I work in a Mexican fast food restaurant. We give everyone a receipt with a number on it for their order. Today, the receipt machine is broken, so we are verbally telling our customers their numbers. Most people remember their number, but we write it down if they ask us to. An older guy who’s already ordered comes up to the counter.

Customer: “Where’s my food?!”

Me: “What’s your number?”

Customer: “I don’t know! The lady never gave me a receipt!”

Me: “Okay, well, what did you order? I can just look for it.”

Customer: *Extremely exasperated* “I don’t remember!”

Me: *Blinks* “You don’t remember what you ordered?”

Customer: “I. Don’t. Remember!”

Me: “Um, okay.”

I look down at a chicken taco sitting on the counter that I called the number for a few times and no one ever showed up for.

Me: “Did you order a taco?”

Customer: “No! I would never order a taco!”

I look at the other food we have lined up that is for the families waiting, none of it for a single person.

Me: “Are you sure you didn’t order this taco?”

Customer: “I said I would never order a taco! Why didn’t she give me a g**d*** receipt?!”

I give him the most unamused look possible because, at this point, he’s just an a**hole.

Me: “Okay, well, if you don’t know your number and you don’t remember what food you ordered, then you’re just going to have to look at the menu and order again for free; that’s your only other option.”

I walk away because we’re busy and I have lots to do and I’m not going to keep arguing with him. My manager approaches him.

Manager: “Is there a problem, sir?”

Customer: “I want my food and they won’t give it to me!”

My manager looks down at the same taco that’s been sitting there through all of this.

Manager: “Did you order a chicken taco?”

Customer: “Yes!” *Takes it and leaves*

I am shopping at a local large retail store. I don’t think I am dressed as an employee, as they all wear blue vests, and I’m not wearing one. I hear loud coughing behind me and ignore it. Then, I get the feeling that I’m being watched. A woman comes into my peripheral vision and coughs loudly again. Seconds later, she full-on glares at me. 

Me: “Can I help you?”

Customer: “Finally! Yes, you can help me find the pregnancy tests?!”

Me: “I don’t work here, but I assume they’re with the condoms.”

Customer: “Don’t you dare sass me! I am a customer!”

Me: “Lady, I am a customer, too! I don’t work here!”

She storms off, only to come back with a tired-looking employee. 

Employee: “I need your name and employee number.”

Me: “I don’t work here!”

Customer: “Liar! I saw her put that doll back!”

Me: “I am shopping for a present for my niece!”

Employee: “Oh, do you not work here today?”

Me: “I don’t work here at all!“

A supervisor is called over, and I explain the situation to her. She looks confused, then amused, and she turns to the employee and customer.

Supervisor: “[Employee], this woman does not work here. And you don’t have the authority to punish anyone. You’re still in your probation period. And [Customer], don’t harass other customers. This is the second time you’ve been warned about your behavior. Next time, it will be a temporary ban. I’m so sorry, miss. [Employee], come with me.”

The woman gave me a look that would freeze over Hell and stormed away. The employee simply looked embarrassed as he followed the supervisor away.

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 37
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 36
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 35
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 34
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 33

Like many small PIN pads that request signatures on the screen with a stylus pen, the one at our store is pretty difficult to write with, at least smoothly or legibly. One day, a customer comes through my line with his friend.

Customer: *Signing the pad* “This looks nothing like my signature.”

Me: “That’s fine. It works.”

Friend: “What a smart thing to say while signing for a purchase on your credit card.”

Customer: *Pauses, then bursts out laughing* “Oh, God, you’re right! Forget I said that!”

Me: “Heh, don’t worry about it.”

Customer: “How genius is that? ‘Wow, this totally looks like fraud!'”

He couldn’t stop laughing on his way out of the store.

I am totally blind, and therefore I need specialized training to navigate public transportation, street crossings, etc.

I come to an intersection with my teacher and, as per usual, I end up standing at the curb, totally confused. When I think I have it figured out, I tentatively begin to walk, first checking with my teacher.

Teacher: “You’re right, but don’t wait too long or you’ll miss this chance.”

I begin crossing the street, quickly but cautiously, cane in hand, sweeping it left to right as I am supposed to. I’m maybe a quarter to halfway across the street when my cane smacks into a car, whose music is blaring loud enough to be heard over all the other sounds of the intersection.

Teacher: “Come back to the curb!”

I come back and my teacher explains:

Teacher: “You definitely had the right-of-way. The lady driving the car actually had the nerve to give you a dirty look!”

While she may not have said as much to me directly, I get the feeling my teacher would’ve torn her a new one right then and there.

Because of how long it took me to get that right, only to have it ruined, the lesson was pretty much over by then. My teacher allowed me to take her arm and cross the street, and then, shortly thereafter, took me home. My teacher and I were more often than not at loggerheads with one another, but this was one instance that proved she actually had my back.

It’s the late 1990s and my sister and I are kids. Over the few years this story takes place in, she is nine to twelve and I am ten to thirteen. She has developed some odd eating preferences.

My parents have always stocked our pantry with [Brand #1] pancake syrup. One day, they bring home a bottle of [Brand #2]. I try it and it’s fine, but I think [Brand #1] is a little better.

Sister: “Can you pass me the syrup?”

I slide over the bottle of [Brand #1].

Sister: “No! The [Brand #2] one! That one is gross.”

Me: “It’s [Brand #1]; we’ve always used it and you liked it before. How is it suddenly gross?”

Sister: “No, I haven’t! I only eat [Brand #2].”

Me: “We never even had [Brand #2] until very recently! You’ve eaten [Brand #1] all your life!”

We argue back and forth about it until our parents break it up, and they never try to back me up that my sister is rewriting history. We usually stock both kinds of syrup until we grow up but there are occasions when we’re out of one or the other. On an occasion where we are out of [Brand #2], my sister is a sobbing inconsolable wreck after learning that she cannot eat the pancakes Dad has made because the horrible, horrible [Brand #1] syrup is her only option.

Another time, we have the opposite problem; we have only [Brand #2].

Dad: “Bad news: we only have [Brand #2] syrup, so you won’t eat the pancakes.”

Me: “You’re thinking of [Sister] and her hatred of [Brand #1]. I think [Brand #1] is better, but I don’t mind [Brand #2].”

Dad: “No way. You always complain about [Brand #2].”

Me: “Dad, you have it completely backward!”

I grab the bottle of [Brand #2] and give him a pointed look while I pour it over my pancakes and start eating. My dad drops the issue.

My sister also suddenly decides to translate her habit of cutting the crust off of sandwiches to… pretty much every food with a flat surface. She starts cutting the edges off of pancakes and waffles. Aren’t waffles basically all “crust”? We make homemade cookies and she punches a hole out of the center, eats the one bite of that cookie, and throws the rest in the sink! It is so wasteful and we go through the cookies so much faster. I can’t even persuade her to leave the cookie rings aside for me to eat. She is convinced that the majority of each cookie is inedible “crust” and has to be thrown out. The edge brownies suffer a similar fate of being cut in half so their “crusts” can be thrown away.

Then, there’s cereal. No, she doesn’t cut the “crust” off of cereal; she just believes that when cereal boxes are redesigned, it means that the cereal is vastly improved and she convinces herself that the flavor is different. For example, one day, [Cereal] changes the design of the box to move the tagline from their commercials, “Cinnamon and sugar in every bite!” to the lower center of the box.

Sister: “Mmmm, it’s much better now!”

Me: “What are you talking about?”

She points excitedly to the tagline on the box.

Sister: “Now there is cinnamon and sugar in every bite!”

Me: “That’s just the thing they say in their commercials! It’s the same cereal; they just changed the box!”

Sister: *Eats another bite * “No, it’s much better now because there’s cinnamon and sugar in every bite.”

I could never convince her that it was the same cereal. I don’t know what her logic was. Did [Cereal Manufacturer] somehow previously arrange the cereal squares so they’d fall into the bowl in such a way that some bites would have cinnamon and sugar but then some bites were just plain wheat? She’s less insane as an adult, but her denials of reality used to drive me nuts when we were kids.