CONTENT WARNING: Child Abuse

When I am seven or eight years old. My family is sitting down for dinner and, to my excitement, my mom and step-dad bought a two-litre bottle of Coca-Cola today. Having any kind of soda or junk food in the house is a miracle, so I am understandably eager to get myself a glass of bubbly goodness.

I wait until I have eaten some of my dinner before asking about it.

Me: “Can I have some pop?”

My step-dad interrupts before my mom can say no.

Step-Dad: “Here, why don’t you try some of this first?”

He proceeds to grab an honest-to-goodness glass cup — which makes me excited as us kids only ever get plastic — and pours it half-full with a dark liquid from a glass bottle the adults have been drinking from. He hands it to me, and I naively proceed to take a large mouthful… only to spit it all back into the cup in disgust! It isn’t juice; it is WINE.

Me: “Eww! This is gross! I don’t want this!”

Mom: *Angrily* “You just can’t waste it! You need it to drink it all. Drink it and then you can have pop.”

Me: *Starting to get upset* “What? No, please! I just want some Coke. Can I please have that?”

My mom goes to say no again when my step-dad says, “Sure,” gets up, and grabs the soda bottle. I begin to feel better as he comes back to the table… but then he pours the soda INTO the cup of wine, filling it to the top! I can already feel myself begin to get upset again.

Mom and my step-dad both stare at me.

Mom & Step-Dad: “Well?!”

I hesitantly try a sip and, unsurprisingly, it’s worse than before. I put the cup down immediately. 

Me: “I can’t drink this! It’s gross!”

Mom: *Snapping* “You’re going to drink it all; do you understand me?! You asked for that and I’m not going to waste it just because you changed your mind!”

Me: *Beginning to cry* “I didn’t want this. I just wanted some Coke. Please, I just want some pop — not this other stuff!”

Mom: *Almost yelling now* “You’re going to finish that glass and I’m not going to hear another word out of you otherwise. I don’t care if you have to sit here all night; do I make myself clear?”

I didn’t bother protesting further, because that would have only resulted in getting punished for back-talk. Instead, I just sat there and cried. She did keep me at the table after everyone else finished eating, berating me on and off for a few hours as she cleaned up, while I just sobbed and sobbed. I only got sent to bed — that wine-soda monstrosity still untouched — because it was a school night.

My brother and I are returning from vacation and are waiting for our luggage to come off the plane. We, like literally everyone else, are standing at the carousel where the luggage comes down. We happen to be standing at the end of the carousel closest to where people disembark, so there is a large crowd of people waiting and walking past.

Despite that, everyone is waiting patiently as the luggage begins to arrive. I even help an old woman whose luggage is stuck in a pile.

Then, as we’re waiting, I hear a man behind us say loudly:

Man: “Inconsiderate.”

Not realizing he is apparently talking about us, we continue waiting. A few seconds later:

Man: “I can’t believe how inconsiderate some people are. A**holes.”

He shoves me aside and stands where I was standing.

Me: “Hey!”

Man: “Well, if it’s okay for you to stand here and block everyone, it’s okay for me to do it, too!”

Me: “What?”

Man: “You’re just standing in everyone’s way, blocking it so only you can get your luggage!”

Brother: “It’s a carousel. You can stand anywhere and get your luggage.”

Man: “You guys are just inconsiderate a**holes. You’d better hope your luggage doesn’t go past me because I’m not getting out of the way for you.”

Me: “Okay, well, we’re going to go stand literally anywhere else because it’s a carousel and we can do that. This clearly means more to you.”

We went and stood on the other side while he continued to rant and steam about us. We actually wound up getting our luggage first because we’d moved closer to the start of the belt, and we got out of there before the security guards who were watching decided to get involved!

I volunteer at a Fair Trade store for several years starting when I am sixteen. There is one overall manager and four assistant managers that are the only paid positions on staff. I am fortunate that the majority of customers are great; it is a store in an out-of-place area so most of them already know about our mission statement and everything before coming in. There are two incidents in particular that were interesting experiences:

We sell hazelnut chocolate bars that are pretty popular. Now, you would think, given that it says, “hazelNUT,” that customers would know that there are nuts in the bars. I’m restocking shelves when a woman walks in who bought one of these chocolate bars a few hours ago.

Customer: “I demand a refund for this chocolate bar!”

She shoves the bar at me, about three-quarters eaten. 

Me: “What was the problem, ma’am?”

Customer: “You didn’t tell me there were nuts in the chocolate! I had an allergic reaction and almost died.”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that, but given that the name of the chocolate bar was ‘Hazelnut’ and there was no nut-free symbol, I didn’t see a need to tell you, especially since you gave no indication that you had an allergy.”

Customer: “B****! Get me your manager!”

I walk into the back room where the assistant manager for the day is making some hot chocolate. 

Me: “I’ll finish the hot chocolate; you’ll need after you deal with the crazy up front.”

The manager laughed before going up. The customer didn’t get her refund.

The other incident is near the holiday season, so we are actually pretty busy. It’s a small store with only one register; I am on cash, someone is bagging/gift wrapping, and two people are on the floor.

A lady comes up with piles of stuff. There are more than thirty items and several multiples — four or five of the same chocolate bars or bracelets. She insists that I scan everything individually instead of punching in how many; why, I don’t know. Her total is over $200, and she pulls out her debit and tries tapping it.

Me: “It won’t work for tapping anything over $100; you have to insert or swipe.”

The customer completely ignored me and tried tapping it multiple times while the machine was beeping. 

After several tries, she eventually inserted it, but then couldn’t remember her PIN. So, she called her bank; meanwhile, a line was forming behind her. They informed her that she did not have enough money in her account and she needed to come into the bank. I could hear her angrily yelling at them before hanging up and storming out, leaving all her items behind. I pushed them to the side and cashed out the remaining customers. When there was a bit of a lull, the other volunteers and I put all the items away.

Just before closing time, she reappeared and was beyond pissed that we had put away all her items, and she wanted a discount for her “trouble”. She glared at me the whole time she was being cashed out.

Holiday season can bring out the crazies.

Related:
It’s About To Get Real Nutty

Eleven or twelve years ago, I lived in a small basement apartment. On the same floor, near my apartment, there was a washer and dryer for the residents to use.

My new neighbor, living in the apartment above mine, was a young student, about eighteen years old. When he used the washing machine the first time, I kept hearing weird noises I had never heard coming from the machine. I went to check on it because if something went wrong with one of the machines I relied on for my clothes, it could end up being my problem.

As soon as I opened my door, I noticed a strange smell coming from the washer like something was starting to burn. I opened the lid and saw that the machine was crammed with clothes and towels. It was so full, it could not even spin, and there was not much water in it. I unplugged the machine to try and stop the damage and called my landlord who lived nearby.

When she saw how crammed the machine was, she got mad at me. I reminded her that I was not the one who did this; I only called her to inform her of the problem since my neighbor who caused the problem was gone. I helped her empty the machine and we filled two garbage bags with clothes and towels, leaving about a normal load.

Just before she could plug the machine back in, she saw my upstairs neighbor entering the building. She called him over and asked him if the clothes in the machine were his. He said yes and he asked why she took them out of the machine, as if the smell coming from it was not a clue enough!

I don’t remember exactly what she told him, but she was practically screaming at him. It turns out he had never used a washing machine before moving out of his parents’ home, but he could have at least looked at the instructions printed on the inside of the lid that clearly explained the point to which you could fill the machine with clothes.

Many weeks after this, he was still mad at me for calling the landlord, even though he did not have to pay for any repairs because the machine worked fine after that. He even told me that it would not have been the end of the world to go to his parents’ house to get his clothes washed while the machine was broken. It clearly did not even cross his mind that it could inconvenience other people besides him.

I’m the customer in this story. I went to [Popular Big Box Store Chain] location a few weeks ago and purchased two pairs of jeans. I stupidly tried on one pair at the store but not the other, assuming that they would both be fine since they were the same size, even though they were different brands. Sure enough, when I get home, the pair I haven’t tried on is way too big.

I return to the store location to return the larger pair and am directed by a staff member to the returns counter at the back of the store. Since it is a Saturday, it is fairly busy and there are a lot of people ahead of me in line for the returns desk. The desk is being staffed by two store employees processing customer returns, with another employee acting as a “runner” returning sellable product back out to the sales floor. Since I have a bit of a wait, I get to see the customers returning their items ahead of me.

One older gentleman is a few places ahead of me and finally makes it to the returns desk.

Gentleman: “I’d like to return a pair of pants. Here is the receipt.” 

Employee: “Okay, where are the pants, sir?”

Gentleman: “They’re the ones I’m wearing.”

Employee: “You’re wearing them?! You have to give them back to return them, sir!”

Gentleman: “Well, I’ll get another pair. I just don’t like this pair. I’d like to return them.”

Employee: “I guess if you find another pair we can exchange them… but we can’t just give you money back without taking the old pair, and we can’t have you stand around in the store in your underwear!”

Eventually, the desk employee gets the runner involved to take the gentleman to the section and assist him so that he can find another pair to replace the old ones.

I watch the remaining people in line ahead of me make their way to the desk, hoping I end up with the same employee who helped the older man. Fortunately, the timing works out.

Me: “I’d like to return this pair of pants—” *pause* “—that I’m not wearing.”

Employee: *Laughs*