(This is an actual conversation I had with someone working at the billing department of a cable company.)

Me: “Thank you for calling [Company]; how may I help you?”

Customer: “Yes, I want my credit card back!”

(Long pause, I make an awkward face.)

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is the call center billing department, not the cable store. What is the issue with your credit card?”

Customer: “Well, here’s what happened. I went to the cable store and I didn’t get there before it closes. But my bill is due today. So, I took an envelope, included my statement portion that had my balance and account info, and I also put in my credit card and a note that read, ‘Please process payment and return to forwarding address.’ I then dumped the envelope and its contents into the dropbox outside the store. Well, it’s been over a week and I have yet to receive my credit card.”

(I pause for a few seconds in shock that this woman did this.)

Me: “Well, ma’am, I’m sorry to say, but there is a possibility that your card might be stolen.”

Customer: “What you mean, it’s stolen? What am I supposed to do now? Go talk to the store?”

Me: “Well, the first thing I’d do is contact your bank and report your card stolen to avoid fraudulent charges. Then, you can talk to the store manager about that issue.”

Customer: “Will they do something?”

Me: “I honestly don’t know, ma’am. I’m guessing they’ll have to file a report and do some sort of an investigation.”

Customer: “Well, what was I supposed to do in that situation?”

Me: “Ma’am, you do realize that the dropbox is for check or money order payments only? If you were going to make a credit card payment we could’ve done it for you for no charge.”

Customer: “Oh… I don’t trust making a payment over the phone.”

(And yet she trusted putting her credit card in an envelope to be returned back to her?) 

Related:
Gotta Give Them Credit For Trying, Part 2
Gotta Give Them Credit For Trying

(My high school chemistry teacher is a very stern, organized lady. One of my friends is very bright but not organized at all, and he hates the very structured reports we have to make of our chemistry labs. He is constantly getting points off for one detail or another. One facet of these reports is that they are required to have two columns: one for equations and one for long-form notes. One lab, my friend and I are partnered and he actually is trying to do his report properly. The chemistry teacher comes to look over our work and taps his chemistry notebook disapprovingly.)

Teacher: “You haven’t labeled these columns; how am I supposed to know which is equations and which is notes?”

Friend: “See the one with numbers in it? That’s the equations column.”

(My friend immediately looked horrified with himself. He and the teacher just stared at each other for a long moment, and then she finally just huffed and moved on to the next group. I do realize that such labels are probably useful in a real laboratory, but to be fair to my friend, the teacher did sort of set herself up for that!)

(At the restaurant where I am a hostess, all customers can sit at the bar whenever they want, but have to check in at the front hostess stand in order to be seated at a table. This man who has a priority seating arrangement refuses to understand this.)

Me: “How are you tonight?”

Customer: *points to his name on the priority seating list* “That’s me. I want to go to my table now.”

Me: “Okay, I will check you in.”

Customer: “No, I want to go now. I’ve been at the bar!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but you did not check in. I have no way of knowing you are here if you haven’t told me. I can seat you in a few minutes.”

Customer: “But I’ve been waiting at the bar! Why didn’t you come get me?”

Me: “As I said, we did not know you were here as you did not check in.”

(This continued for a while until he left, apparently angry that I didn’t have telepathic powers to tell me when he decided to grace us with his presence.)   

(In my teens, I used to dance competitively. If you’ve ever been to a dance competition, you know that even the young kids have to wear a LOT of stage makeup. This happens right after a competition day. My family has taken me to a restaurant for dinner to celebrate my new medals. I’m tired and sweaty, not all of my makeup would come off, and the waiting area is standing-room-only, so with my parents’ permission, I step out to a bench directly outside the waiting area. It’s a cool night, so I sprawl out on the bench and am soaking in the cool breeze when I hear voices nearby. I sit up and see some guys around eighteen or nineteen pointing at me and nudging each other. Before I can really ascertain what they are doing, one of them comes over to sit next to me.)

Guy: “Hey there. What are you doing here all alone?”

Me: *immediately flashing back to school warnings of strangers in white vans offering candy* “U-um… my parents are right in there!”

Guy: “Ugh, parents, right?”

Me: *visible confusion* “Um… yeah?”

Guy: “So, are you from around here?”

(The conversation continues for a few minutes with me giving vague, confused answers while the guy’s buddies stand around snickering at their friend apparently getting nowhere. I still haven’t figured out what’s going on, but then…)

Guy: “You’re kind of young, aren’t you? How old are you?”

Me: *honestly* “Th-thirteen…”

Guy: *jumping off the bench like it is white-hot* “WHOA! Okay! You have a great night, hon! Uh… call me in like… five years!”

(He bolted, his friends following after howling with laughter. I uneasily returned inside. My mom nearly had a heart attack when I recounted the exchange to her. Somehow she managed to miss the whole thing, even though I was within line-of-sight!)

(I’m working a late shift at the cash register on a pretty nondescript evening. A customer comes up, and I start checking him out.)

Customer: *mumbles* “Flyer changed.” *mumbles*

Me: “Excuse me?”

Customer: *mumbles* “Flyer changed.” *mumbles*

(I always feel awkward about asking people to speak up more than once, so I try to worm my way out of the conversation with a canned answer.)

Me: “Yeah, that’s, uh, weird.”

Customer: *suddenly at full volume* “What do you mean ‘weird’?”

(I’ve never been caught in a canned answer before, so I start stuttering.)

Me: “That’s… I… Uh—”

Customer: “What do you mean ‘weird’?”

(Desperate for a bail-out, I employ one of my secret weapons: I jokingly give myself a light smack upside the head.)

Me: “Sorry, sir, I don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s been a long—”

Customer: *cuts me off* “Oh, you’re special needs, huh?”

(I stare at him for a second.)

Me: “No. I’m not.”

Customer: “The flyer changed since the last time I was here.”

Me: *not even pretending to be friendly anymore* “Yeah. It does that.”

Customer: “Why are you hitting yourself? That’s scary.”

(I heave a sigh and finish his order in complete silence. I hand him his receipt and give a half-hearted “have a good one,” and as he’s walking away, he says this:)

Customer: “Hey, don’t do drugs, okay?”

(Yeah, sure, pal. Clearly the only reason I’d do something like is that I’m special needs or on drugs. Not because you’re a frigging low-talker who apparently doesn’t know how grocery store flyers work.)