A woman with an extremely aggressive husband comes into the warehouse and picks out a storage ottoman they want.

The storage ottomans are a frustrating item, as the metal mechanisms that allow the lid to be opened and shut make them extremely heavy, needing at least two people to lift it.

The naturally-aggressive douchebag husband flat-out refuses to pay delivery for his ottoman he’s just purchased.

Husband: “We’ll just pick it up.”

Yeah, right, buddy… more like, “We will drive our small car round back and your warehouse staff can do it.”

The husband and wife conclude the sales process in store and the sales associate passes a copy of the paperwork onto me.

I scan it over and make sure they’ve ticked off and signed off on the terms and conditions:

“All clearance sales are final. All clearance sales are ‘as is.’ Warehouse staff and sales staff are not covered under any insurance for loading or unloading customer’s goods. Customers are responsible for the pickup of any items they purchase.”

The customer pulls their car round… and it’s a smallish car, but should be fine.

The husband walks over and I show him where his freshly-bagged ottoman is and hand him a trolley.

Husband: “What’s that for?”

Me: “To load your ottoman, sir.”

Husband: “No, no, no, you’re doing it.”

Me: “There’s two of you, sir; you’ll be fine.”

Husband: “Well, then, I’m cancelling my order and filing a complaint against your company.”

I just sigh. I don’t want to cost this salesperson a sale, but my gut is trying to tell me something.

I quickly go into the office and grab a release form which we use for anyone picking up clearance, but I make a few handwritten notes of my own.

I bring the paperwork back out and show it to the customer.

Me: “Sir, could you fill out your full name and contact details, initial these handwritten comments, and sign this release?”

Husband: “Why?”

Me: “It just says that you’re happy to have me help you load up your ottoman and that if anything happens, you won’t hold us liable.”

Husband: *Smirks* “Wow, you guys sure take things seriously.”

I just smile as he signs the document. I pass it to my offsider, asking him to make a few photocopies for the sales associate, the manager, the area manager, and the general manager.

The wife grabs one end along with her husband and I grab the other end. We all lift it up and begin walking it toward the trunk of the car. The wife seems fine but the husband is struggling. He keeps asking to put it down so he can take a break.

We pick up the ottoman again, and as we are just about to reach the car, the husband lets go of his end, the lounge tips to the right, I lurch forward, and the ottoman smashes into the back of their car, taking out the right tail light.

The wife immediately starts laughing as the husband loses his s***. He is inspecting the damage and is looking at me with wild eyes, wanting me to offer him an admission of guilt.

I calmly stand there as they load up their ottoman and drive away.

The next day, the husband calls the store:

Husband: “I am filing a lawsuit against the company for damages!”

He provides human resources and the head office with excessive estimates. Immediately, I am called into the board room upstairs. There’s the general manager, the manager, an HR representative, and a legal representative who is there for the shareholders.

General Manager: “We’re not risking a lawsuit. We’re going to pay for this guy’s car.”

Without a word, I take out the document the customer signed. I hand it to the HR rep, who hands it to the general manager.

Me: “The customer signed off on a release form after I explained that the company didn’t cover or expect me to load his goods. The customer clearly stated here that if I helped him, he was absolving me of any liability, including vehicle damage.”

The general manager handed the document over to the lawyer, who scanned it. His face changed; he knew they couldn’t do anything.

I work in the meat department of a grocery store. It is 9:00 pm, we have just closed, and my coworkers and I are cleaning up and tearing down the equipment for the night.

We notice there is still one lady wandering the aisles, but we think nothing of it as there are often one or two customers finishing up their shopping at that time. At 9:15, I look up to see the lady standing at the counter expecting to be served. My assistant manager and I look at each other and he sighs.

Assistant Manager: “Ma’am, unfortunately, the meat counter has closed.”

Customer: “I want [items].”

Luckily, all she wants are a couple of things and we haven’t yet covered up the meat case for the night.

After she walks away, we continue cleaning. Fast forward to 9:45. An assistant taps me on the shoulder and points towards the aisles. The lady is still wandering around. At this point, it is getting ridiculous, but unfortunately, due to company policy, we are not allowed to ask a customer to leave as long as they enter the store before nine. Apparently, she entered right as the grocery assistant was locking the door.

At ten, the grocery assistant stops by to tell an amazing story:

Grocery Assistant: “The lady finally got around to checking out, halfway through the cashier’s computer auto-shutoff at ten, exactly one hour after we closed. None of us have ever experienced this as the cashier system has never been left on that long before.”

Me: “So what did they do?”

Grocery Assistant: “We’re not allowed to turn the system back on until the next day, so there was nothing we could do! They had to tell the lady that she would not be able to get her groceries that she spent an hour after we closed shopping for. She had a tantrum, screaming about how she has to go to [Big Box Store], and swearing at us all.”

I personally don’t believe in Karma, but if it does exist, this is a perfect example. As I was leaving, she was still in the parking lot bawling, with the assistant there trying to calm her down.

Related:
Not Very Closed Minded, Part 40
Not Very Closed Minded, Part 39
Not Very Closed Minded, Part 38
Not Very Closed Minded, Part 37
Not Very Closed Minded, Part 36

When I am a graduate student, I go to my university’s health clinic for routine HIV screening. My personal history is very low risk, but I am a sexually active gay man, and the CDC recommends testing of all MSM — men who have sex with men — every three to six months.

The testing at this clinic involves making an appointment, filling out a questionnaire, talking with a counselor, getting blood drawn, and then talking with a counselor again a week later. All of the counselors are, themselves, graduate students in either physical or mental health programs; most of them are not really prepared for a patient who can quote health statistics from the most recent literature on population-level studies of HIV-positive individuals in high-income countries.

The first few times are fine, though the counselors clearly are a bit surprised to be dealing with someone who hasn’t had drunken unprotected sex and is now worried about it, but is just there for routine testing.

Then, I have the Awful Counselor.

Awful Counselor: “When were you last tested?”

Me: “Either four or five months ago. I know it was in [Month], but I don’t remember if it was at the beginning or end of the month.”

Awful Counselor: “How many sexual partners have you had since then?”

Me: “One partner in that time frame, oral sex only.”

Awful Counselor: “Is this a new partner?”

Me: “No. I’ve had sex with him before, too. He’s one of my four partners so far in my life.”

Awful Counselor: “So, why are you here?”

Me: “Because health authorities recommend regular testing for any sexually active MSM?

Awful Counselor: “But you were here less than six months ago. No one should be tested more often than once a year unless they’re doing something they shouldn’t be.”

Me: “Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t the CDC specifically say that any sexually active MSM should be tested every three to six months?”

Awful Counselor: “Yes, but that’s wrong. It clearly shouldn’t be more often than once a year.”

She then rants about why people should get tested less often.

Me: “Well, okay, but I’m going to follow the CDC recommendations here. I trust them.”

Awful Counselor: “And you list yourself as low-anxiety?”

Me: “Yes. I know from my personal history that my odds of having contracted HIV are very low. But, there’s value from a public health standpoint if there’s more widespread compliance with recommended testing protocols.”

Awful Counselor: “Well, no one with the history you list would be here if they’re not anxious. So, either you are high-anxiety or this is not your accurate history. And that makes me wonder what else you’re lying about.”

Me: “Excuse me? You’re… accusing me of lying because I’m following CDC guidelines?”

Awful Counselor: “It’s possible that it’s not intentional on your part. But there’s no way everything you’ve said is true.”

Me: “You have literally no way to know that. And it’s also not even remotely your job to determine that. We’re done here.”

I left her office, told the secretary that the counselor hadn’t given me my paperwork for the blood draw, and went down to get the draw. I also grabbed a comment card and filled out how ludicrous and inappropriate the counselor was. For the rest of my time as a student there, I asked for a different counselor if I was assigned to the Awful Counselor. I don’t know how she kept that job.

I work in a bookstore where I am on cafe duty with a coworker, a teenage girl with very red hair. I am behind the counter while she buses tables and checks on customers. A regular, a middle-aged man who has always given off creepy vibes, is sitting by himself, “writing his novel” on his laptop. As my coworker passes him, he says something to her, and she immediately turns red and hurries behind the counter.

Me: “Did [Regular] say something rude?”

Coworker: “He asked me if my carpet matched my drapes.”

Me: “I am going to call the manager.”

Coworker: “Please don’t. The last time I complained, [Manager #1] told me I needed to toughen up, and [Manager #2] just shrugged and said he’d never said anything to her, so…”

Me: “Well, [Manager #3] is on duty tonight; let’s at least try.”

She goes in the back to call the manager and explains the situation. I keep on behind the counter with one eye on the regular. [Manager #3] comes up within ten minutes with murder in their eyes.

Manager #3: “Good evening, [Regular]! I am given to understand you were very rude to one of my employees?”

Regular: “She’s lying.”

Manager #3: “I don’t think she is; she told me that you asked her an extremely rude and inappropriate question.”

Regular: *Uncomfortably* “Little tattletale can’t take a joke.”

Manager #3: “You need to leave my store right now.”

Regular: “I’m here several times a week, and I buy things every time I’m here. I’m a member! You can’t afford to lose my business!”

Manager #3: “Oh, you’re a member? I had no idea. May I see your card, please, sir?”

The regular smugly takes out his membership card and hands it over. [Manager #3] looks at it, and then grabs a pair of scissors off the counter and cuts it in half.

Regular: “What the h***?”

Manager #3: “You are no longer a member, and you are no longer welcome in this store. I don’t need customers like you. And I am going to send your name and a description of what just happened to membership services and ensure that you will never be a member again. Get. Out.”

He left, clutching his laptop and swearing he’d “take this to the highest authority.” We never saw him again. The manager got written up for losing the store a valuable customer but said it was worth it.

This story is part of our Best Of November 2020 roundup!

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Read the Best Of November 2020 roundup!

I’m in my twenties, and this customer is in his late sixties and married. He’s a regular, and he comes off as a little creepy, but I haven’t been able to figure out WHY until today.

Customer: “Oh, look at that! It’s [My Name], all ready to go this fine morning!”

Me: “Good morning, [Customer]. What can I help you with today?”

Customer: “So efficient. So prompt. So cheerful. You’re just a shining star for this bank.”

Me: “Um… well, I don’t think that’s quite the case.”

Customer: “Come on, you can admit it.”

Me: “I’m just trying to do my job, like everyone else.”

Customer: “So you’re not one for over-the-top stuff. You must be wondering what I want from you by complimenting you so much. Well, I don’t want anything.” *Leans in* “At least, not yet.”

Me: *Scoots back* “Pardon?”

Customer: “I’d like to give you a tip. How about [amount]?”

Me: “We are not allowed to accept tips.”

Customer: “Sure you are. I’ll just leave it right here, and oops, it’s yours!”

He actually does pull cash out of his wallet and lay it on my desk.

Customer: “Now I’ll walk away.”

Me: “[Customer], this is a bank. We’re a federally regulated institution. Tips of any kind are considered bribery, and that’s a fireable offense.”

Customer: “But I didn’t tip you. You found it. And you decided to keep it. Got it?”

Me: “Since I saw you take it out of your wallet, and the camera over my head saw you take it out of your wallet, I’d just put it right back in your account. That’s how it works.”

He grumbles, shoves the cash back in his wallet, and walks out the door.

Coworker: “What the h*** was that?”

Me: “He just tried to tip me or something. I don’t know. It was so weird.”

I stopped helping him after that. My coworkers took care of him. After a few instances of this, he complained that I was ignoring him and would sit in the lobby and stare at me when I walked by. He even followed me out of the parking lot at closing one night.

I made it known that his behavior was getting progressively creepier, but no one could do anything, since he hadn’t actually touched or threatened me.

It all came to a head when I filled in at a branch in another town. He followed me over there. The employees at that branch, who’d heard the story, sent me into a back room and didn’t let me come out until he was gone. I found another job not long after that.