I’m a librarian at a public library, and I have a patron come up to the reference desk to ask for help on a computer.

Patron: “I’m trying to make a Gmail, and I keep getting an error!”

Me: “Okay, let’s take a look and see what’s going on.”

I follow her over to the computer she’s using and see she’s entered a really long Gmail address, like “War and Peace” long. The error message says something generic, like “invalid username”.

Me: “I think I know what the issue is. Google has a limit on how many characters your username can have. I don’t know what it is off the top of my head, but I can go back to my computer really quickly and look it up, and then we can shorten your username and try again.”

Patron: “No, you’re wrong.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Patron: “That’s the username I want. Gmail has to take it. Something else is wrong.”

Me: “Um…I don’t think so, ma’am. I really do think that’s the issue. But let me check, and I’ll come back over and help you get set up.”

Patron: “I’m telling you that’s not the issue. This username should be fine. Something else is wrong. I don’t understand why you won’t help me.”

She’s starting to get louder, and I’m trying to figure out how to de-escalate the situation.

Me: “All right, well, let me go back to my computer and see what that error might mean so we can get this figured out for you, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”

I go back to my computer. Sure enough, Google has a character limit for usernames. I print the information out and take it to the patron.

Me: “Hi again. Here’s what I found online. Google has a limit, and your username is too long, so can we shorten it up so it’s less than thirty characters and try again?”

Patron: “No. This is the username I want.”

Me: “Okay, well, that’s why you’re getting that error. I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m happy to try to help you think of a shorter username.”

Patron: “I don’t know why you won’t help me and why you’re being so rude!”

Me: “Again, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude, and I am trying to help you. If you pick a different, shorter username, I can help you get set up with Gmail; otherwise, there really isn’t anything more I can do.”

The patron then yells over to the circulation clerk: Can you help me? Since she won’t?

Clerk: “Um…”

Me: “No, ma’am, that’s not his job, and honestly, if you don’t want to pick a different username, none of us can help you.”

I go back to my desk. She stayed at the computer for a little bit, getting visibly more agitated, but she wasn’t being disruptive, so I left her alone. She left in a huff a little while later with a parting shot about how she didn’t understand why none of us would help her. 

Another patron who had overheard the whole thing piped up:

Other Patron: “Some people are beyond help.”

Many, many years ago, when I was but a lad of sixteen years old, I was working as a telemarketer (I know, I know, I’m sorry, I feel the crushing burden on my soul to this day) at a center located in California that commissioned with various different companies. 

One day I might be soliciting donations for political or environmental causes, the next I would be calling season ticket holders for zoos, orchestras, event halls, and the like for renewals, you get the picture.

We almost never called for businesses based out of California. Probably to make sure anybody whose dinner had been interrupted one too many times would have to really work for the bloody vengeance they swore upon our eternal souls, but I digress.

If there was an upside to that cheese-grater-to-the-gums job, it’s that we didn’t do cold calling; everybody we called had a previous transactional relationship with the company we were calling on behalf of.

This interaction came when I was calling season ticket holders for the Houston, Texas Symphony Orchestra, to see if they wanted to renew for the next season. And it gave me a new appreciation for the Mike Judge Magnum Opus, King of the Hill.

Bear in mind, I’m sixteen years old and Californian born and raised, and I had a few preconceived notions about rural southerners, which I would find utterly shattered over the next four delightful minutes… 

The call connects:

Customer: “Yea?”

Me: “Hello, Mr. [Customer’s Name]! This is [My Name] calling on behalf of the Houston Symphony Orchestra. I see you’ve been a season ticket holder for [number] years now, and we’re so grateful to you for your patronage! We wanted to see if you were interested in renewing your tickets for next year. How does that sound?”

Dear reader, I swear to you upon the soul of my non-existent firstborn son, this gentleman sounded EXACTLY like the King of the Hill character Boomhauer in his response…

Customer: “Wha? Dang ol’ Symphnee Orkstra man, dang ol’—” *Goes on for thirty seconds while I’m holding my breath and biting my tongue to refrain from laughing.* “—an’ my dang ol’ season tickets man.”

Me: *Practically choking.* “So… Um… Did you want to renew?”

Customer: “H*** YEAH I wan’ renew my dang ol’ season tickets man, dang ol’ wife wouldn’t—” *more Southern drawl my uncultured Californian ears can’t quite make out.* “—an’ my dang ol’ Mastercard ain’t changed man.”

Me: *Barely choking back my laughter.* “Uh, great! Thanks so much! I hope you have a great day!”

Customer: “Thanks, God bless man!”

I ended the call, and my supervisor came out of her office cackling like a madwoman, which broke the dam for me; we laughed for thirty seconds solid, at least. She gave me an early break, and we both walked to the break area to catch our breath. Sure taught me a thing or two about stereotypes!

Perimenopause has done a number on my head; the brain fog is intense. I forget common words and phrases constantly.

Barista: “Hi, what can I get started for you today?”

Me: “Hello, yes, thank you. May I please have a large, iced peppermint mocha latte?”

Barista: “Of course, skim okay?”

My brain screeches to a halt.

Me: “No, um, actually, can I have normal milk?”

Barista: “Um…”

Me: “Not normal, what’s the word for it? Not soy or almond. Although, there’s nothing not normal about soy or almond. It’s nice that there are alternatives now for people who are lactose intolerant. My sister is, poor thing. She always has to get soy milk… I’m sorry, you don’t care about any of this… I just can’t think of the word… cow milk, but not skim?”

The barista is chuckling at this point.

Barista: “Do you mean whole milk?”

Me: “OH MY GOD, YES, THANK YOU! Whole milk, please. I’m so sorry.”

Barista: “No worries! You really need your coffee.”

Me: “Agreed.”

I’m able to laugh about it now, but in the moment, I was so mortified. She was very nice and patient, though.

At the second-hand shop where I worked, book sales were down, and customers were complaining about being unable to find books they liked, so I was assigned by the manager to organize books.

Discovering they were arranged more or less randomly, I spent much of my workdays for an entire week sorting them out into sections based on customer requests for specific topics (arts and crafts seemed to be a very popular one, followed by manga) and labeling the rows on the bookshelves. Every row was organized alphabetically by the author’s last name. As more books came in, I would come by to put them on the shelves in their correct locations. I would answer questions customers had about books.

Due to the nature of how we ran, we had no control over very specific books, but customers were satisfied that they could now easily find books on particular topics and check if works of fiction by a particular author were available. Book sales had steadily climbed during and after I reorganized the books section.

Some months later, we got a new person working there. After a few days, I overheard her going around asking who does the books, but I didn’t think anything of it. I had also been working in other parts of the store, so I hadn’t really seen her. Eventually, she finds me and engaged in a cheery mood.

New Hire: “Are you the one in charge of the books?”

Me: “Yes, does a customer have a question?”

New Hire: “No, I just sorted them out. I want you to see it. I think you’ll like it.”

She proudly guides me over to the books section; all my work sorting out the books had been undone. They were now sorted by color of the spine, and from tallest to shortest. All of the labels had been removed. I felt panicked and exasperated that all the work I had done prior had to be restarted from scratch, and I think she could tell from my facial expressions and body language. I was going to tell her that the customers won’t be able to find the books they wanted, but as I looked over, she was gone–she had already retreated to the back area.

She…kind of avoided me for the rest of her brief time there. By the following week, she was gone. If she’s reading this, sorry for the emotional outburst at that, but please understand that I sorted the books for customers who wanted to read them, not for decoration.

I work in real estate. A friend of mine tells me they’re looking to buy a nicer apartment, and I end up having just the one for them. Her husband works in tech, so they get a million-dollar apartment (hey, it’s San Francisco), and I expect to get a healthy commission from the sale.

Except when my pay slip comes around, in which I am expecting to see it… nada. I bring it up with my boss:

Boss: “We can’t exactly go rewarding you with commission on an apartment you sold to your friends.”

Me: “Why? How is that any different from you selling that house to the owner of the golf club you go to?”

Boss: “That’s different.”

Me: “How?”

Boss: “He’s not my friend.”

Me: “But you were able to sell him the house because you knew him outside of work, right?”

Boss: “Yes, but that’s networking, not friends!”

Me: “I fail to see the difference in this instance. Do you agree that I sold the apartment and made the commission for the company?”

Boss: “Yes, but—”

Me: “—and so you’re saying because I knew the buyers in a non-professional context, I do not deserve my own commission?”

Boss: “You’re spinning words.”

Me: “No, I’m just calling out the hypocrisy. So, will I be able to tell my friends the good news that the company will be returning the entirety of the fees that they paid? After all, if I don’t deserve my commission, then neither does the company, right? They’ll be so thrilled; they’re saving for a new car.”

Boss: “We’ll talk about this later.”

We did not talk about it later, but I did get a check cut out for my commission by his confused secretary at the end of the day.

Related:
Commission Impossible, Part 2
Commission Impossible