I work IT for a big retail company, but we’re internal support only. We don’t support customers at all. One night, I get a call from a woman. Based on what she’s saying, it sounds like the register isn’t allowing her to process the return.

Me: “Okay, before I can look into that, I need your employee number.”

The caller then EXPLODES at me.

Caller: *Yelling* “Why do I have to give you my employee number? I don’t have an employee number! Do you have an employee number?”

I’m confused, since I still think she works here.

Me: “Um, yes, I do.”

Caller: “Oh, now you’re going to get sassy with me? Why do you have an employee number?”

Me: “Because I work for [Company]?”

Caller: *Seems to get even madder* “Don’t you take that tone with me! You know what you need to do? You need to stop talking, sit down, open your ears, and pretend you’re happily employed, and you need to help me, now!”

Me: “I’m going to have to put you on hold for a moment.”

Caller: “Don’t you put me on hold! You need to help me, right now!”

I put the phone on hold in the middle of her speech and turned to a coworker for help. He told me to call our on-call manager and conference them in/transfer the call. Before I could reach out, she ended the call. I immediately sent a message to my manager explaining what had happened. I also looked through my call logs and found that the call seemed to have come from our customer care team.

A couple of days later, my manager pulled me aside and told me what was going on. Apparently, that woman was a serial returner; she always has issues with something. She’d apparently purchased something on an account that was tied to her daughter’s name, and because of this, there were issues.

She’d apparently started dialing random numbers and had eventually gotten to an admin for the CEO.

Luckily, no one thought it was my fault, even though she was doing her best to blame everything on me, although I think that was just because mine was the only name she remembered.

I did have to go over the story with him just because he wasn’t able to get it out of her. Then, our customer care manager came over and thanked me for handling it in any way, and then explained that the gal who’d transferred it was new and had thought, like I had, that she was a salesperson having issues with the register itself.

Related:
Returner Burner: The Store Card Scandal
A Different Kind Of Returner Burner
Returner Burner, Part 8
Returner Burner: International Edition
Returner Burner: On Location

I am putting away stock when an older woman comes in. My colleague greets her and asks her if she needs any help. She doesn’t even look at him and says:

Customer: “No, I don’t want your help. This girl is going to help me. She will help me. This girl. Her.”

Me: “What can I help you with?”

Customer: “Do you work here?”

I don’t wear a uniform.

Me: “Yes, ma’am, I do. What can I do for you?”

Customer: “I’m looking for hair stuff. It’s in a can. For roots.”

We don’t have many things that match that vague description and I show her to them. 

Customer: “No, it’s not those. I paid $12. Where are they?”

Me: “Those are the only root sprays we have.”

Customer: “I know I got it here. Yesterday. Last week. What about those?”

She points to the wild hair colors; green, blue, etc. 

Me: “Those aren’t for roots. And they don’t match your hair color.”

She ignores me and walks down to look at them. She grabs a bottle. 

Customer: “This is it. What color is it? Wait, it’s in my purse.”

I try to explain that it is hair glitter and not root coverup. 

She shoves the bottle at me and empties her large purse onto the floor. A can falls out; it is the right brand but a different color. I grab the right one off the shelf and hand it to her. 

Customer: “Is that the right color? Are you sure? What color is it?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, they are the same.”

Customer: “How do you know?”

Me: “They have the same color name.”

Customer: “Is it the right one? Okay. Go get me the other one I put back.”

I bite my tongue and grab it for her. Hoping that will be the end of it. She walks away without saying a word so I go back to what I was doing. Later, I hear her yelling:

Customer: “GIRL! GIRL! I NEED YOUR HELP! COME HERE!”

I take a deep depth and go to where she is. She is standing in front of the coolers filled with drinks. 

Customer: “Go get me orange juice. Big one and a little one.”

Me: “They are at the other end if you would like to pick the ones you like.”

Customer: “No, you get them.”

She has not looked at me the whole time she has been giving me orders. I roll my eyes and get them for her. I start to walk away. 

Customer: “Girl. I’m done; you have to ring me up.”

Me: “No, I don’t. There is a gentleman up there that will be happy to help you.”

I continue to walk away. I go to the stockroom to take a moment before getting back to my work. 

After she leaves, I talk to the man that rang her up. She complained the whole time how rude I was. She thanked him for being so nice and told him that must be why he’s the manager. He tried to explain that he was just the clerk.

She gets home and calls to complain about my behavior. I answer the phone and tell her I am the manager. That makes her very mad. The last thing I hear before I hang up is her yelling:

Customer: “You’re a girl! You’re not smart enough to be the boss!”

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.