My friend’s family owns an old-school Puerto Rican bodega in Brooklyn. I help out with my friends sometimes. I’ve been asked if I can help out all day on one particular day, and as a teenager who needs money over the summer break, I say yes!

I’m talking to my friend’s dad, the owner:

Owner: “So I need you to operate a second register for normal groceries all morning.”

Me: “Sure thing, but… uh, why? What’s wrong with the main register?”

Owner: “Nothing, but today is the day when those Social Security checks come in.”

Me: “What does that mean?”

Owner: “It means, any old customer you see come in for scratchcards and lottery tickets, you send to me. You ONLY deal with groceries, got it?”

Me: “Uh, got it?”

And this is when I learned that Brooklyn has a HUGE elderly population, and playing the numbers is practically a religion for a lot of them. I see an old dude walk up to the owner and pull out a list of a hundred numbers and start rattling them off.

Another old customer walks in, sees the owner busy with his own old customer, and walks over to me.

Old Customer: *Starts pulling out his own numbers.* “Imma need the lotto—”

Me: “—All lottery and scratchcard purchases are that register only. I’m only processing regular groceries here.”

Old Customer: “But they’re gonna be forever!”

Me: “Do you have your own long list of numbers you’re expecting me to put in manually myself?”

Old Customer: “Well, yeah! It’s your job!”

Owner: *Calling over.* “That’s not his job. That’s my job. You come to me, and you get in line for the lottery.”

Old Customer: “Then why do you have two registers?!”

Owner: “That register is so someone can come in to get their chips and soda and not be in line behind five pensioners who don’t know how to fill out their own lottery number slips.”

Old Customer: “This is age discrimination!”

Owner: “No, this is triage. I won’t lose all my regular grocery customers to scratchcards. If you want to run your numbers, you do it through me, or you do it somewhere else.”

The old customer grumbles but gets in line behind the other old guy, who was still rattling off his own numbers.

After an hour of these arguments, I’d written up a sign saying lottery and scratchcard purchases from my owner’s register only so I could just point to it when one of them came up to me with their numbers. None of them thought they should be the one to get in the line that was seven old people deep, but when they saw how many quick and simple regular grocery transactions I was running in the time it took them to do their lottery tickets, they kinda understood, albeit begrudgingly.

CONTENT WARNING: Rude humor, vulgar language

I saw this story, and it reminds me of a story from years ago when I used to be an EMT. I just speak English, but I was responding to a call with another EMT who spoke two other languages. We learn on the way that the patient is an elderly woman complaining of burns to the face, and that she speaks my colleague’s native language.

When we arrive, we find the patient sitting on the stairs with tears streaming down her face. She’s well dressed and doesn’t appear to be badly burned. Her daughter-in-law is there as well. I talk to the daughter-in-law while my partner talks to the mother.

Daughter-In-Law: “So, she found a can of pepper spray…”

Mother: *Rapid screaming in a foreign language.*

Daughter-In-Law: “…and I think the thought it was hair spray?”

Mother: *More screaming.*

Daughter-In-Law: “So I think – so sorry about her language – I think she’s okay.”

Mother: *Even more screaming.*

We get her cleaned up and head out. I notice my partner’s face is bright red.

Me: “Hey, you look kinda flushed. Did you get exposed?”

Partner: “No, I was just trying really hard not to laugh, y’know?”

Me: “…what was she saying?”

Partner: “When she worked out I speak [language], she greeted me with ‘Good afternoon, sir, I s*** c***s into into nun’s mouths’.”

Me: “Is that normal swearing in [language]?”

Partner: “No. I actually thought this was going to be a mental health issue, but then she hit me with ‘may God grant me the strength to forgive people who don’t label small cans that spray liquid’. So that seemed pretty coherent.”

Me: “Just pretty poetic?”

Partner: “The next thing she said was ‘may people who manufacture unlabeled spray cans have their genitals eaten by horseflies,’ so I guess the prayer didn’t work. I think I need to get better at swearing.”

I am at a retail pharmacy with a photo center. The photo center is up front by the registers, and the line goes along the photo center as it’s rarely used. I am in line with just toilet paper, and it should be noted I really need it, like now, but I have to wait in a long line.

As I am waiting, someone comes up to the photo center to collect their photos. They also only have one item in their hands, a shampoo. I take a tiny step back to give them space to step up to the photo center as the worker is handing them over a small half wall. They then spin around in front of me, clearly cutting me and everyone behind me. At first, all I could do was make a frustrated “fuh” sound, which was merely the first half of a swear word I didn’t finish.

Photo Worker: “Ma’am, there’s a line you just cut in front of this lady.”

Line Cutter: “Huh? Oh.”

She looks at me, holding up her shampoo, shaking it slightly.

Line Cutter: “I only have the one thing; the photos are prepaid.”

Me: “And I only have one thing, and since it’s for POO and not shampoo and I was here first I think that means I get to go before you, hopefully before I need my one item.”

I shake my toilet paper package in the same way she shook her shampoo. I then look back at the photo worker who has their hand over their mouth.

Me: “You called me a lady, but I don’t have to act like one.”

The worker let out one hard laugh and walked away. I made it home in time.

Related:
Not Even In Line And Out Of Line, Part 8
Not Even In Line And Out Of Line, Part 7
Not Even In Line And Out Of Line, Part 6
Not Even In Line And Out Of Line, Part 5
Not Even In Line And Out Of Line, Part 4

I work in a store with twelve employees total. Seven have been here for at least two years, and the rest are high turnover. At this point, there’s no one over thirty-five, and for some odd reason, an overwhelming three of us — who happen to be among the seven — have a name that used to be popular but dropped off the charts by the time any of us were born. Let’s say the name is Gertrude.

The only person in charge of hiring is the owner, but we’re often handed resumes, which is expected.

One day, during a slow day with just a coworker and me working, my coworker is off helping an elderly woman around the corner and I hear a squeal.

Coworker: “Oh, my God!”

I hurry toward them to find [Coworker] with a sheet of paper and the elderly woman actually looking rather pleased with a somewhat cheeky smile on her face.

Me: “What’s going on?”

[Coworker] hands me the paper, which turns out to be a resume, trying to stifle a giggle.

Coworker: “She also wants a job.”

Me: “Oh? Well, we’ll leave it for [Owner].” *To the woman* “I’ll be sure the owner gets a look. I’m not sure what’s going… on.”

That is when I notice the woman’s name: Gertrude. Oh. Now I see what the big deal was. I look at the woman, who is grinning like crazy now. My coworker also notices her look.

Me: “Ah.”

Coworker: “Wait, did she know…?”

Woman: “I heard you had all the Gertrudes here. I’m retired, but I just have to work here now.”

So, now we have thirteen employees and four Gertrudes. She’s the only one who came on purpose — and is actually of the age you’d think someone named that would be. She’s eighty-one.

A few Yiddish-speaking relatives of mine moved to the USA during World War II, not particularly speaking English. Some years after they arrived, someone from the home country who only spoke Yiddish came for a visit. By this time, the original folks had learned what is technically English but is spoken with Yiddish grammar and such a thick Yiddish accent as to practically be a language all its own. This language was fairly commonly spoken in their neighborhood.

Their visitor wanted to purchase some food item and my relatives sent her off to find the store: Achrusdestrit.

Out went the visitor who politely inquired of a passerby, “Achrusdestrit?” Fortunately, the person seemed to have heard of the store because they pointed to the other side of the block. The visitor happily headed off in that direction. 

However, after wandering for a while and not seeing any place with a name on it that seemed right, they asked someone else, “Achrusdestrit?” And again, the neighbor had heard of it and pointed… to the other side of the block. The visitor headed off in that direction, but again, no dice.

This repeated for about half an hour, I believe, until the visitor came back home, incredibly frustrated.

It wasn’t until years later when my relatives’ English improved even more that they were able to more clearly point out to visitors that the closest grocery store was “across the street.”