As part of one of my odd jobs, I once worked as an errand boy for a marble workshop: whenever they needed me to bring something from the workshop to a client’s house, I was there with my three-wheeler to deliver. 

I used to meet many people there, and I made actual friends with a couple of them, but this story’s about the only one there I hated to see around. He was a barely middle-aged guy who used to work for a rival marble workshop before the owner died childless and apprenticeless, and he was hired as extra hands for the sculpting area of our workshop.

You wouldn’t be able to tell as a person from the outside because he acted as if he owned the place; between shouting at the exact brand of tools used even though most were equivalent, the automatic berating of any high school-age apprentice that came into the workshop for the pettiest reasons, and his absolutely endless homophobic jokes directed at me because I didn’t drive “a manly van”, he made the workplace absolutely unpleasant.

Then, one rainy day, I was called to load some boxes of “scrap crafts” (that is, statuettes and other things made out of the bigger chunks that break off blocks) for a shop in town. During that time, the owner’s younger brother was there helping out with carrying stuff around.

Sculptor: “Hey, Fruity [My Name], are you going to take all day to load this, or are you waiting for your lover to come about?”

Me: “Give a man a moment, will you? I’ve just stepped into the shop.”

Sculptor: “Well, pick up the pace, then. No one here can afford to wait around for your loose a**.”

Me: “I’m literally going to load these boxes on my three-wheeler right now. The h*** do you want from me?”

Sculptor: “To do it quicker, you [ableist slur].”

Then, there was a loud groan. I turned around in a snap.

Owner’s Brother: “You. Must. Shut. UP! [My Name] comes in every other day to haul boxes and statues, does it without b****ing, and doesn’t even ask for that much. You don’t do anything but chisel like you’re wanking and scream at teens that want to learn how to do this job. The only reason you’re still here is that [Owner] wants you to have the dignity of retiring with something, but I’m not so generous.”

Sculptor: “Well, f*** you, too! Fine, but don’t come back crying to me if this shop goes down because you waste marble on some r****ded teens and slow-a** f****ts who don’t haul.”

During all of this discussion, I managed to load two boxes. Apparently, [Sculptor]’s retort was enough to convince the owner to put the guy on probation, but I think he just relegated him to odd hours, as I didn’t see him again but did hear him shout from elsewhere in the workshop from time to time afterward.

I’m a bridal stylist; I help people find their wedding gowns. I love my job, and 99% of the time, it’s a happy, wonderful job with great coworkers and customers.

And then there’s the 1%.

I had a bride today who was very sweet but just didn’t connect with the gowns we had. That’s okay; it happens sometimes. She was fine. But her mom (and somehow, it’s always the mom or the aunt) was decidedly not happy and decided to s***-talk me in Spanish the whole time.

Mom: “Does this woman know what she’s doing? She’s pulling nothing but ugly gowns!”

Said gowns were selected by the bride.

Mom: “I hope you don’t ever get as fat as her.”

And so on. Lovely.

Now, I am whiter than a jar of mayo, and I don’t necessarily look like I speak Spanish. However, my parents are from a Spanish-speaking country, even though they’re not ethnically Hispanic. I knew a LOT more as a kid, but l still know enough to get around.

So, I waited until the end, and as they were leaving, I spoke to the bride and her mom in Spanish.

Me: “I hope you have a great day. Please, feel free to come back any time you’d like; we have lots more gowns you can go through if you’d like.”

You know how good it feels when you’re in a ton of pain, and the doctor finally gives you something that works, and you’re suddenly not feeling any pain anymore? Or when you’re craving a specific flavor of ice cream and you manage to find it?

Seeing the look on that bride’s mom’s face when she realized I’d heard and understood the entire hour of her ripping me to shreds was SO much better.

Related:
If You Wouldn’t Say It To Their Face, Don’t Say It Near Their Ears, Part 2
If You Wouldn’t Say It To Their Face, Don’t Say It Near Their Ears

I get calls from customers who dispute credit card transactions they don’t recognize.

Caller: *Instantly yelling* “I need to file a fraud claim for this charge! It’s the one called ‘PL food and beverage’!”

Me: “Sir, this is a pending authorization, so we can’t do that until the charge hits the account.”

Caller: “But that wasn’t me! You have to file it as fraud now!”

Me: “I just need to confirm that you absolutely do not recognize this charge.”

Caller: “Are you stupid?! I said I don’t! Do something!”

While he is browbeating me for not doing what they want, I start Googling the company name. Right as the guy is at the height of his yelling at me, I read the first result that makes sense.

Me: “Paradise Lounge, Las Vegas?”

He stops dead silent.

Me: “Sir, could that be where the charge is from? Does that merchant sound familiar? That may be one of the pools’ bars at a hotel?”

I Google the Paradise Lounge as he starts backtracking about what he’s said.

Caller: “I… I went there, but I didn’t use my card! Seriously, this is so r****ded.”

This is the part where I realize I am on loudspeaker on his end, and his girlfriend is in the background.

Caller’s Girlfriend: “What the f*** is the Paradise Lounge?!”

I have a choice of what I can say next, but he used a slur for disabled people that my brother has been called his whole life.

Me: “I think it’s a gentlemen’s club. Sir? Did you go to any gentlemen’s clubs in Las Vegas recently? I’m looking on Google Maps and it’s right outside [Hotel].”

Yelling ensued on the other end of the phone and the call abruptly ended. If he had been nicer, I would have given an honest attempt to not blow his s*** up, but hey, karma, bruh.

I am a female who has worked traditionally male-dominated jobs my whole life: auto mechanic, concert stagehand, and presently boat captain.

I live in an island city that does not have much in the way of shopping, so when I am on the mainland, I stock up on tools and essentials I can’t get back home. I stop into the store and grab a few pairs of pliers and other small tools to add to my work bag and head to the counter.

Cashier: “Do you have a phone number with us?”

Me: “No.”

Cashier: “What about your husband or son?”

I’m unsure how to answer because I have honestly never been asked about marriage or children while checking out. After all, they are my tools.

Me: “Ummmmm… No, I am happily single, thank you.”

The cashier did not say another word nor looked at me for the rest of the transaction.  

Lesson learned: sometimes the woman buying the tools is actually going to use them!

Customer: “I want [item], but I don’t want anything made in China!”

Me: “That might be difficult, sir, as quite a lot of our electronics are assembled in China.”

Customer: “Find me some, or you’re not getting my business!”

Me: “May I ask why you don’t want anything made in China?”

Customer: “I don’t want to support those [Asian slur]s! I support American businesses only!”

Me: “I see. Sir, I note you’re using an iPhone.”

Customer: “Yes, I am! They’re an American company!”

Me: “Yes, they are, but would you mind reading what’s on the back of your phone for me?”

He puts on his glasses and reads aloud the small text on the back of almost every iPhone: “Designed by Apple in California. Assembled in China.”

I hear about people going pale all the time, but I think this is the first time in my entire life I have ever actually witnessed it. Finally, he erupts into a rage and storms out.

Customer: “You’re all f****** communists!”