(A few years ago, my brother worked in a 999 call centre, and he told us about a conversation that went roughly like this.)
Woman: “I was bathing my baby and she turned blue.”
Brother: “Where is your baby now?”
Woman: “Up in the bath.”
Brother: “On her own?”
Woman: “Yes.”
(I work in the clothing and accessories department of a big department store. A lady comes up to me with a pair of shoes.)
Customer: “Excuse me, these shoes are my size; however, one is slightly too big.”
Me: “Oh, no, can I take them for a moment and find you another pair in the same size from the stockroom, as it could be that these are defective.”
(The customer hands me the shoes for me to go and find her another pair. I take the new pair to her and she tries them on, but she still has the same issue. I then suggest she tries a different style, just to be sure of whether it’s the shoes or her feet. After trying a different style with same issue, we come to the conclusion that it’s her feet.)
Customer: “As only one fits, could I get a discount?”
Me: “Unfortunately not, because the shoes themselves are not defective.”
Customer: “But they don’t fit me!”
Me: “May I suggest some of those little stick-on heel cushions that will make the shoe a bit smaller, so that it’ll fit better?”
Customer: “Do you sell those here?”
Me: “Yes, they’re in the health and beauty department.”
Customer: “Could I get those free instead of the discount, then?”
Me: “No, because I can’t give away products for free.”
Customer: “Why not?”
Me: “Because it’s not our fault you have different-sized feet.”
Customer: “That is disability discrimination. Get me a manager.”
(A customer in a wheelchair who only has one leg has been behind her the entire time, also looking at the shoes.)
Customer #2: “I pay full-price for a pair of shoes and I can only wear one. Maybe I’ll throw my spare one at you for thinking your nasty weird feet are an actual disability.”
(The lady throws down the shoes she wants and quickly leaves.)
Customer #2: “I should have gotten her number and put her in touch with my doctor to get her weird foot amputated, and we could have shared the cost on a pair of shoes!”
(I am a travelling manager for a clothing store chain. I fill in after managers have been transferred to other stores. I cover the next three to six months while a new manager is sourced to the store before moving on to another one myself. One of the key parts of my job is turning the stores around. Nine times out of ten, the previous manager is being relocated for not following policy. This means I often have to start enforcing rules that might have previously been ignored. I’m working at one store which has had its entire management staff fired. Two church ladies walk in together.)
Customer #1: “Can I return an item from layaway? I’ve decided that I can’t really afford it.”
(The item is a dress she wanted to wear for Easter church services, and while it’s very nice, she’s found something cheaper. I agree to this, pull up her ticket, and start working through the return.)
Customer #1: “How long have you been here? Are you the new manager?”
(I explain the issue, dodging around why the previous management team were fired, and hand her back her money. [Customer #2] steps up at this point.)
Customer #2: “I also want to return my dress on layaway.”
(The process begins again. This time, however, I see that there’s going to be a snag. The company has a policy where you can place something on layaway for up to 60 days. During the first 30 days, any item on layaway can be returned for the full price you paid. From 31 days forward, you pay a restocking fee. On the 61st day, regardless of how much you have paid, the items will be restocked and your money — minus the fee — set aside. Problem one: [Customer #2] is thirty-five days in, four days past the cut-off for a full return. Problem two: [Customer #2] only put the minimum down, which, with tax, works out to about five dollars and some change. Problem three: The minimum restocking fee is five dollars. I realize this, and try to explain to the woman.)
Me: “Uh, there are some problems, just so you know. There will be a restocking fee.”
Customer #2: “Oh, that’s quite all right. I know, I read that little card of yours.”
Me: “You’re sure? I mean, it’d probably be better to pay it off and return it then.”
Customer #2: “Sweetie, I’m a lawyer; I read all the fine print.”
Me: “Well, if you’re sure.”
(I do the return, with the system forcing me to do the restocking fee automatically. It then tells me to give her all of seventy cents in change back. I hand her a card that she must sign to acknowledge that I’ve done the return. She signs it with a flourish and then holds out her hand. I drop the coins into it.)
Customer #2: “What’s this?”
Me: “It’s your return.”
Customer #2: “It’s not enough.”
Me: “It’s what you get back, after the restocking fee.”
Customer #2: *changing her tune 180-degrees* “No one told me about a restocking fee!”
Me: “You signed the paper, right under the bold black letters that warn it. You also signed the layaway ticket saying you’d read and understood the policies.”
Customer #2: “No one reads those things! I want my money!” *her voice rising at this point* “Give me my g**d*** money!”
Me: “I can’t. You signed the paper, and you said you were a lawyer and understood there would be a fee.”
Customer #2: “F*** your restocking fee! I thought it’d only be a few cents.”
Me: “The contract you signed notes the minimum fee is five dollars.”
Customer #2: *screaming and yelling* “I’m calling the police! You’re cheating me, you thief!”
(She whips out her phone and calls 911, claiming she’s just been robbed. It doesn’t take long for two police cars to pull up and the officers to head in. They try to sort out what’s going on, at first thinking I am a witness, until the woman screams that I robbed her. I calmly explain the contract to the officer, and show where she signed off on it. The police tell her that she signed the paper saying she understood and accepted the fee, so no crime was committed. What’s more, they tell her that it isn’t something to waste their time with a false 911 call for, so she is going to be getting a ticket for that. All the while, the lady is screaming at the police, and then at me.)
Customer #2: “You smug little a**, standing there with a smile on your face. You’re happy for yourself, aren’t you?”
Me: “I’ve had better days.”
Customer #2: “Always with the smart comments. Got anything else to say?”
Me: “Have you considered Jesus Christ as your own personal Savior?”
Customer #2: “F*** Christ!”
(With that, she stormed out, while the officers stood around dumbfounded. I never saw her in the store again, though the pastor stopped by about a week later to apologize for the actions of one of his flock.)
(I am running a sample table at a store, serving an artichoke dip. A young girl around 12 and her mother walk up to my stand.)
Me: “Hello! Would you like to try some artichoke dip? We are serving it with some really good crackers today.”
Young Girl: “Is it hot?”
Me: “Oh, no, we serve this cold.”
Young Girl: *rolling her eyes* “I mean is it hot, hot. Like spicy.”
Me: “No, it’s not. It’s just cream cheese, artichoke hearts, and some different seasonings.” *there is really nothing even remotely spicy in any of the ingredients*
Young Girl: *grabs a sample, barely licks it with the end of her tongue, screams, and throws the sample on the floor* “That is so hot! You liar! Liar!”
Mother: “How dare you hurt my baby?! I’m going to report you! You should have a sign that warns people when food is spicy!”
Me: “Sorry, but it’s really just cream cheese and artichokes. We do give warnings when something has anything spicy in it.”
Mother: “Are you calling my daughter a liar?”
Random Customer: “I am. Your daughter is a brat. Stop giving this lady a hard time and control your kid. This is not remotely spicy. Has she never eaten food before or something?”
Mother: “How dare you?! I’m going to report you, too!”
Random Customer: “You want to report a fellow customer? Let me know how that works out for you. I’ll be standing here ready to tell the manager exactly what really happened if you try to report this lady.”
(The mother took her daughter and stormed away, throwing another sample on the ground in the process. To my knowledge, she never reported me.)
(I do community service part-time for a local wildlife hospital. My job is mainly to clean bird cages and provide them with food, but I answer emergency phone calls when no one else is around to take them. Today, I’m about to clock out and we get a call. I accept the request to rescue a bird on the beach at the other side of town. It’s inconvenient, but rescues are usually more interesting than cleaning cages, so I accept. Halfway to the bird, I get a call back from the person who called the bird in.)
Caller: “Hello, uh, miss? I think someone’s trying to drown it.”
Me: “Maybe you should get them not to do that. I can’t give a bird CPR, and it’s not much of a rescue if it dies.”
(Ten minutes later, I got to the beach. A woman who was clearly a tourist had been dunking the poor bird in seawater because she thought it looked thirsty. While some birds actually can drink seawater without a problem, this was not one of those birds. The bird was still alive by the time I picked it up, but it was choking from the salt the whole way back to the rescue center.)
