I’m wheelchair-bound, but I find a small store that lets me work as a cashier. I have to use a chair when working, since I can’t stand. I usually have my wheelchair right next to me. For the most part, few people even notice, especially now that we have sneeze guards up that just about entirely section me away from customer areas.

I’m wearing a mask, as required, and I’m on the register that forbids me from handling cash. A middle-aged woman comes in; she isn’t wearing a mask. As she’s unloading her groceries:

Me: “Hi there!”

She doesn’t answer me, so I assume she can’t hear me. With all the guards up, I’m not surprised. 

Me: “Did you find everything you needed?”

Customer: “No! You idiots are out of toilet paper and the meat I needed!”

Me: “We can’t help that at the moment, I’m afraid.”

Customer: “Well, if you could all do your jobs, we wouldn’t be in this mess! You’re just so lazy! Can’t you hurry up?”

Me: “I’m going as fast as I can.”

The customer evidently sees my wheelchair. 

Customer: “I’m amazed you’re still alive.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Customer: “That wheelchair of yours. I figured the corona would have killed all of you cripples off.”

I say nothing. I’m far too emotional at the moment, and being on the spectrum, I know I’m prone to saying things I’ll regret later. I’ve learned to just stop talking. I finish scanning her items and give her the total. Despite the numerous “NO CASH” signs, she tries repeatedly to shove a handful of twenties into the plastic barrier. 

Me: “No cash this lane! I can only take a card or EBT.”

Customer: “Where does it say that?!”

I point to the sign right above the card reader and the sign at the end of my register. She scoffs at me. 

Customer: “So, you’re saying you won’t accept my good cash?!”

Me: “Not at this register, no.”

Customer: “This is good money! I can’t believe you’re being so rude! Just take it!” 

She forces the money under the very small gap between the register and the barrier. 

Me: “I can’t accept that. You’ll need to move to another register or pay with a card.”

Customer: “Crippled b****!”

By now, my manager has heard the commotion and has come over. Since it’s a small store that’s not part of a major chain, my managers have much more say in how to run things. Namely, they can ban people quite easily since the owners don’t interfere much.

He sees the customer pulling the sneeze guard up in order to retrieve her money, which she managed to push all the way over to my side. The barrier falls on top of me when she lets it go. I don’t anticipate it falling on me, so it makes me jump and I tumble onto the floor. Meanwhile, the customer pays with a card. 

I’m fairly small, but the tight space makes it difficult for me to get back to my chair, especially with the sneeze guard on top of me, so my manager has to help. 

Customer: *On her way out* “You know, you really shouldn’t hire rude cripples like her! She denied my cash and then made me get it myself! I want her fired!”

The manager points to the exit:

Manager: “Get out. Now. And don’t come back. You’re no longer welcome here.”

Customer: “F*** you! I hope the corona kills you all!”

We found out later that she took the liberty of stealing two of the sanitized cleaning wipes we had to clean carts and baskets, meaning we had to borrow from other departments.

My family owns a dairy restaurant. I help them out sometimes. We serve ice cream products plus burgers, fries, chicken, etc.

One night, I make a young woman a chocolate milkshake and she is not satisfied. She complains to my uncle who co-owns the restaurant.

Customer: “This milkshake is watered down!”

Uncle: “I’m sorry if you’re not satisfied. We actually don’t put water in our milkshakes, though! If you give me your milkshake, I’ll take it and make you another one.”

Customer: “Um… I don’t think I will. Can’t you just make me another milkshake and let me keep this one?”

Uncle: “I’m sorry, but anytime an order is wrong or a customer isn’t satisfied with their order, we have to take the other order back and get you a new one.”

The girl drives off with her husband. She calls and I pick up the phone

Me: “[Restaurant], this is [My Name]; how can I help you?”

Customer: “I don’t appreciate you cussing me out when the milkshake you made me was nasty! I know [Co-Owner] and I’ll tell him that you cussed me out!”

Me: “I didn’t cuss you out. I am sorry you weren’t satisfied with your order. If you had given us your old milkshake, we would have given you another one. Also, I know [Co-Owner], too, and he is my uncle. He knows I didn’t cuss you out! My family owns the restaurant.”

Customer: “Well, you have a s***ty day!” *Hangs up*

The customer is now banned from the restaurant.

I’m a waitress and we recently had a manager transferred to our restaurant. She’s nice but has a tendency to mess up orders in the kitchen, and the servers get wrong orders sent to wrong tables.

For the first couple of days, we’re a little understanding. But after a week, it keeps happening repeatedly, and we’re constantly double-checking tickets. It takes longer and customers get impatient with us, and it’s affecting our tips. 

One busy Friday night, after a few mess-ups, the manager gives us permission to double-check with her. But after two rounds of the servers asking, “Are you sure?” or, “Table number?” she gets frustrated and snaps at us.

My coworker finds a clever way to get around it by saying, “You just said table number forty-three, right?” and if it’s wrong, then she just plays it off, and if she’s right, then it makes everyone look good. So, the rest of us start following suit. 

However, even when I’m double-checking, I’m still getting wrong orders or missing something from the orders. Up until this point, I’ve been fortunate to have patient and understanding customers, but my last table yelled at me for taking too long and forgetting a few items. So, I go back to the kitchen to clarify.

Me: “Manager, table forty-three is missing some items from their order.” *Sets the receipt on the counter* “Could you please get that out to me really fast?”

Manager: “Fine, fine. In the meantime, will you take this to table twenty-one?”

Me: “I’m not opposed, but that’s not in my area and—”

Manager: “Take it to table twenty-one!”

I stand there a little shocked and start to take the plate when the waitress who has that section comes and gets it. I wait a moment longer and the manager slams down a platter of sides that I assume were for my original table, despite them not being the sides. 

Manager: “Table forty-three!”

Me: “Are you sure?”

There’s a moment of silence as the manager stares at me, appalled, and then glares, and I realize that I have let my frustration get to me. 

Manager: “You don’t need to take that attitude with me! I told you the table number!”

Me: “I’m sorry, I just wanted to be sure—”

Manager: “If you can’t tone down that attitude, you might as well go home. I have no use for sassy, disrespectful waitresses right now.”

My heart is pounding really hard and my cheeks are burning with embarrassment and anger. Half of the guests are looking at us, having heard the manager yell at me, and the other servers are staring at the two of us, waiting to see what will happen next. 

For some reason, however, I reach behind me, undo my apron, and toss it into the hamper behind the door.

Me: “Fine, then. See you tomorrow night.”

Manager: “WAIT A MINUTE! YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE IN THE MIDDLE OF DINNER RUSH!”

Now the entire restaurant is staring, and I find the courage to say:

Me: “You gave me the option, so… I’m going home.”

And, with that, I walked out the door, trying to hold my head high and not cry. 

If this doesn’t improve, I will probably put in my two weeks this next week.

I’ve parked my car and rushed to get a parking coupon from a machine. You put coins in the machine and press the “OK” button, it prints you a coupon that states how long you can park your car, and you have to put that coupon inside your car window.

I’ve just put coins in the machine and am searching for more when somebody right beside me reaches for the “OK” button. When I turn my head to see what is happening, there is an elementary school kid, nine or so and probably on his way from school, frantically pressing the “OK” button, looking at me. I just stare at him and suddenly, he runs off.

The machine processes the transaction and after a while, it prints me a ticket that has too little parking time for me to use.

My child has a severe developmental disorder requiring twenty-four-hour supervision. It’s very difficult to find workers able to meet their needs, mostly for playful interaction and adult supervision rather than anything heavy or medical. 

My kid loves the support worker we finally hire. She’s playful when she’s here, but she pulls stunts like not showing up, giving three minutes of notice, being late, and even showing up on off days saying, “I wanted the hours so I’ll work now,” as we’re headed out of the house. She’s on her phone constantly. She adds hours to her invoices, believing that if she was scheduled to work and never shows up she should be paid, and if she’s “bored” and walks out early, she should also be paid to the shift end. She’s definitely not the brightest bulb in the box.

The day comes when I’m ready to fire her, which is hard because my child loves her for some reason. The conversation doesn’t quite go as planned! 

Me: “[Worker], we need to talk about you not showing up for work.”

Worker: “You’re right!” *Enthusiastically* “I’ve been thinking about it, and I think I should have a raise!”

Me: “Why would you ask for a raise? I’m paying you a competitive hourly wage, well above the minimum. Besides, I know this might be diffi—”

I’m preparing to drop the axe, but she cuts me off.

Worker: “And I moved. Now it takes me longer to get to work—” *it doesn’t* “—so you owe me two dollars per hour more. That’s how it works. All employers have to pay employees to get to work. So, now I make [amount] an hour for twenty hours a week.” 

She confidently quotes an amount nearly ten dollars an hour over the “going” wage, and twenty hours a week when she now barely shows up for three hours a week. 

Worker: “It’s the law!”

She was gobsmacked when I fired her! Sadly, she recently got a job working full time with developmentally disabled adults at a local activity centre. Other parents tell me she’s known as “the one with the phone,” but the centre won’t fire her.

When they called me for a reference — yes, she thought I’d give her a good reference — I told it straight and the supervisor thanked me, saying with a sigh, “Well, at least she hasn’t killed anybody yet. It’s the best we can hope for, I guess.”

Sigh.