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You Being A Doctor Doesn’t Make Us Telepathic

, , , , | Right | September 27, 2021

I work at an academic library. We are currently closed to the public. We have one bathroom upstairs for library patrons only. There is a public bathroom just around the corner on the school part of the building, and it’s actually closer and easier to get to than our library bathroom as it’s on the same floor and has an automatic door. Throughout the day, we see many people from various different departments, nearby schools, etc.

A patron walks in, wearing a mask and dressed very casually. I’m sitting in my office but I can hear everything going on from there. The man clears his throat pointedly.

Male Visitor: “Where is the bathroom?”

Female Coworker: “Let me show you where the public bathrooms a—”

He cuts her off.

Male Visitor: “Is the library bathroom broken?”

Female Coworker: “N-No. But let me show you where the pub—”

He cuts her off once more, deepening his voice.

Male Visitor: “IS THE LIBRARY BATHROOM BROKEN?”

My coworker finally convinces him to let her show him the public bathrooms. He comes back. This time our boss is also here. The visitor jabs his finger at my coworker.

Male Visitor: “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Dr. [Male Visitor]. I donate a lot of money to this school. I know [Person high up at the school]. Next time I ask you to use your bathroom, YOU LET ME USE YOUR BATHROOM!”

He glares at them both, turns on his heel, probably propelled by the panicked breathing of my coworker, and leaves. My two coworkers are standing there, shocked.

Our Boss: “It’s okay, don’t worry. I’ll let [Head Of Libraries] know what happened in case he reports you. I have your back.”

Maybe my coworker should’ve asked if he was affiliated with the school. But our next visitor after that was a person of the public who was looking for a different building and looked just as professional or authoritative as the rude guy. We can’t recognize everyone. But now we’ll definitely remember him.

Also, apparently, he had told my coworker that he had come from the same part of the building as the bathrooms AND had already walked past them to get to us.

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Don’t School Zones Have Speed Limits?!

, , , , , | Legal | September 26, 2021

I live near a school. [Woman #1] must live nearby; we regularly see her in her mobility scooter or the scooter parked outside one of the takeaways. She is a bit of a menace on it; she drives around at full pelt everywhere, on and off the road, in and out of people, and she gets very aggressive and defensive if you dare to call her out on it.

As the schools are letting out, I walk by and see an accident. I go over to see if I can help.

When I get there, a boy is still on the ground and [Woman #1] is sat on her scooter, arms folded, arguing with a woman who doesn’t appear to be the boy’s mother.

Woman #1: “He should look where he is going.”

Boy: *Through tears* “I wasn’t even going anywhere.”

Woman #1: *Shouting* “I need to go to the doctor! People like you need to watch where you are going!”

Woman #2: “Don’t shout at him! Even if he got in your way, you were going way too fast.”

Boy: *Sobbing* “I didn’t! I didn’t get in her way.”

I spot a teacher and wave him over.

Teacher: “[Boy], what happened? Are you okay?”

Me: “He was stood on his bike when [Woman #1] crashed into him. She saw him and didn’t even try to slow down.”

Woman #1: “Lies! You’re just picking on me!”

Me: “I’m sure there are a dozen other people who saw the same thing I did. Might want to call someone; this isn’t the first accident she has caused.”

[Woman #1] continued to shout at me, the teacher, the boy, and the other woman for some time. Eventually, the boy’s mum turned up at the same time as the police. The teacher and I each gave a statement, and they asked a few onlookers who told them what they saw.

I can only guess that the mum didn’t press charges, but [Woman #1] lost her scooter, and the world is at least slightly safer for everyone in the school and neighbourhood.

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Keep On Strolling Right Out Of Here

, , , | Right | September 25, 2021

I was checking out an older black lady who brought up a floor model of a baby stroller.

Me: “Unfortunately, due to safety concerns and store policy, we are not able to sell the floor model. We don’t have any more in the store, but it looks like [Nearby Location] has one.”

Customer: *Rudely* “I shouldn’t have to drive somewhere else to get a stroller! You’re just holding this floor model for one of your white friends to buy. My sick dog needs this stroller, you racist! I’m going to post all over social media how racist you are, and you’re going to go viral!”

Me: *Shrugging* “Well, do what you gotta do, but you’re still not getting this stroller.”

She left, and she never came back, thankfully.

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Do You Ever Wish You Could Fire A Customer?

, , , | Right | CREDIT: redheadactress | September 24, 2021

I work in a furniture store as the office manager. A woman recently placed an order with us that is over $12,000. She is moving into a new home, but it won’t be ready until September at the earliest. She didn’t have the address at the time of purchase but knew the area was close to her mother’s house, so we used her mother’s address for a place filler. That’s fine; we can hold the items up to a year, and as long as the new address is on the same route, we can change it fairly easy. Her mother has been a customer of ours before and has always been known for being a little crazy. The salesperson put both of them under the same account. Ugh.

One day, I get a call from the mother. We are exchanging a table base for her. She starts yelling at me.

Mother: “Your delivery drivers won’t pick up my table base because someone at your company is a moron. Why the h*** would you send a separate truck to pick up? D*** it, I just want to be done with your company!”

Me: “Okay, let me lo—”

Mother: “Is anyone there competent at all?”

OH, H*** NO!

Me: “Let me see what is going on, then.”

I look up her account and see that my boss put it on the delivery for her daughter.

Me: “Okay, let me reach out to distribution and—”

Mother: “D*** IT, I AM DONE WITH YOU G**D*** COMPANY! I DO NOT WANT THEM HERE ANYMORE…”

She proceeds to go on and on.

Me: “Ma’am, the longer you keep me on the phone, the longer it is going to take me to resolve the issue.”

Mother: “AND ANOTHER THING! WHY THE H*** ARE YOU DELIVERING MY DAUGHTER’S FURNITURE TO MY HOUSE IN JUNE?! I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN! CHANGE THE D*** ADDRESS. MY GOD, YOU ARE INCOMPETENT! SHE’S NOT EVEN CLOSING UNTIL SEPTEMBER!”

Me: “At the time of purchase, your daughter didn’t have an address, so we used yours. Second, we can only schedule out three months in advance. The system prevents that. Third, the table base will be picked up today, but only if I can get off the phone with you and call distribution.”

Mother: “UGH… FIIIINE! JUST AS LONG AS I DON’T HAVE TO SEE YOUR TRUCKS AGAIN! YOU KNOW, THIS IS THE FOURTH TIME THEY HAVE DELIVERED THIS JUNK! I HOPE MY DAUGHTER DOESN’T HAVE THE SAME ISSUE I DID! UGH!”

Me: “I’ll call you back.”

I hang up and get on the phone with distribution; they pick up the base. I call the mother again to tell her.

Mother: “They already left, okay?” *Hangs up*

Me: “Okay…”

The next day, the daughter calls. I brace myself, but I never expected this.

Daughter: “My name is [Daughter] and my father’s wife called the other day and then texted me all freaked out about a delivery that’s going to her house in June.”

I start mentally beating my head against the wall.

Me: “Ah, yes. I informed your mother — sorry, your dad’s wife — that we are only able to schedule things three months out at a time. The system literally will not let us schedule any further. I also informed your mom at the time — or your father’s wife — that at the time you purchased you never provided us an address so we just used hers.”

Daughter: “Ah! Okay, that makes much more sense.”

She gives me the information I need, I change it, and everything is good.

Me: “All right, we are good to go now. And the reason we are scheduling a date and pushing it out is that the supplies and the merchandise are being delayed significantly due to the health crisis; we are holding any items that we can to make sure that by the time you do need them, you will have them. I know that you are not closing until September, so we will keep pushing the date back until September, and we’ll check in with you then.”

Daughter: “Thank you very much. I am so sorry about my dad’s wife. She’s a batty nut job. She drives me nuts. She’s been married to my dad since I was ten and she and I have had our issues over the years.”

She goes on for another fifteen minutes. A customer approaches the desk, thank God.

Me: “I am sorry to cut you off, but I do have another client I need to assist. I am glad we could get that taken care of.”

Daughter: “Thank you, [My Name]. And don’t pay attention to what that crazy woman says. There was nothing wrong with the other tables; she’s just insane.”

She hung up, and all I could do was laugh.

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Hmm, Wonder Why His Girlfriend Left Him

, , , , , | Right | September 24, 2021

As a teenager, I score a job at an international retailer’s store straddled between two highways. It attracts all sorts of interesting people.

A few months in, right after I have turned eighteen, I am tending the fifteen-items-or-less lane when a man in his late twenties approaches with a mini-cart packed full of puréed baby food — we’re talking at least thirty to forty jars. Being that it’s a slow day and I hate confrontation, I smile and started scanning him through.

After a very enthusiastic greeting in response, this man starts talking about his day, his ex-girlfriend, the baby he shares with her, and how tough it is being a single dad. Though it’s a lot of personal information, I figure he needs to talk, so I smile and nod and mmm-hmm along with him. He leans in over the register conspiratorially.

Customer: “You know, I once beat up a man so badly he went to the hospital. And I don’t remember a thing. All I remember is being filled with so much rage that I blacked out, and when I woke up, my friends were pulling me off of him. I guess I’m some kind of psychopath when you piss me off, huh?”

I go silent, not sure if he’s kidding or high. We’re in the heart of meth country, and I’ve heard a few wild stories from my coworkers. He just smiles at me and nods as if to reinforce his point. I scan his last few items as quickly as I can, put his bags in his cart, and tell him his total.

As he swipes his card, he looks me over and smiles.

Customer: “You’re really cute. I’ll have to remember to come through your line.”

He came back that night to pick up some groceries, and this time, he made a point to beeline straight to where I was now manning a busy, full-sized register at the tail end of my twelve-hour shift.

In a store with eight quick-checks, he chose the longest line possible — the tobacco register — even though he had well under fifteen items. He didn’t ask for smokes and left just as quickly as he’d arrived.

He came back again on my next shift, and the one after that, and the one after that. More than once, I got to hear the story of how he was “some kind of psychopath” again, with additional anecdotes about how he “might even be an undiagnosed schizophrenic” and “could beat someone up without a second thought.”

He’d tell me about the latest anime he was watching and why it was twisted and creepy, which action figures he liked to fantasize about killing each other in gruesome ways, and how he took pleasure in slaughtering all of his friends online in various video games. In a vacuum, his speech might have been harmless — I myself enjoy violent video games and other media — but combined with his seeming desire to share the joys of beating people up and joking about having serious, untreated mental illnesses, eighteen-year-old me started to feel uneasy as soon as he walked in the door, to the point where I tried to get out of every conversation as quickly as possible.

But it didn’t matter how I engaged. If I was friendly and tried to change the subject, he’d swing back around to violence. If I was silent and smiling, he took that as approval. If I was quiet and focused on my work, he talked even faster to impart more details of his fantasy life into my own.

Finally, after two months of him coming through my register at least once every shift, if not two or three times, I started volunteering to take abandoned items back to their shelves so I could avoid him. And it worked, for a time… until one of my fellow cashiers pulled me aside on a break and told me that the guy had been asking my coworkers for the schedule of the “cute cashier who always checks me out.”

At that point, I’d had enough. I talked to my manager and told them I thought I was being stalked, and even if I was not, this man made me very uncomfortable and was flirting aggressively with one of their youngest employees.

I’m not sure what happened after that; I wasn’t on shift the next time he came in, but I didn’t see that man again for almost a year. At that point, I had already put in my two weeks’ notice, so I nodded through his, “I remember you! Do you remember me? I’m the guy who…” speech, wished him a good day, and never saw him again. 

Thank God.

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