ID-on’t Know Who You Are

, , , , | Right | December 6, 2017

(I work as a hotel clerk at a large chain hotel, and am going about my business like normal when an elderly man and his wife come to check in.)

Me: “Hello! Welcome to [Hotel]. How are you today?”

Customer: “Fine. Enough with the chit-chat. My name is [Customer]; check me in.”

Me: “Absolutely, sir. I just need to see a credit card and a photo ID to check you in.”

Customer: “Excuse ME?”

Me: “Oh, just a credit card an—”

Customer: “I HEARD what you SAID. How dare you ask me for an ID?”

Me: “It’s just standard policy, sir, to protect our guests and ourselves from credit card fraud. We ask every guest, even our VIPs, for an ID at check-in.”

Customer: “In all my years of staying at [Hotel Chain] I have NEVER been asked for my ID once at check-in! Do you KNOW who I am? I know the [Chain] owners personally, and they WILL be hearing from me. You can say goodbye to your job! This is unacceptable!”

Me: “Okay, sir, that is fine, but I will still need to see an ID to check you into this room.”

Customer: “I WILL HAVE YOUR JOB!” *throws nearby magazine at me and storms off, with an embarrassed-looking wife*

(But lo and behold, I STILL HAVE MY JOB! I don’t think they were as close with their “friends” as they thought they were.)

About To Turn Yourself Upside Down

, , , , | Right | December 6, 2017

(I work at a parts store where we sometimes get some people whose mechanical knowledge is less than what they think. One particular day I get this gem of a customer.)

Me: “Hello, sir! Welcome to [Parts Store]. How can I help you?”

Customer: “I bought your best most expensive brake pads a few months ago, and now they’re shot! I’d like a refund!”

Me: “Sir, with those brake pads you get a life time warranty. There’s no need for a refund; we’ll just give you a new set.”

Customer: “Why would I want a new set if they went bad in a few months?!”

(He continues to ream me for a solid ten minutes on the poor quality of the pads. At this point, he shows me the old pads. It is VERY obvious he had no idea what he was doing, and put the pads on upside down… Neither I, nor any of my coworkers, nor guys at a competitor parts store, can figure out how he managed to put the vehicle back together with them like that.)

Me: “Sir, I can’t refund these, nor can I give you a new set. The warranty doesn’t cover improper installation.”

Customer: *now red as a tomato* “WHAT DO YOU MEAN IMPROPER INSTALLATION?!” *he then calls me all sorts of names, none short of making fun of the fact that I have long hair* “Where is your manager?!”

Manager: “How can I help you today, sir?”

(The customer replays the story, even though my manager had no trouble hearing the encounter from his office.)

Manager: “Sir, we can’t replace these pads. They were obviously installed wrong. Our warranty does not cover improper installation.”

Customer: “How do you guys have jobs? These were installed by ME! I’m a mechanic, for Christ’s sake!”

Manager: “Hey [Coworker], can you come up here for a second? Tell me what’s wrong with these pads?”

Coworker: “Looks like they were installed upside down.” *walks back to the back of the store*

Customer: *yells some more obscenities, calls us all idiots, and storms out of the store*

(Another day on the job. Please treat the parts guys with some respect. We’re trying to help you, not make your life miserable!)

You’ll Need Counseling After Their Counseling

, , , , | Right | December 5, 2017

(I’m the receptionist of a small counseling office. One of the counselors has been providing services to a married couple who have been rude from day one. They are easily one of the worst couples to come through in my time at this job, and to make matters worse, they always bring their two children, a four-year-old who clearly has no rules or boundaries, and an infant who is the only one in the family who isn’t a problem. Yet. This particular day, they only have the infant with them. I inwardly cringe when they walk in, but greet them like I do everyone else.)

Me: “Good morning! Here to see [Counselor]?”

Wife: *nods but otherwise makes no indication that she realizes I exist*

Me: “Great. Go ahead and have a seat, and I’ll let [Counselor] know you’re here.”

(While I’m paging the counselor, the baby starts to scream, and I hear the woman say that the baby has spit up. She comes up to the counter to grab some tissues and stands there cleaning up the baby. She makes no effort to move when I have to answer an incoming call, even though she’s standing with her screaming baby not even two feet from me. I’m forced to put the caller on hold and go to the other workstation, as it sounds like a crisis call and I need to be able to actually HEAR what the caller is saying so I can handle it properly. It is a crisis, and I transfer it back to the appropriate counselor.)

Me: *moving back to my workstation* “Do you need me to get you anything to help?”

Wife: *ignores me and goes to sit back down*

(The phone rang again, pulling my attention away, and the counselor got them about a minute later while I was still handling the call. When I finished, I notice that the woman left the spit-up covered tissues on the reception counter. There was a trash can literally right beneath the counter where she left them. I cleaned everything up and sanitized the hell out of the counter – and my hands – and prayed for the day when they were done with counseling.)

Your Compassion Has Been Disabled

, , , | Right | December 5, 2017

(A customer starts up a conversation as I am ringing up her items.)

Customer: “You know what I noticed?”

Me: “What, ma’am?”

Customer: “You have an awful lot of handicapped spots outside.”

Me: “I think there’s a set number of spaces required for the disabled.”

Customer: “There are just so many. Almost more than normal spaces. Not that I don’t feel bad for them, but I don’t think they really need that many. Do you?”

Me: “Bags or boxes, ma’am?”

Buy To Let To Bullet

, , , , , , | Related | December 4, 2017

My dad told me this story. When he was a kid, the family moved to a new house. After living there about three months, he distinctly remembers that one night they heard a loud bang, and the next morning, he and his siblings found a bullet hole in the mailbox. It was a great mystery for all the children as they wondered why a random person would shoot at their mailbox.

The mystery went unsolved. More than 40 years later, my grandfather developed rapid-onset dementia and had to be put in aged care. As my dad and my uncle went through his paperwork and belongings, trying to sort everything out, they came across several old documents which shed light on some interesting events that occurred at the time of his family’s move.

My grandfather, despite being a Catholic and never missing a Sunday mass, was not a very nice man. When my grandfather sold the previous property, a farmhouse, before moving to the new one, he deliberately neglected to tell the new owner of the farmhouse that the small piece of land in front of the house — the only entrance to get into the driveway — was actually private property. My grandfather had bought it from the council some years back and now owned it, and he didn’t sell that tiny bit of land to the new owner.

He then, after the sale of the house was finalised, informed the new owner that that piece of land was his, and that he’d give permission for the new owner to use it — essentially, to drive through it to reach their driveway — for a sum of $500 per year, which would be about $3000 in today’s money.

Forty years later, my dad finally understood the bullet-hole in the mailbox.

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