I work at a virtual reality arcade that is inside a large museum. The arcade is fairly new so the museum has issued free vouchers to play the games for all the volunteers. The volunteer coordinator comes in to tell us that the volunteers must play a specific game, the favorite of one of the bigwigs.

There are immediately many problems with this. For one, the game in question is very buggy and sometimes just refuses to work unless we reboot the whole computer. Another issue is that it is all about balancing on a plank over a great height and requires pretty good balance, and most of the volunteers are elderly. The worst is that it is classified as a horror game meant to cause extreme acrophobia and is not one we recommend to new users. The coordinator, however, will not hear this, and insists they play the game anyway.

What we get is a few folks with canes and walkers that nearly have a serious fall, a woman in a wheelchair who cannot play the game at all, a majority of the volunteers complaining that it gives them a headache, and one old man so terrified he cries. 

The kicker is that one of my coworkers had her lunch in the volunteer lounge and the volunteers were complaining about us for making us play the horrible game.

The lockdown is almost over in France. My immediate superior is calling me.

Superior: “Are you coming back tomorrow?

Me: “No, because, first of all—”

Superior: “Why not?”

Me: *Pause* “Because, first of all, [Middle Manager] told me that it was on a voluntary basis for our company for the time being.”

Superior: “Not to come because it’s on a voluntary basis, it’s laziness!”

Me: “Also, because I am a high-risk person due to my heart problem. My GP, the occupational medicine department, and human resources have all advised me to stay home.”

Superior: “Okay, okay. Have a good rest!”

I had a manager who believed that pushing credit cards on people was only difficult because everyone else was doing it wrong. He had huge aspirations of what we could do and what he wanted to happen. He pushed, hard and often, for this lofty goal he had built up in his head.

Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that he wanted us to guarantee a store card signup every half hour, all day, so sixteen sign-ups per eight-hour shift. This was at a time when our best numbers were maybe three a day.

He wouldn’t let up on pushing us to meet his goals, insisting that it was possible if everyone followed his strategy. Finally, someone called him out on it and asked him to demonstrate. So, he got on a register to show us how “easy” it was to get those signups.

He harassed every customer, made them say no three times, and then shoved a pamphlet in their bag anyway. His spiel basically boiled down to the retail version of, “Your mouth says no but I say yes, so here’s a signup sheet so you can sign up anyway.”

Hoo boy, the fireworks flew!

Customers hate being badgered, and they really hate having their wishes so blatantly ignored. I got to witness massive explosions at the registers; he had people screaming at him and calling him names, and one or two ripped the applications out of their bags, ripped them apart, and threw them back on the counter.

After that, the manager just kind of slunk away and didn’t say anything more about his goals.

About three months into my employment at a fast food restaurant, they call me to ask if I can cover a shift. I remind them that I have a full-time job at a competing burger place, which is why my schedule is limited. I cannot cover their shift because I am scheduled at my full-time job.

Apparently, when I filled out the application and wrote that I was currently employed at the competitor and I could only work weekends, it wasn’t a problem. When they need me to cover a shift because someone called out sick, working for the competitor is suddenly a conflict of interest. I am ordered to quit that job immediately. And since I am quitting that job, there is nothing stopping me from covering the shift they need me for.

I drop off my uniform and a letter telling them where they can shove their burgers on my way to work at their competitor.

I’m a waitress and we recently had a manager transferred to our restaurant. She’s nice but has a tendency to mess up orders in the kitchen, and the servers get wrong orders sent to wrong tables.

For the first couple of days, we’re a little understanding. But after a week, it keeps happening repeatedly, and we’re constantly double-checking tickets. It takes longer and customers get impatient with us, and it’s affecting our tips. 

One busy Friday night, after a few mess-ups, the manager gives us permission to double-check with her. But after two rounds of the servers asking, “Are you sure?” or, “Table number?” she gets frustrated and snaps at us.

My coworker finds a clever way to get around it by saying, “You just said table number forty-three, right?” and if it’s wrong, then she just plays it off, and if she’s right, then it makes everyone look good. So, the rest of us start following suit. 

However, even when I’m double-checking, I’m still getting wrong orders or missing something from the orders. Up until this point, I’ve been fortunate to have patient and understanding customers, but my last table yelled at me for taking too long and forgetting a few items. So, I go back to the kitchen to clarify.

Me: “Manager, table forty-three is missing some items from their order.” *Sets the receipt on the counter* “Could you please get that out to me really fast?”

Manager: “Fine, fine. In the meantime, will you take this to table twenty-one?”

Me: “I’m not opposed, but that’s not in my area and—”

Manager: “Take it to table twenty-one!”

I stand there a little shocked and start to take the plate when the waitress who has that section comes and gets it. I wait a moment longer and the manager slams down a platter of sides that I assume were for my original table, despite them not being the sides. 

Manager: “Table forty-three!”

Me: “Are you sure?”

There’s a moment of silence as the manager stares at me, appalled, and then glares, and I realize that I have let my frustration get to me. 

Manager: “You don’t need to take that attitude with me! I told you the table number!”

Me: “I’m sorry, I just wanted to be sure—”

Manager: “If you can’t tone down that attitude, you might as well go home. I have no use for sassy, disrespectful waitresses right now.”

My heart is pounding really hard and my cheeks are burning with embarrassment and anger. Half of the guests are looking at us, having heard the manager yell at me, and the other servers are staring at the two of us, waiting to see what will happen next. 

For some reason, however, I reach behind me, undo my apron, and toss it into the hamper behind the door.

Me: “Fine, then. See you tomorrow night.”

Manager: “WAIT A MINUTE! YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE IN THE MIDDLE OF DINNER RUSH!”

Now the entire restaurant is staring, and I find the courage to say:

Me: “You gave me the option, so… I’m going home.”

And, with that, I walked out the door, trying to hold my head high and not cry. 

If this doesn’t improve, I will probably put in my two weeks this next week.