Many, many years ago in the 1990s, when GPS, smartphones, online bill pay, and other such commodities were but a sci-fi dream, I was a teenager, and my parents and I took a family trip to California. Since we would be gone for a few weeks, my mom had brought the checkbook and was staying in contact with our house sitter who was opening our mail so that she could pay any bills that came in during our trip. So far, so good.

One morning, after staying in a motel in San Jose, we went in search of a post office to buy more stamps and mail out the bills. This was a suburban area, so we stopped at a gas station, filled the car, and went in to ask the cashier where the post office was. He stared at us in puzzlement.

Cashier: “Post office? I don’t think we have one of those.”

After assuring him that he absolutely did have one — otherwise, the mail would not arrive — we moved on in our search.

A short while later, we saw a traffic cop. Aha! Surely a police officer would know where the post office is. We parked off to the side and walked up to him. We explained how the gas station cashier thought there was no post office and laughed. He laughed with us.

Police Officer: “No, of course, we have one! It’s… It’s…”

Oh, dear. We sensed trouble.

Police Officer: “No, we do have one, I just… don’t think you can get there from here.”

Stymied by how a post office could be located in a place unreachable by humans, we left him at the corner.

In the end, we decided to wait another day to mail our letters. Thankfully, San Francisco had the foresight to install a post office and roads that led all the way to it.

During the health crisis, I am grocery shopping for the elderly and vulnerable. This is through a charity that gives me a prepaid credit card to buy the groceries. I then collect a cheque from the infirm and deliver it to the charity to pay off the card.

The credit cards are old-fashioned and don’t have chips so I have to slide them in the machine and sign the store receipt.

One time, the cashier asks to see the card. She looks at the back.

Cashier: “The card isn’t signed.”

Me: “No. Well, it’s a prepaid card.”

Cashier: “Right, but it’s not signed. How do I know it’s yours?”

Me: “Umm. Well, I volunteer shop for [Charity]?”

I pull an explanatory letter from the charity out of my wallet — needed when shopping for multiple families so I can get more than the allotted supplies, like toilet paper.

Me: “They fill the cards and give them to the volunteers. When they’re out of money, we return them and they refill them again. We can’t sign them because we don’t know who will get them next.”

Cashier: “Sorry, but it’s a card that’s not signed. I can’t accept it.”

There was a grumpy line forming behind me and we had only scanned the first of three family orders I was buying, and it takes a bit of time to process each.

I paid with my debit card and my volunteer coordinator paid me back with her petty cash. I avoid that cashier now as it’s hard to lend hundreds of dollars to a charity for several days while unemployed.

I plan a trip to the local superstore. A friend who lives in an apartment has just discovered that her neighbor’s cockroach infestation has found the way into her apartment. She starts freaking out and asks me to pick up roach traps.

The cashier scans them with a look of disgust.

Cashier: “You know, the best way to not have cockroaches is to be clean. You can’t just drop food and not clean it up! That’s disgusting!”

Me: “Not that it’s any of your business, but these are for a friend. A very clean friend. The roaches climbed through the wall from the next apartment.” 

Cashier: *Doubting me* “Oh, really? Why didn’t your ‘friend’ buy these herself?”

She actually makes air quotes when she says, “Friend.”

Me: “If you must know, she’s self-conscious and upset. I volunteered to get them so she wouldn’t have to deal with an ignorant, bigoted b**** like you.”

Her jaw was still dropped as I left the store.

I’m recovering from surgery, and due to a combination of conditions, I’m VERY limited on what I’m allowed to eat. I’ve been craving a sandwich from a specific chain, and my boyfriend checks the ingredients online and verifies that it’s safe for me, with a minor modification. We go through the drive-thru.

Boyfriend: “Can I get a [sandwich] with no mustard, and a [combo] meal?”

Cashier: “A [combo] with no cheese?”

Boyfriend: “No, a [sandwich] with no mustard and a [combo].”

Cashier: “A [sandwich] combo?”

Boyfriend: “No, just the sandwich. No mustard.”

Cashier: “[Other sandwich], no mustard. Got it.”

Boyfriend: “No, it’s a [sandwich].”

This goes on for a few minutes. The cashier either gets the wrong item or the wrong modification. Finally, my boyfriend looks like he’s about to scream.

Boyfriend: “You know what? I’ll come inside.”

Cashier: “Okay, two ; it’ll be [amount] at the window.”

He went in by himself and was inside for a while. When he came back out, he told me that the cashier at the speaker looked stoned out of her mind. Luckily, the counter cashier was at least sober enough to take his order first try.

I’ve run the kitchen of a small cafe for six years, and I always get free coffee to go after my shift ends. Over time, the girls running the front have taught me how to use the large coffee machine myself so I can just step behind the counter and get my drink without bothering them with my order.

One day, as I do so, the new girl at the till just… stares at me with utter shock as I start pulling a shot.

Cashier: “Um, miss, you, uh, you can’t—”

It took me a moment to realise she’d just started that day and had only seen me twice, for a few minutes, in my chef’s outfit, while now I was obviously in street clothes with my hair down. The poor girl thought a “normal” customer had just casually walked behind the counter without even saying hello and started making coffee! 

We had a good laugh about it after I explained and the initial shock wore off. What a way for her to start off her new job! She now jokingly scolds me that I have to order like any other regular whenever I pass her to get my coffee.