I work in a fast-food place in a pretty white neighborhood. I’m the only person of color (Asian) and I have long hair. A regular customer likes to pick on me with snide remarks and micro-aggressions with racial undertones. It’s nothing I haven’t experienced my whole life, but it seems my indifference to his special attention is getting under his skin.

After being served he comes back with a complaint.

Customer: “Get me your manager! My sandwich had a long black hair in it!”

I get the manager and they discuss the situation, both staring back at me multiple times. The manager finally gives the man a refund and a replacement sandwich.

Manager: “You need to be more careful with your hair.”

Me: “I’m not the only one here with long black hair.”

Manager: “I don’t care. I had to refund him and give him a replacement sandwich.”

Me: “Did he show you his sandwich with the hair in it?”

Manager: “…no.”

Me: “Interesting.”

A few days later, the same regular comes in. Lo and behold, he returns a few minutes after ordering with the same complaint and pointing at me. Same deal, refund, and replacement.

Manager: “I thought I told you to tie your hair back.”

Me: “I’m literally wearing a hat over it right now.”

Manager: “Enough! I don’t want to hear it. Sort it now!”

Tired of this, I decide I am going to do something about it.

A few days later I am wearing my hat, extra tight to make sure absolutely nothing comes out. Same regular, same order, same complaint. This time both of them come storming up to me.

Manager: “[My Name]! This is the third time this has happened! This customer is beginning to suspect you’re doing it on purpose, and I am inclined to believe him!”

Me: To the customer. “You found a long dark hair in your sandwich again, sir?”

Customer: “Yes I did, and I know it was you!”

Me: “May I see the hair, sir?”

Customer: “You may not! I am the customer! Know your place, girl! In this country, the customer is always right!”

Me: “So you found a long black hair in your sandwich, today, and you think I did it?”

Manager: “Yes he did, and it’s looking suspicious [My Name].”

Me: “That’s very odd, you see…”

I take off my hat to reveal my brand-new hairstyle. It is a kaleidoscope of colors! Reds, blues, and greens, all fading into each other like a rainbow. My cousin is a hairstylist and specializes in Asian customers who want to color their hair, so I told her to go nuts! Sky’s the limit! It took ages, but it was free and fun!

Me: “…I don’t have black hair at the moment. If you could show me a hair that has all these colors then I’ll apologize, but if it’s just dark it has to belong to someone else.”

The manager and customer are both initially silenced by my hair and statement. The manager finally turns to the customer.

Manager: “You did say it was a dark hair, sir, so I’m afraid it can’t be my employee.”

The customer harrumphs and storms out. I eventually quit that place when I realized my manager wasn’t going to apologize and indicated he shared some of the outdated views as my customer/accuser.

A couple comes into the store and buys some items.

Female Customer: *To the male customer.* “No, don’t get that brand. The Mexicans buy those ones, so they must be gross.”

She catches my eye as she says this. I am clearly Hispanic.

Female Customer: “You one of them illegals?”

Me: “I was born in Texas, ma’am.”

Female Customer: “Ah, so your parents snuck you across before you were born, huh? They should change the law so they can’t allow that.”

Me: “Not that it’s any of your business but my mother was also born in the US, and her parents were from Venezuela.”

Male Customer: “Drug runners then, ha!”

Me: *Trying to hurry it along, gesturing at their items.* “Is this everything?”

They make their purchase, and it comes to $19.89. The customer hands me $100.

Male Customer: “Keep the change, you might need it for when you need to bail an uncle out of jail, ha!”

They head off, leaving me both confused at the large ‘tip’ combined with their awful racism. It all makes sense two hours later when I see him come back in.

Male Customer: “I… uh… was here earlier.”

Me: “Yes, sir, I remember.”

Male Customer: “I thought I had paid with a twenty, but I… I think I paid with a hundred.”

Me: “Yes, sir, I remember. You told me to keep the change.”

Male Customer: “Well… uh… that was a mistake. Can I have my change back?”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but I just came back from my lunch and in that time, I donated your generous tip towards a charity that helps lawyers who help migrants trying to stay in the US.”

Male Customer: “What! I… uh…”

Me: “Your donation was greatly appreciated, sir! If you feel that you would like to take this matter further, please write to our Corporate HQ.”

The customer looked angry but stormed out. My revenge was petty, but oh so worth it. I (or my manager) never heard from Corporate.

A woman comes into the store with her child.

Customer: “I just found out that Nintendo is a Japanese company, and that Xbox is an American company.”

Me: “Yes, that’s correct.”

Customer: *Narrows eyes.* “So you knew about this?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am. Most people into video games know this.”

Customer: “Hmm, I’ll have to write to our senator about this. Anyway, my son wants to play Mario, but I can only see it on those Nintendos. I’d like Mario but for Xbox.”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s not possible. Mario is only available on Nintendo devices.”

Customer: “Then get me someone who knows what they’re talking about.”

Me: “It doesn’t matter who you talk to, ma’am, Mario is a character owned by Nintendo. You won’t find games featuring him on any other console other than Nintendo.”

Customer: “This is where it all starts! You let these Asian companies into our American homes and then we lose jobs to them! It’s all because of people like you!”

She takes out her phone.

Customer: “I’m going to call the Senator about this!”

She trundles off, angrily dialing numbers into her phone. It was a Samsung.

Like many a millennial, I work multiple jobs to make rent. I am a cashier and a customer is purchasing some alcohol. Due to some incidents in the past, we have to card everyone, no exceptions, even if they look like they’re a hundred years old.

Me: “Can I see some ID please, sir?”

Customer: “Seriously? I’m old enough to be your daddy!”

Me: “Be that as it may, sir, I need to see ID for all alcoholic purchases. It’s company policy.”

Customer: “What a stupid f****** policy!”

Me: “Can I see your ID, sir?”

Customer: “No you may not! This is a stupid libt*rd policy and it’s people like you making this country all woke and pathetic!”

Me: *Ignoring the rant.* “I’ll just put your whiskey aside then.”

Customer: “You stupid f****** b****! Go back to your commie country you f****** [racial slur]!”

He storms off. I guess he didn’t like me being Asian? Anyhoo, water off my back at this point.

I finish my shift and start my next job, which is an evening shift at a nearby bar. I’m serving drinks and who should turn up and order a round of beers?! Now, our bar isn’t as strict with the ID policy as my grocery store is, but I am feeling petty.

Me: “Can I see your ID, sir?”

Customer: “No, you cannot—”

His eyes widen, as he finally recognizes me.

Me: “I denied you alcohol before because I had to, sir. This time, it’s because I want to.”

Customer: “F*** you! Where is your manager!”

My manager comes over as he has overheard us.

Manager: “Sir, it is our policy to stand behind every refusal of alcohol where our bar staff see fit. You will not be getting a drink tonight.”

Customer: “You f****** woke [racial slur]-loving a**hole!”

Manager: “And now you won’t be getting anything. Leave now or I call the cops.”

He slams the bar out of frustration and storms out.

Manager: “A nicer person might just think he really needed a beer, but nah, he’s just a racist a**hole. Anyway, as you were!”

The rest of the shift went as smooth as the whiskey he didn’t get to drink.

I work at a crematorium. We have memorial gardens, and my job is sell the sites, administration, and customer service. I like to think I’m pretty good at it. The figures definitely show an upward trend since I started four months ago.

But there’s also a cemetery out front.

The division is the car park, where there are council signs giving the name of the cemetery. People constantly call or walk in asking about sites or maintenance or help finding Grandma in the cemetery.

All I can do is explain that the council controls the cemetery side — maintenance, burials, memorials, and records — and give them their office number to call. If they’re nice and the enquiry is quick, I’ll do it for them — usually, for the nice old ducks looking to visit a friend they haven’t been to visit in years. But it’s definitely difficult to gauge whether they’re talking about the memorial gardens or the cemetery, especially over the phone; trying to figure out where to start asking questions is hard for me, being autistic. I can only desperately hope I don’t seem rude!

There is one particular middle-aged woman who doesn’t seem to get it, despite multiple explanations. This lady wants to put her mother’s ashes with her father’s. But since I don’t work for the cemetery, I can’t help her.

I’ve directed her to the council a few times, but this week, she comes back in to ask why we haven’t put her mother’s ashes into the wall niche yet. Again, I try to explain, but she just starts going off about my tone, about my lack of professionalism, and about how disrespectful I’m being.

I’m trying to be helpful and explain things, and she interrupts me, sneering.

Lady: “How old are you?”

Me: “Sorry?”

Lady: “I asked, how old are you? Hm?!”

Me: “Oh, er, twenty-eight?”

Lady: “You’re too young for this job. I bet you haven’t even lost anyone in your life! No wonder you’re so d*** disrespectful.”

I get angry and loud since it’s so fresh.

Me: “Well, actually, I lost my father six months ago. His memorial happens to be here in the gardens. The gardens that I work in. Not the cemetery. I don’t work for the cemetery.”

Lady: “Where’s your manager? If you people don’t do your jobs, I’m going to call the police! You’d just better do your f****** job, or I’ll take legal action! It’s been weeks. You don’t know how to treat people. It’s disgusting how you’re holding my mother’s ashes hostage!”

Me: “Look. I completely understand that. It’s horrible that you haven’t been able to lay her ashes to rest and say goodbye, but I really can’t help you. My manager is offsite at the moment, but I’ll give you his number.”

Lady: “I must say, your tone has been completely disrespectful. You sound like you don’t give a d***.”

I write my manager’s direct number on a business card.

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. I have autism, so that’s probably why. I truly don’t mean to sound—”

Lady: *Interrupting loudly* “So, you’re too r******d to do your job?”

She snatched the paper out of my shaking hand before storming out the door. My anxiety levels were absolutely through the roof.

We’ve received emails and calls of complaint from three different family members so far. I’m guessing she’s telling them all to contact us specifically.