(It is a slow day in the store so I am walking around talking to customers. I approach a lady who is looking confused and staring at the mannequins.)
Me: “Hi. Can I help you find anything?”
Customer: “I know how to pick out clothes for myself, unlike these mannequins here. Why do they dress themselves so terribly?” *wanders off*
(I have been working at this bank for only a couple of months, and I don’t typically work on the teller line, so I don’t know our customers all that well yet.)
Me: “Hello, ma’am, how are you doing this evening?”
Customer: *sighs* “It’s been a rough one.”
Me: “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Are you at least almost done for the day?”
Customer: “I need a withdrawal slip and I need you to look up my account number.” *puts debit card on counter*
Me: *gives her a slip* “I can do that for you. I’ll just need your photo ID, as well.”
Customer: “Yep.” *mumbles something that sounds like, “I need a minute”*
Me: “Absolutely. I’ll start looking up your account while you work on filling that out.”
Customer: “I don’t want any of that.”
Me: “Sorry? Any what?”
Customer: “None of what you’re trying to give me. I’m just trying to withdraw this money and that’s all I’m doing. Don’t try giving me this extra stuff.”
Me: “Extra?”
Customer: “This ‘absolutely’ thing. You were like this last time.” *note that I don’t remember ever seeing this woman* “I don’t do all this joking around in the bank. I just had money stolen from me.”
Me: “I’m very sorry to hear that, ma’am, and I assure you, I wasn’t joking about anything.”
Customer: “It’s just, I feel like if you’re joking around with me. Does that mean you aren’t taking my money seriously? This just isn’t the place to joke around, you know? I don’t do none of this playing around stuff because I feel like that’s giving you permission to not be serious about my accounts.”
Me: “Again, I wasn’t joking about anything, and I’m sorry it came off that way.”
(She finishes filling out her withdrawal slip and gives me her ID so that I can run the transaction, with her making me triple check that I’m pulling from the correct account. I get to the screen where I am required to type in customer’s ID number and expiration.)
Customer: “What is that, sign language?”
Me: “Sorry, what?”
Customer: “You moving your fingers around like that, like, what are you, trying to say something to me?”
Me: “No, ma’am, I’m just typing in the information I have to get from all customers who wish to make a withdrawal.”
Customer: “Give me my debit card back.”
Me: “Sure, let me just grab the expiration date off of it real quick.” *types it in and hands it back*
Customer: “You know what, just cancel this whole transaction. I don’t like what you’re doing with your hands there, gesturing at me or whatever. I don’t know if you’re messing around with my account. Don’t discriminate against me.”
Me: “What? Ma’am, as I said, I’m just typing in all the information needed to process this withdrawal. I’m sorry if it seems—”
Customer: “Just cancel it. I’ll just go outside to the ATM.”
(I cancel the transaction and tear the withdrawal slip before putting it in the shred bin, at which point she tells me to pull it back out and tear in half again, but she seems even more unhappy after I do so.)
Customer: “Give me your business card.”
Me: “Sorry, I actually don’t have any yet, since I’ve only been here a couple of months.”
Customer: “You don’t have any, huh? Is your manager in? Never mind, just write your name down for me.” *I start to do so* “No, don’t go writing it down on that little piece of paper! You gave me problems before. Don’t. Discriminate. Against me.”
Me: “You did ask for me to write my name down to give to you, correct?”
Customer: “Oh, I’m going to turn your name in, all right. Then you’ll see just how funny it is to joke around in a bank. And I just came from court, so no, my day isn’t almost over.” *storms out dramatically*
(I was pretty upset at this point, but the teller lead assured me that there was literally nothing I did wrong and that this woman acts out almost every time she comes in, to the point where our manager doesn’t even take her seriously anymore. Sure enough, when I looked at her file, I found that she has complained numerous times about tellers being rude and/or that she was discriminated against because of her race, with complaints going back over four years. I’m still confused.)
(We are all in the living room doing various things. I’ve just returned home for summer break. My dad makes a cup of tea.)
Me: “Whatever tea you’ve made smells like…”
Brother and Sister: *simultaneously* “Casserole?”
Me: “Ew, what? No, like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Like, specifically that.”
Dad: “Oookay…”
Sister: “I mean, the pizza we made last night smelled like pumpkin pie to me.”
Me: “Uh, what?”
Sister: “Maybe there’s just like… bad smell acoustics in here or something?”
All Of Us: *laughs*
Me: “Bad smell acoustics? Okay, sis, if you say so.” *laughs*
(I am working in the beauty and health section when a woman comes up asking for vitamin E oil. I take her over there before I begin my safety speech.)
Me: “Just so you know, despite this being in the vitamin section and a liquid, you do not ingest it. This is for topical use only.”
Customer: “I know, dear. I need it for my hand. Look.”
(She proceeds to show me her hand where, not only can I see bone exposed, but her thumb is literally hanging almost detached from the hand.)
Me: “I’m not sure if this will work on that. Have you seen a dermatologist yet?”
Customer: “No, not yet, but I need something to help heal my skin up, and I heard this should help. Thank you.”
(I’m not sure how she was not more alarmed by the state of her hand but I made sure to wash my hands after, just in case it was some sort of virus.)
(I am fairly new at my grocery store. I’m a very petite nineteen-year-old girl who often gets mistaken for being a minor. A customer giving off a weird vibe comes to my till.)
Customer: “Happy birthday! I think I saw you in the paper!”
Me: “Oh, I’m sorry, but no, it’s not my birthday. But thanks, anyway, I guess.”
(He stares at me for a second.)
Customer: “Are you sure? I’m pretty sure that was you. Here, I’ll show you.”
(The thing creeping me out the most is how sincere and serious he seems. He pulls out the paper and shows it to me. It’s a forty-year-old mother of four, and it is her birthday.)
Me: *getting very embarrassed and screaming on the inside* “Um, sorry, but that is definitely not me.”
(I’m always very chipper and welcoming at work, so he probably senses my change of mood and posture.)
Customer: “Huh, I was so sure… Two bags, please.”
(The rest of the transaction went quietly and he left. My manager laughed until she cried and now notifies me every time he comes in. I hate him.)
