food or a steakhouse, if those seem all right to you.”

Husband: “We shouldn’t have to work so hard to get a good burger, you know? How can people in this city survive on this ethnic s***? It’s not meant for good honest Americans to eat.”

Me: “Again, I’m sorry if your experience last night did not meet your standards. Now, should I reserve a table at the bar tonight for you two?”

Husband: “Yeah, and it had better cost as much as that dump last night. I want my money’s worth.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but this place isn’t as expensive as the Japanese restaurant you went to, and I don’t know if I can even find you a place serving burgers where your meal would cost as much as an eight-course sushi dinner.”

Wife: “This f****** city is full of idiots! [Asian slur]s & idiots! Who values this s*** over good, honest American cooking?! We should never have come here. We can’t even eat!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m gonna ask you to stop using that word and to speak at a much lower volume, or I will have to refuse to help you any further. You might not have liked the food yesterday, but you sat there and ate it and then you paid what that food costs. The hotel does not bear any responsibility for your negative experience there. Moreover, your outburst is disturbing other guests, whose experiences within the hotel we are responsible for. I can get you a reservation at a restaurant tonight, but only if you speak to me and my colleagues politely.”

Wife: “The gall of some people! Fine! Get us a table at an expensive restaurant, that doesn’t serve sushi or whatever. One of those fine-dining places, with real food.”

Me: “I’ll send you a list of places, with menus for each, so you can make sure you like the restaurant you end up going to. Just call the concierge desk once you’ve made your choice and I’ll make the booking.”

At this point, it’s of relevance that I’m of Indian descent, and I look it, while the other concierge is white.

Husband: “Actually, can the other girl make the list? I don’t want you to pick out whatever curry places you go to; we only want American food.”

I’m pretty livid at this point, but before I can react, the wife jumps in.

Wife: “Don’t worry, she came here to escape that place! She probably finds it as stinky as we do! You’ll find us proper food, right?”

I am so gobsmacked that I can’t think.

Me: “Yes, ma’am.”

I still hate myself for how I ended that conversation, but it probably saved my job. I sent the list and the menus up to their room, but they hadn’t called back by the time I left. My coworker told me she had a pretty uneventful encounter with them when she made the booking, and they seemed pretty happy with the place they ended up going to.

Related:
For The World Is Hollow And I Have Touched The Pie