Decades ago, I worked for a popular pizza delivery chain. This was before their ordering system was computerized, so when someone called to place an order, we had to write the information manually on the form, which was composed of multiple carbonless copies; the bottom copy was used to track our stats. Friday and Saturday nights were our busiest times; with multiple phone lines, we’d get fifty to sixty calls an hour.

I clocked in early on a Saturday afternoon and answered the phone. The caller said he was an FBI agent, that he and his partner had been on a surveillance assignment the night before, that a pizza had been delivered to them (even though they hadn’t ordered pizza), and that he wanted me to remove that address from our records so nobody would know where they were.

1. We’re talking about one line, on a paper copy, buried somewhere among (easily) another fifty-plus sheets, each containing twenty lines.
2. Those sheets were locked in the file cabinet in the manager’s office until the franchise owner picked them up.
3. He wouldn’t tell me the address (for security reasons, of course), only the approximate time the order had been placed.
4. This was in a popular summer resort area, so house/apartment occupants changed about as often as hotel room occupants. I’m not going to permanently put a residence on our “Do Not Deliver” list just because the US Government is the current occupant.

I told the manager about it, and he said not to worry; it would be nearly impossible and with astronomical odds for anyone to decide, “Hey, let’s break into the pizza delivery storefront, break into the manager’s office, bust open all the drawers on their file cabinet, and go through all the order sheets to find the FBI agents.” Especially when it was obvious that somebody already had their location.

I thought it was like a comedic scene in a movie, actually: FBI sets up a stake-out, and the bad guys not only know they’re being watched but by whom and from where, so they order a pizza for them… but I’m supposed to destroy the record of the address so the bad guys can’t find the agents.

I used to work in a consumer electronics pop-up store. We had rather valuable products on display, and being in quite a visible spot in a busy shopping centre, we were quite an enticing site for shoplifters.

We normally only had two staff members on the floor, so when one of us was out to lunch, the other would be alone at the store, so we would constantly have to be on the lookout for shady customers.

During one particular shift, I was by myself on the floor and was serving a family of five, so my visibility of the other side of the store was obscured.

Whilst I was serving this family, I noticed a rather scruffy-looking man on crutches looking at one of our products on the other side of the store. He was intently looking around every few seconds and looked very nervous so, naturally, he immediately raised a red flag with me, but I couldn’t just leave my customers before completing their transaction.

I kept a keen eye on this shady man throughout the transaction, and just as I was about to complete it, I noticed him starting to leave. I couldn’t see anything missing from where I was, so I breathed a sigh of relief and finished the transaction. Then, I made my way over to the products the man had been standing near.

Much to my shock and horror, not only was one of the products missing, but the security cable attached to it was flaming!! This man had clearly used a lighter to sever the cable and then just walked off with the product. I was able to put out the flames but not before it damaged the products around it

I called security afterward, but I didn’t have any real hope of them finding the shoplifter as, more often than not, they would get away. Much to my surprise, though, within twenty minutes, they had located him. It turned out that he didn’t get far because he was missing a leg!

Related:
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 17
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 16
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 15
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 14
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 13

A customer walks into the repair store and drops off his phone for repair of a cracked screen. He leaves his friend’s phone number to call when it’s ready, signs the work order, and leaves.

About an hour later, the tech calls the phone number provided and leaves a voicemail that the repair is ready for pick-up. At this point, it appears to be a regular transaction.

The customer walks back in after three hours, drunk and mad as h***.

Customer: “Why wasn’t I called on my phone?!”

Tech: *Calm as anything* “We left a message on your friend’s phone because you left your phone for repair.”

The customer looks through his missed messages now that the screen works and declares:

Customer: “Someone has been texting my girlfriend!”

Tech: “We have strict policies against that.”

Then, it gets bizarre. The customer slams his phone down on the counter, smashing the screen, and then rips the phone in two, all the while speaking Russian. This phone is glass, plastic, and metal — pretty tough to break into two pieces.

Customer: “There’s going to be an investigation.”

Our tech pulls a total boss move. He calmly says:

Tech: “You still have to pay for that, and we can have our own investigation.”

He points to the security cameras. Our tech is not a big guy but has nerves of steel. The customer pulls out a credit card, and he processes the transaction. The customer is holding both halves of the phone in one hand.

After the customer leaves, this very nice lady who is waiting for her repair and is trembling asks:

Other Customer: “Should we call the police?”

Tech: “What for? He paid for his repair.”

I work in a women’s clothing store. It’s not under a chain but privately owned. I’m helping a woman in her forties find an outfit. Usually, we have a lot of repeat customers, but as the town isn’t on the small scale and has a lot of vacation homes, it isn’t unusual that new faces come in.

At first, everything is ordinary; we engage in small talk, what event she’s going to, formal or non-formal, pants versus dress, what colors she likes, etc.

I find items for her, find her sizes, and offer suggestions. Then, she notices a foundation stain on the collar of a shirt she likes. Luckily, I find the same shirt in storage and say so.

This is where the customer usually does one of two things. They either thank me and take the other shirt, or they ask if they can buy the stained one for a discount.

This woman does neither. Instead, she just looks at me with disbelief on her face.

Customer: “Are you telling me that other people have tried on these clothes before me?”

I am standing there expecting some kind of sign that she is pulling my leg. None comes.

Me: “Yes, someone else has tried on clothes here before.”

Customer: “Have all the clothes I tried been tried by anyone else?”

Me: “Yes, probably.”

Really, how am I supposed to know that unless it’s still in plastic and not on a hanger and out in the store?

She frowns, looking displeased.

Customer: “I… I need to go.”

She ran out, her world forever changed…

One of my friends is heavily pregnant and suffering from baby-brain. She is also in peak nesting and constantly cleaning and organising the house.

Her husband doesn’t quite understand nesting and has been questioning and telling [Friend] that she doesn’t need to do all this work. [Friend] is strong-willed normally, so you know these arguments haven’t gone in her husband’s favour. He has now been told essentially to just be quiet and let her organise the house how she wants for the arrival of the baby. She will be the one home with the baby, after all.

One day, [Friend] is organising the fridge, and she is getting very frustrated as she’s doing so. She’s moving everything around to get a bulk of room. Her husband starts watching. He knows better than to question her, but he starts to smile when he sees what she is trying to fit in the fridge. He sits down and watches for a while, holding back his laughter as his pregnant wife gets more and more frustrated and it starts to manifest as anger.

After a good fifteen minutes, [Friend] slams what she’s holding on the bench, and her husband starts cracking up laughing. She turns and stares daggers at him.

Husband: *With a smile* “What are you doing, dear?”

Friend: “I’m just trying to make room in the fridge for the… toaster.”

She stopped in confusion and looked at the fridge and the toaster. She shut the fridge, put the toaster back, and started laughing after a few minutes of mixed emotions.

She no longer has issues letting her husband have input when she is organising the house.