When I was thirteen or fourteen, I decided I wanted a PlayStation 3. My dad refused to buy me one, but my uncle made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He said that if I worked at his sweets shop for the two months of summer break, he would buy me a PS3 and some games in lieu of payment. For teenage me with no commitments, this seemed fantastic!

[Uncle] sold a kind of specialty snack known as a mini-samosa in his shop. They are like samosas but smaller, about 3.5 to 4 cm in size (about 1/2286 of a football field for my American friends). They were sold by weight in sealed packs of 250 gms and 500 gms as these were the most common amounts people bought.

Making those packages turned out to be my job. At some point after [Uncle] started his business, he realized that 250 gms was roughly the weight of twenty-eight mini-samosas and thus fifty-six were 500 gms. So, instead of weighing each packet, I was told to just pack by counting individual items, which was easier and saved time. We also sold them individually for people who wanted larger, smaller, or unusual amounts.

This was also around the time when our government started airing customer awareness PSAs (“Jaago Grahak, Jaago,” for my fellow Indians) — basically, telling customers to beware of fraudulent businesspeople.

One particularly hot afternoon, it was just [Uncle] and me at the shop. In India, frequent powercuts were very common during summers and thus there were no fans or AC running. Both tempers and temperatures were running high at the shop that day.

It was then that the villain of our story made his entry. He was a local resident and a regular. He seemed angry from the onset when he barged into the shop. He took a look at the fans and saw that they weren’t running, and then he angrily picked up a 500-gm pack of samosas.

Customer: “How many samosas are in this thing?”

Me: “That’s 500 gms.”

Customer: “I asked how many, not how much! Again, how many in this?”

I replied immediately since, you know, I had packed them.

Me: “Fifty-six.”

Customer: “How can you be so sure? You didn’t even count! You’re trying to cheat me! I demand that you pack me 500 gms of those individual ones, and don’t you dare cheat me again!”

I looked over at my uncle who was wet with sweat and fanning himself with yesterday’s newspaper. He slowly nodded, and I beamed a huge smile.

Me: “Sure, sir! Whatever you want!”

I took a bag, picked up some samosas, and started putting them on the balance. I kept counting samosas as I put them in until they were a little over 500 gms. Then, I removed the last samosa, and the weight fell below 500. Now, keeping eye contact with the customer, I crushed the samosa and started putting its powdery remains in the bag until it was exactly 500 gms.

But wait, there’s more! The guy apparently didn’t seem to mind powdered samosa but instead asked:

Customer: *Smugly* “So, how many samosas now?”

Me: *Triumphantly* “Forty-eight!”

You see, sometime in the past, my uncle’s old chef had retired, and the new chef made samosas with a little bit more filling in them. They looked the same size on the outside and only weighed a couple of grams more each, and since he made them in bulk and also sold to other shops in the area, the price wasn’t too much of an issue, so [Uncle] let it slide. But those couple of grams added up on mass orders, and that is what this customer found out the hard way.

He looked sheepishly at the pre-packed samosas and then at his own package and asked if he could buy the former instead.

My uncle finally spoke.

Uncle: “No, my nephew made a package specially for you, at your own request, so that is what you have to buy.”

The man silently took his pack, paid, and left. He was a lot more respectful during his subsequent visits.

I was reminded of this story yesterday when my PS3 finally died.

As a candy store, we’re involved in a promotional campaign for the latest Willy Wonka movie and we sell novelty ‘Wonka’ chocolate bars. A customer is browsing some of our chocolates and spots the bars.

Customer: “Are those real Wonka bars?”

Me: “They’re real chocolate, yes. They’re part of the promotional campaign for—”

Customer: “—wow! So they come from his chocolate factory?”

Me: “Well, actually, I think they come from a factory in Illinois, but it’s—”

Customer: “—wow! So that’s a real place! With the little munchkins?”

Me: “I think you mean Oompa Loompas, but no, that’s just in the movie, which is actually based on a book. This company just—”

Customer: “—wow! I didn’t know that was a real place! Amazing! I need to visit sometime so I can swim in that chocolate river.”

Realizing now that he’s not listening to a word I’m saying, I figure I might as well turn this useless conversation into a potential sale.

Me: “Would you like to buy one?”

Customer: “Yes! You never know; I might win a golden ticket!”

Hey… a sale is a sale.

When I worked in a mall, there was a little tea shop that I absolutely adored. Most of the employees were about my age, and everyone was super nice… Unlike the customers.

This was in a rather affluent suburb of Chicago, and if you didn’t know it, you wouldn’t last long in your position.

At the time, I worked in a candy shop. Basically, we could eat whatever we wanted and give out free samples, which meant we’d get free tea — and other goodies, like bags of tiny perfume samples, from all around the mall — in exchange.

One day, I stopped by to deliver candy and pick up our tea, and I found a new employee in training. She was standing to the side, staring at the floor, while her supervisor (a very punk woman with multi-colored hair, covered in tattoos) helped a rather well-dressed woman. Obviously, the transaction hadn’t gone too well.

I plopped down the bag bursting with candy as the woman left in a huff.

Me: “Hey, [Supervisor], how’s it going? Here’s today’s delivery!”

Supervisor: “Ugh. It’s going. Have you met [New Employee] yet?”

Me: “No, I haven’t. Hi, I’m [My Name]! I love your headscarf; it’s beautiful. And it really brings out your eyes.”

The new employee smiled awkwardly and thanked me. [Supervisor] finished brewing the teas and handed them to me.

Supervisor: “Thanks!”

Me: “No worries. Thank you! See you around, [New Employee]! Oh, hey, what’s your favorite candy? Stop by our store on your break and see what you like. So long as we get free tea, you’ll get free candy for life.”

Her smile at that was genuine.

She was there almost every time I was there, and she began to wear even cooler headscarves, which I did my best to compliment her about.

And then, her sister started working with me at the candy store! She was required to wear a particular headscarf (stupid corporate mandates), but we got along so well, and that first encounter with that horrible woman was quickly forgotten.

We’re all people. Some people are weathering worse storms than you are. For goodness’ sake, be nice.

I am a shift leader at a chocolate shop that serves fondue. We serve bananas, among other things, to dip in the chocolate.

One time, we get a bad batch of bananas that we have to throw away early because they get so bad so fast. We’re telling customers that they will get extra of everything else, but we have no bananas.

Customer: “I want a fondue.”

I give her the “no bananas” speech.

Customer: “…fine.”

As soon as we take the fondue out to her, she suddenly freaks out.

Customer: “What about the bananas?! Where are the bananas?!”

Customer’s Son: “Mom, they said they didn’t have any!”

Customer: *To her son* “Shush!” *To me* “Where are the bananas?! What’s the point of having the fondue without the bananas?!”

Me: “Ma’am, I—”

Customer: “Stop talking and answer me!”

I don’t know what happened. Maybe it was her sudden shrieking, or maybe it was my brain short-circuiting at the impossibility of her last demand, but the next thing that comes out of my mouth is:

Me: “Well, ma’am, I told you we had no bananas. If you want them so badly, we have some spoiled ones in the dumpster out back. Feel free to help yourself.”

She ended up calling over our pushover manager and got a free fondue. Her embarrassed son tipped the equivalent fondue amount.

It is the week before Christmas, which also happens to be the week of my birthday, and I decide to buy a box of chocolates for my husband from a particular up-market chocolate retailer. This shop has a loyalty scheme which I found out about a few years back. The biggest draw of the loyalty scheme is that you get a free box of chocolates with another purchase within thirty-six hours of your birthday, so I now ensure that at least one Christmas gift comes from there, and I get an extra box as a personal treat.

I originally signed up for the loyalty scheme during the global health crisis and was told that they couldn’t hand me a physical loyalty card, but each time I come in, I should give my address at the cash point and they will find my account, add any loyalty points, and ensure that I am given any free gifts. I’ve done this every time since, no cashier has ever questioned it, and it has never occurred to me that there might be an easier way to do things.

On this occasion, being so close to Christmas, there is a long line for the cash points. While I’m waiting, I hear customers over and over being asked if they have a loyalty card and the majority then giving postal code details for an address search. I then become aware that the cashiers are asking for either a loyalty card or the mobile app, and I pretty much facepalm in the middle of the shop, realising that, OF COURSE, they must have an app and it will be so much easier for me to flash a virtual card. I get out my phone and try to register my details, failing to complete the task before I am called forward.

It’s also important to note that the birthday chocolates are chosen from a selection at the registers, so there’s nothing in my hands apart from the box for my husband and no indication that I’m looking for a free gift. Also, in case it’s relevant, I’m thirty-seven and the cashier is in her early twenties.

Cashier: “Do you have our loyalty card?”

Me: “Actually, I do have an account, and I’ve just been trying to get signed up on the app. Usually, I have to do an address look-up, but I wanted to make things easier for you guys—”

The cashier interrupts me in a singsong voice.

Cashier: “We don’t do address look-ups; you have to show us a physical card or virtual card on the app.”

Me: “Oh, but…”

I gesture to the cash desk next to me where her colleague is clearly taking postcode details from another customer.

Me: “Are you sure? I mean…”

Cashier: *In the same sickly-sweet voice* “You know, apps really are important in life. You can’t just ignore technology. You really should learn to use them.”

I’m torn between really looking forward to my free chocolate but also wanting to avoid confrontation and get out of the situation.

Me: “I’m sorry, I do use apps, I didn’t realise you had this option, and I have always done things differently here, but I guess that’s not important. Don’t worry about it for today. Please just ring up these chocolates, and I’ll get myself sorted for next time.”

The cashier rings up my husband’s chocolates and takes my payment, but then, rather than handing me the box, she keeps holding it and continues to say:

Cashier: “Just for reference, if you had signed up on the app, you would automatically have the virtual card loaded on your phone, so your story makes no sense. Please don’t treat retail workers like we are stupid.”

Me: “Oh, no, I didn’t. I mean, I would never. The whole time, I was trying to make things easier. Also, I’ve never used the app before. I first signed up in the shop at the register, and—”

Cashier: “In which case, we would have given you a card immediately. Again, you are treating me like I’m stupid. You’ve obviously lost your card.”

Me: *Close to tears* “It was during the [health crisis] when physical cards were not being given. Again, I’m sorry this has all been taken the wrong way, but I can see that it’s really busy today, and I don’t want to add to your stress. Please give me my purchase, and I’ll get out your way.”

As I walked out of the shop, I heard her and her colleague burst out laughing. Honestly, if I inadvertently did something wrong and confused the cashier, I’m sorry about that, but it did feel like she was having a bad day and decided that I was in the wrong from the outset, or possibly she and her colleagues had decided to mess with a random customer. Why else would she insist on not doing an address look-up when others were happening right next to me?

I also wonder what would have happened if I’d said I had the app but my phone was broken or something. Anyway, I didn’t get my birthday chocolates this year, and I hope my husband shares his!