(I’ve ended up in the ER waiting room with an excruciating spinal headache, due to a myelogram test I underwent four days earlier. This means I can’t have any part of my spine bent for more than a minute or so without the headache coming on and making me severely sick. I’ve been becoming severely sick the entire four days anytime I’ve so much as gone to the toilet, so I’ve been forced to be bedridden the entire time. The waiting room has nowhere to lie down, not even two chairs near each other without a non-removable armrest between them. I also know that if I stand in place straight up for more than a few minutes my blood pressure will drop and I’ll lose consciousness. For lack of any other solution, I’ve crawled to lie down on the floor in a semi-clean corner, with my head under one of the unused seats, to hide from the bright ceiling lights and be as much out of the way as possible. I’ve been waiting this way for over an hour. I carefully get up to ask the check-in nurse how much longer it’ll be. She can’t tell me; she can only say that I’ll have to wait some more. I go back to my place on the floor. In less than a minute, a security guard comes up.)

Guard: “Miss, you can’t lie on the floor here.”

Me: “What? I need to be lying down. If I don’t, I’ll become badly sick.”

Guard: “Well, but surely you can sit down, miss; there are seats here. You just can’t be lying down.”

Me: *bewildered at having to explain such obvious things in an ER waiting room, and after already having lain there for an hour without being bothered or bothering anyone* “I’m sorry, but I can’t sit anywhere. The reason I’ve come to the ER is that I have a specific condition where I become severely sick when I’m sitting. There’s no way I can physically be in that position right now. I have to be lying down so I don’t become ill.”

Guard: “Oh, well… But miss, there’s a rule that says you aren’t allowed to lie on the floor in this room. So couldn’t you please just go over right there and sit in one of these nice empty seats, anyway? There’s a rule, you see.” *looks at me expectantly like he’s making a perfectly reasonable suggestion.*

Me: “…”

(I checked later: there were no signs anywhere in the room stating such a rule.)

(I own a Puli, an uncommon breed of dog known for its coat texture. They aren’t born with that coat; it takes about a year for the cords to form, and for a few months while the coat is in “transition,” they look like a shaggy, curly-tailed poodle in dire need of a haircut. I am used to having people who work with animals immediately know about the breed and be so glad to get a chance to see one in real life. I have just moved to a new area and am seeing a new vet for the first time, as I think she might be getting an ear infection. The technician calls me into an exam room and starts asking the basic questions, ending with:)

Tech: “…[Dog] sure looks like she could use a haircut!”

(My dog is about eight months old, and very much in the transition stage.)

Me: “Yeah, at this age they do look terrible, but in a few months it’ll be much better.”

Tech: “Do you even brush her?”

Me: “No, that’s not how the coat works.”

(I get ready to give the usual brief overview of how the cords are formed and the work that goes into the coat at this stage, but the vet walks in right then.)

Tech: “Okay, I’m going to take [Dog] to the treatment room and get her weight and vitals.”

(The tech leaves, and the vet starts the usual conversation with professionals of, “Oh, wow, I’ve never really seen one, so that’s what they look like young, etc.” This goes on for a while; I don’t think anything is strange, because at our previous vet whenever [Dog] went into the treatment area, the whole staff had to come and see her. I can hear the sound of clippers turning on in the back, and think it must be another patient getting a haircut. Then, the doctor runs out of stuff to talk about and says:)

Vet: “Well, I’ll go back and see if I can rescue [Dog] from her new fan club so we can start the exam.”

(He opens the door to treatment and screams:)

Vet: “OH, MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TWO DOING?!” *turns back to me* “I am so sorry; I really don’t know what to say. This is inexcusable. I cannot believe…”

(I push my way past him and see [Dog] on a table, with two very scared-looking teenage assistants standing next to her, and a straight line of shaved fur running from nape of neck to base of tail. [Dog] is happily wagging her tail, apparently glad to be introducing me to her new, bestest best friends.)

Assistant #1: “[Technician] said to start shaving her because it was going to be such a long process… but the fur isn’t coming off in sheets like with the dog you showed me on last week, so I stopped and…”

Vet: *who has been babbling this whole time* “This is unforgivable; I’m stunned. Obviously, there will be no charge at all for today. In fact, there will be no charge for any service [Dog] needs, ever, for the rest of her life. Wait. [Tech] said, what?!“

Assistant #2: “Her exact words were, ‘Poor dog, just look at this coat. Another stupid owner who bought a doodle-poo and thinks it’s a real breed. You two get started shaving this mess; it’ll likely take an hour or more.’ And then she went to take a cigarette break. I thought she’d gotten the haircut approved.”

Assistant #1: “What did we do wrong?”

Vet: “You mean, besides doing a treatment without the owner’s permission? [Dog] is a Puli.”

([Assistant #1] instantly pales; [Assistant #2] looks confused.)

Assistant #2: “That isn’t a poodle mixed with a collie, is it?”

Assistant #1: “Remember last week when [Other Staff Member] and I were talking about rare breeds we would probably never see in real life? This is one of them; they are famous for their awesome fur.”

Assistant #2: “Oh, crap.”

Me: *having a hard time staying angry because of my very happy dog* “It’s okay; she isn’t a show dog, just a pet. And at least you didn’t start on the side; I mean, once it starts growing out again, it’ll almost look like it was an intentional haircut.”

Vet: “I just can’t believe that she would do something like this without permission; she should know better. I assure you this is not how we do business.”

Me: “I can tell. I would just like to look her in the face when you tell her she doesn’t have a job anymore.”

Vet: “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

(Watching that horribly ignorant woman get fired was one of the more satisfying moments of my life.)

(My family lives in a typically quiet residential neighborhood. However, one of our neighbors owns a motorcycle, and feels that it is entirely appropriate to race the motorcycle up and down the various streets, gunning the engine as loudly as he can, at any time of day. He’s not going anywhere in particular, just driving around in loops and up and down the streets. One day, our family is having an outdoor barbecue in our front yard when we hear the motorcyclist coming from around the corner. Right as he does, a plastic bag that has blown away from the party suddenly gets caught by the breeze and spins up into the air in front of the motorcycle. He swerves, and ends up skidding into the drainage ditch on the far side of the street. Several of the adults run to help, including my mother.)

Mother: “Oh, my gosh! Are you all right?”

Motorcyclist: “F*** OFF, C***!”

(He tries to stand up and take a swing at her, forcing her to step back, before he suddenly falls down and grabs his leg.)

Motorcyclist: “F****** b****! Look what you did! F***!”

(He continued swearing, even after 911 was called, right up until an ambulance showed up. When it did, he tried to get up again and hobbled away, swearing some more the entire time. Since then, we haven’t heard him revving around on his motorcycle, at all. Honestly, I rather hope he had to sell it to cover his hospital bills. Serves him right.)

I’m walking the store, cleaning up and trying to restore some order. I notice a woman following slowly behind me, but as she’s always at least at the other end of the aisle and looking at our products, I assume she is just shopping on the same path as me. After about 15 minutes of me walking the store, helping customers, etc., she approaches.

Customer: Hey! I need help!

Me: Oh, okay, what do you need?

Customer: Well, first of all, I need you to acknowledge that I need help the FIRST time.

Me: Oh, I’m sorry, did you ask me for something earlier? I must not have heard, I’m sorry.

Customer: No, I didn’t ask. But you should have known.

Me: Um…yes, okay. Anyway, what did you need?

Customer: So, this item is $7.99 and 50% off. So that means it will cost….$10.00, right?

Me: ………… (trying to wrap my head around all the stupidity coming at me)

Customer: Oh my god, are you really this stupid? They hired someone who can’t give good customer service OR do math?! I did the math on my phone, forget it.

Me: No, ma’m, I can do both things well. I’m just trying to figure out how you—nevermind. Half of $8 is $4, not $10. Have a good day.

(I walk off before I catch her stupid. Apparently, she took the item and went and waited in line, only to get up to the register and say, “I’ve been waiting here to say that I actually DON’T want this, because that girl didn’t help me.”)

(I work as a manager for a large chain of craft stores. Our company recently changed the return policy so customers could return anything, not matter what, as long as it was from our chain. Naturally, customers, being customers, have taken full advantage of this. This instance happens very soon after the policy change.)

Cashier: “Uh… I have a situation with a return up here.”

Me: “Do they have the receipt?”

Cashier: “Yeah, but, it’s… really old.”

Me: “Okay, well, the new policy says we have to take it.”

Cashier: “Well, it’s not coming up in the register.”

Me: “Okay, I’ll be up there in a minute.”

(I get to the register and the cashier just looks really bewildered. I don’t think much of it; I just guess that maybe they haven’t had any return issues like that one. I approach the register.)

Me: “Hi! I hear we are having a return issue?”

Customer: “I guess the receipt is too old for the register, but I do have it! And the items, here.” *gestures to items*

(I have been working for the company for two and a half years, but I have never seen these items. I’m starting to think this is a scam, or that she bought the items at a different store and has forgotten. Then, I get a look at the receipt. It’s dated 2008.)

Me: “This receipt is nine years old.”

Customer: “Yep!”

Cashier: “I told you!”

Me: “You didn’t say it was nine years old!”

(I had to call over another manager, as I had no clue how to return something that had been out of the system so long that the system couldn’t recognize it anymore. I’ve had a lot of memorable returns, but that one definitely stands out!)

Related:
Return Of The Returner: The Buyback
Return Of The Returner: Jeans Of Justice
Return Of The Returner: The Return