I’ve been working in retail for over ten years, but just once, I saw the stars align perfectly.

Our coffee store is in a major university town — think Ivy League. My coworker is working as a barista while she is in a cheaper but no less worthy college. She is honestly one of the most intelligent people I know.

I am serving while she cleans some tables. She is wiping down a table where some rich-looking young people are drinking, likely students due to the number of textbooks they have open.

Customer: “Careful! If you spill coffee on these textbooks, they’ll cost you more than you make in a month.”

Coworker: “I aim to be careful, sir, but I can come back later if that’s more convenient.”

Customer: “That might be best. The conversation we’re having over here would just hurt your little brain, anyway.”

I see my coworker look at the page the book is open to and then casually stare at the customer.

Coworker: “Oh, you’re looking at quantum entanglement between electrons. Just wait until a few more pages in when you get to the part where you learn that electrons can have an up spin and a down spin at the same time. It’ll blow your little brain.”

With that, she wiped the table one last time and moved on to the next one. The arrogant student was giggled at by his friends as he turned a shade of red. This story now lives forever in my little brain.

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I walked into the woman’s restroom to see a man standing in front of the stalls, looking confused. I stepped back out to make sure I was in the right bathroom. I was.

Me: “Um, sir?”

Man: “Is this one of those [transgender slur] bathrooms?”

Me: “I’m, uh…”

I didn’t know what that slur meant at the time.

Me: “No?”

Man: “Where are the urinals?”

Me: “They’re next door… in the men’s bathroom.”

He looked at me, looked around, spotted the feminine product dispenser on the wall, and walked out.

Man: “Oh, d*** it!”

He hurried into the men’s room without another word.

I am the owner of a small grocery store in a middle-of-nowhere town. My name is on a board at the entrance of the store with my contact information for anyone to reach out to. I do have a name that could be male or female, and I’ve purposely left my photo out of the contact info for this exact reason.

One of my cashiers — a seventeen-year-old girl — calls me to her register. The customer she is with is a man in his thirties.

Me: “How can I help?”

Customer: “Teach this b**** some manners.”

I accidentally let out a disbelieving laugh.

Me: “What? You don’t talk to my employees like that.”

Customer: “What is her name?”

Cashier: “[First Name].”

Customer: “Yeah, your last name.”

Me: “We don’t give out last names, sir. Is there a problem?”

Customer: “This one—” *points to the girl* “—is being difficult.”

Me: “How so?”

Customer: “All I’m trying to do is take her out for dinner.”

Cashier: “And I said no.”

Customer: *Typing on his phone* “Are you on Facebook?”

Me: “She said no. This conversation is over.”

Customer: “It’s over when I say it’s over.”

Me: *Shrugs* “Or when the police find out you’re trying to stalk a minor.”

Customer: “I will have both of you ugly f****** c***s fired. I know [My Name] personally. The owner? You know him?”

Cashier: *Smiling, she points to me* “You mean her?”

Customer: “No. I mean the man-ager. On the board out front.”

Me: “Okay, sir. You go out there and look at that board and you call that number.”

Customer: “Fine! I will! And you can talk to him, too. Come on, lady boss.”

I accompany the man to the entrance, where he confidently dials the number on the sign. The phone in my pocket rings and I can see the color draining from his face as I pick it up.

Me: “Hi. Get the h*** out of my store and do not come back.”

I hang up and stare at him.

Customer: “Your store is overpriced.”

He left without his groceries. I reversed the transaction so that he couldn’t file a report about not getting what he bought. I don’t think he’s been back, but I’ll be waiting.

Related:
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 20
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 19
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 18
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 17
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 16

I was a medical scribe for about a year. One of the last patients I ever had was a frequent flyer. She had quite a long track record of going from hospital to hospital trying to get pain meds. You know the type — the one who says they are allergic to ibuprofen and asks for a narcotic pain reliever.

The physician I was working with that day happened to be the lead ER physician at that hospital and a board leader in the state, so he knew this patient very well. He brought in a nurse and me.

Physician: “I know what you’re up to, [Patient]. You’re drug-seeking.”

She became belligerent and started screaming.

Patient: “Someone else must have stolen my identity!”

When the doctor offered to call the police, she called him a racist slur (he was Indian) and walked out, screaming obscenities.

Once, I was in a public bathroom. There was a woman there in her forties or fifties, and there was a young woman on the phone speaking another language. I was washing my hands and the older woman turned to me.

Woman: “Man, don’t you wish people would speak English in America?”

She said it in such a way that it was very clear that she expected me to wholeheartedly and eagerly agree.

Me: “Wow, you must be very desperate to eavesdrop.”

She huffed and puffed and hurried out.