The mall where I work is very close to a major outdoor concert venue. A concert is scheduled. I’m selling, dusting, and folding when two girls from a cosplay convention come up to my register. [Girl #1] holds up her handbag which is the size of a standard garment bag.

Girl #1: “Hi! Can I leave this here with you?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Girl #1: “Can I leave this here with you while we go to the concert?”

Me: “No, ma’am. I’m sorry, but you can’t.”

Girl #2: *Whining* “Why noooooooot?”

Me: “Because [Clothing Store] is not a storage facility, ma’am. No one here can watch your bag for the next three to four hours. Why don’t you lock it in your car?”

Girl #1: “Because the car is parked on the other side of the mall!”

Girl #2: “Yeah, like, it’s like a whole mile away!”

Me: “Well, I’m sorry, ladies, but you can’t leave your stuff here and expect us to watch it for you. It’s just not going to happen.”

They walked away muttering. I wanted to bang my head on the counter until I felt better. 

I told my manager about it, and she said, “You think it’s bad up HERE? Down on the first floor, they’re bringing in baby strollers and wheeled coolers and asking the same thing!”

Encounters of similar levels of insanity repeated themselves all weekend long.

Some years ago, I worked in the public library in a small-ish town and, as I am somewhat distinctive looking, a lot of library users would recognise me in other settings and approach me to chat with me about the library or ask me where we had met. I had a few run-ins where people tried to return their library books to me while I was working out at the gym and such, but this was the most memorable experience.

I am browsing in a high street clothes shop when an older woman with an armful of clothes taps me, unnecessarily firmly, on the shoulder and waves a dress at me.

Woman: “Find me this in a size fourteen.”

Me: “Sorry, I don’t work here.”

I turn to walk away but she grabs my shoulder.

Woman: “Yes, you do! I recognise you! You’re from that book shop!”

Me: “I work in the library, but—”

Woman: *Yelling* “So find me this in a bloody size fourteen!”

Her shouting has attracted the attention of a couple of the actual employees of the shop, who approach us to see what’s wrong.

Staff Member: “Ma’am, please lower your voice. I can help you.”

Woman: “I don’t want you! I want this rude b**** to do it!”

Staff Member: “She doesn’t work here.”

Woman: “She works somewhere! That means she works for me!”

At this point, several people who were earwigging nearby burst out laughing, and the sound took some of the wind out of the woman’s sails. I seized the opportunity and fled to a different section of the store. As I was at the checkout, one of the staff members approached me and asked me about the incident. He told me that the woman had done the same thing before, when she’d targeted an older man who was a volunteer in the charity shop across the street.

I understand people occasionally making this mistake; surely it happens a lot. But acknowledging that I work somewhere else and still expecting me to serve her, as if all people who work in front line customer services are some sort of interchangeable mass? Crazy.

I live in Italy. I’ve always been a fan of British men’s clothing, especially the country, gentlemanly style, but as a young student, I cannot justify the expense. While on a vacation in Cambridge, my girlfriend spots a jacket on the stand of a secondhand clothes vendor. It’s just what I am after: single-breasted with notch lapels and four-button cuffs, in a warm green corduroy. It’s as British as a red phone booth, it fits my size, and the price is a bargain. Of course, we snatch it up.

Once we’re back home, my girlfriend is getting ready to take the jacket to the dry cleaner and starts laughing.

Me: “What’s so funny?”

She points at the label stitched within the inside pocket: “Made in Italy”.

We’re on holiday in Austria, and as the weather is grey and rainy, we decide to hit a mall and do some shopping. My fiancé and I are in a clothing store, waiting to check out. In this store, there is only one queue, zigzagging through some impulse-item shelves, and whenever a register becomes available, the first person in line is called ahead.

The store is quite busy, and we’re standing just outside of the shelves with some people already forming a line between the regular aisles. Some middle-aged woman huffs at the younger woman with her.

Middle-Aged Woman: “I’m not going to wait in line!”

And she swiftly moves to the register near the exit of the row. She even calls the younger woman over.

Middle-Aged Woman: “This way, we’ll be able to leave here sooner and go on to the next store!”

Slightly embarrassed, the younger woman stays in the line.

Younger Woman: “I’m fine with waiting here.”

My fiancé, who is not one to speak out quickly and also doesn’t speak German very well, gets extremely irritated and keeps an eye on the lady. As I’m not a fan of confrontation either, I decide to wait until the cashier notices what the woman is trying to do.

As soon as the cashier finishes up her customer, the woman jumps up to the register and throws down some clothing to check out. Luckily, the cashier is very firm.

Cashier: “You will have to get in line if you want to buy these clothes.”

She turned around to rejoin the line, which had grown by four more people by now. The people around us were snickering when she sheepishly got behind the last person and waited her turn.

Related:
Not In Line And Out Of Line, Part 4
Not In Line And Out Of Line, Part 3
Not In Line And Out Of Line, Part 2
Not In Line And Out Of Line

I used to work at a small, family-owned scrub shop. Though we were the only shop in town, we had a great stock. Our return policy was very strict, and we could do it with a 10% restocking fee within thirty days or we could do a free exchange for a similar item. Occasionally, the owners would bend the rules if the customers talked to them, so my coworkers and I would often refer customers with problems to them. This was the strangest phone call I ever had regarding an exchange.

Me: “You’ve reached [Scrub Shop], [My Name] speaking. How may I help you?”

Customer: “Hello. I’d like to return some scrubs.”

Me: “Certainly. When did you purchase them?”

Customer: “November.”

It’s now January.

Me: “Unfortunately, ma’am, that falls outside our thirty-day window on returns, so I can’t do much for you, but if you call back tomorrow and ask for [Owner], maybe they can help.”

Customer: “Well, I really can’t wait. You see, I’ve just moved to a different state, and I need to mail my old scrubs back and get some new ones.”

Me: “Is there anything wrong with them?”

Customer: “Oh, no, they’re just the wrong color. You see, the hospital I used to work at required navy scrubs and the one I now work at requires grey scrubs.”

I start taking down notes for the owner.

Me: “So you’d need to ship them back? What brand and size are they?”

Customer: “Large [Brand].”

We do not carry that brand.

Me: “Ma’am, are you sure you meant to call [Store]? We have never carried [Brand].”

Customer: “Oh, I know. I got these online. I just want to exchange my old scrubs for new ones.”

Me: “Ma’am, I can’t take back scrubs we’ve never sold and just give you new ones for free.”

Customer: “Well, you just listen here now! I will send you my old scrubs and you will send me new ones in the proper color!”

Me: “We don’t ever carry the brand of the scrubs you’d be sending us. We couldn’t sell them. You’re welcome to discuss this with [Owner] tomorrow, but I can’t just send you free scrubs.”

Customer: “I will call [Owner] and I’ll complain about your attitude.” *Hangs up*

She really did call the owner the next day, and she was laughed off. Seriously, who tries to send a random product back to a store in hope of getting free items? Scammers are getting nuts!

Related:
Doesn’t Understand The Custom Part Of Customer, Part 20
Doesn’t Understand The Custom Part Of Customer, Part 19
Doesn’t Understand The Custom Part Of Customer, Part 18
Doesn’t Understand The Custom Part Of Customer, Part 17
Doesn’t Understand The Custom Part Of Customer, Part 16