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.”

I’m walking to work one morning. A guy driving past calls out:

Guy: “Hey, pretty lady!”

I smile and nod, but nothing more. It’s standard catcalling, except…

He proceeds to follow me for ten solid blocks, continuing to call out to me despite my ignoring him, asking for my name, phone number, etc. It doesn’t take long for me to get annoyed, and by the time he demands to know, “Why are you being so antisocial?”, I’m beginning to get frightened. Luckily, by this point, I’ve arrived at work and managed to evade him.

I don’t think about it until a few days later when it happens again. 

This time, he follows me as I’m walking home, again heedless of the fact that I’m ignoring him and that he’s holding up traffic. All I can do is keep my head down and walk as fast as possible, hoping he’ll finally take a hint and leave me alone and/or that I can get home safely.

Suddenly, I hear a car door slam and I look up to see that he’s pulled over, has gotten out of the car, and is coming toward me.

Thoroughly frightened and completely fed up, I scream as loudly as I can:

Me: “Leave me alone! You’re scaring me!”

He has the nerve to look completely shocked.

Guy: *As if I’m overreacting* “You don’t have to be scared!”

It’s been six months, and while he hasn’t bothered me since, I still jump every time I see a white SUV, wondering if he’s lurking around and waiting to strike.

I am a customer at a local bagel shop. I always get the same thing, but there’s a kid, probably sixteen or seventeen, behind the counter, who I haven’t seen before.

I tell him my order and watch him write it down, but he mishears me and writes “papers.” His coworker, who I have seen several times, has to correct him.

He had never heard of capers, but sure, it made sense to put papers on a bagel.