(A customer is looking at the bottles of pop in the cooler, obviously searching for something.)
Me: “Can I help you find something, sir?”
Customer: “Yeah, do you have any water? I see diet Sprite, but that’s not quite the same.”
(It is the first of November, during a huge clearance sale on leftover Halloween candy. I finish ringing up a customer’s items and ask if she has any coupons that she’d like to use. Much to my surprise, she presents two: one for candy… one for nuts.)
Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I can’t use this coupon. You haven’t bought any nuts.”
(She looks blankly at me for a moment.)
Customer: “There are nuts in the candy.”
(This happens just a few days after Nelson Mandela died last year. Customer has bought two newspapers and is tutting as he handed them over.)
Customer: “What’s that Morgan Freeman done to get all over the front pages this time?”
(After winning €50 on a lottery scratch card, I go to the newsagent’s to cash it in and buy a new €10 ticket.)
Me: “Hi, I’d like a [€10 ticket], please. And could you also pay out this one?”
(The cashier hands me a new ticket, takes my winning ticket, and looks at it in a rather annoyed way.)
Cashier: *in a quite pedantic tone* “You know, you really should scratch it more thoroughly so the QR code is completely uncovered; otherwise it’s too much work for me.”
Me: *surprised* “Oh, since when has the system changed? I thought all you needed was the 4-digit number in the corner, so I always make sure that’s fully visible.”
Cashier: *annoyed* “Yeah, well, they changed the system earlier this week and they came to install this stupid new computer terminal, without as much as a word of warning. So yeah, now we need to scan the QR code on each ticket.”
Me: “Okay, that’s good to know; I’ll bear it in mind for next time.”
(The cashier scans my winning ticket’s QR code, and the message “winning ticket: €50” pops up on the terminal’s screen.)
Cashier: *hesitates, looks at the winning ticket, then at the new ticket he’d just handed me, and then starts typing numbers into the cash register* “Right, minus the €10 for your new ticket, I owe you €28.”
Me: “Ehm, no… that would be €40. I won €50, the new ticket costs €10.
Cashier: *now obviously annoyed* “No, I don’t think so! It says €28 on the cash register. The register is always right!” *tries to hand me €28*
Me: “I’m quite sure it’s €40. Could you check my winning ticket again?”
Cashier: “No, I won’t! I never buy lottery tickets! I don’t know how any of that works! My register says your change is €28 so that’s what you’re getting! The register doesn’t make mistakes!” *slams down the money on the counter*
(At this moment, the next customer in line, who had clearly seen the “winning ticket: €50” message on the terminal’s screen, decides to speak up on my behalf:)
Customer: *to the cashier* “I’m sure this gentleman is right. I just saw him win €50!”
Cashier: “Stay out of this!” *turns back to me* “Right, if money is obviously sooooo important to you, here’s your stinking two euros!”
(He grabs four 50ct coins from the till and slams them down on the counter, bringing the total change to €30.)
Me: *doing my best to remain icy calm* “Actually, you still owe me €10.”
Cashier: “Oh, really!? You know what?” *taking two €5 notes from the till, and throwing them on the counter* “Take it all! Take MY money! I hope you’re happy now! In fact, why don’t you go spend MY money right now? Buy a burger, why don’t you… and choke on it!”
Me: *walking to the exit with my €40* “Thanks for the tip, and pleasure doing business with you.”
(Although somehow I doubt I’ll go back there…)
(I hit my head in the cooler on the big cooling unit while stocking the beverages. My head starts bleeding profusely. I run into the bathroom to try to stop it, but blood keeps pouring down my face like a scene out of Carrie.)
Coworker: “Are you okay?”
Me: “No. Dan you call my husband to come get me? And call [Boss] to have him come cover my shift.”
Coworker: “I’ll be right back.” *calls people* “[Boss] says he doesn’t want to come back in because he already worked today. Your husband is on his way.”
Me: *still bleeding* “What does he mean he doesn’t want to come in? It’s his job! I can’t keep working like this!” *points to head wound*
Coworker: “I have a line out front. Do you need anything?”
Me: “No, I’ll just wait in here until my husband comes.”
(My husband arrives with another family member to drive my car home. As I am exiting the building, the phone rings. Out of reflex I answer it; it’s the boss.)
Boss: “Hey, [My Name], [Coworker] says you’re going home because you hurt yourself?”
Me: “Yes, I hit my head and I’m bleeding. My husband is here; I’m going home.”
Boss: “Well, we can’t leave just one person working…”
Me: “I don’t know what to tell you, [Boss], but it’s up to you to figure out. I’m going home.”
Boss: “Well… can you stay? I already worked today. I don’t feel like coming back in.”
Me: “Can I STAY?! I’m bleeding profusely from a head wound and I look like Carrie at the prom. If you want me to make sandwiches and scoop ice cream and bleed all over the food, you can take that up with the health department yourself. But I’m going home.”
Boss: “Well… can you call [Different Coworker]? I really don’t feel like coming in.”
Me: “She already worked today, too. She’s not going to want to come in. It isn’t my job to find coverage for my shift when I get hurt at work. I’m going home. Goodbye.” *hangs up*
