(I work for an Internet marketing company. I provide a variety of Internet marketing products to a variety of clients, but I do not speak to the customers directly. That aspect of the job is handled by an account manager. This is a conversation between myself and one of my account managers. It is important to note — for this story — that both the account manager and his supervisor are African American. The customer in question owns a music store.)

Assistant Manager: “So, [Client] asked me to remove all images of African American people from his site and the marketing products and replace them with images of ‘beautiful Caucasian women with blonde hair.’”

Me: “I’m sorry, what?!”

Assistant Manager: “Yeah, it was an awkward phone call. He feels that black people don’t represent his customer base or his business.”

Me: “Does he… Does he think that black people don’t play instruments?”

Assistant Manager: “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Me: “I’ll just remove all images of people in general and we can tell him that we didn’t have enough stock images featuring ‘Aryan’ women playing instruments.”

Assistant Manager: *dies laughing*

(The account manager took the request to his supervisor — again, also a black person — who told us to just make the changes to avoid an escalation. I wonder if the client knows that a large portion of the people he works with at this company are not white?)

(I am taking my son to an appointment thirty minutes away from where we live. We usually get breakfast on the way and we do the same today. We get food near our house at [Fast Food Place] and we are driving along when, halfway to our destination, I realize they have forgotten part of our order. I do not have time to go back, so I decide to take a chance and see if another location on the way to our destination will help me out. I go in and patiently wait for my turn to talk with the staff.)

Me: “I know you guys are franchises and this happened at another location, but I am hoping you can help me.”

(The cashier nods for me to continue.)

Me: “I have to get him to an appointment by nine and we are halfway there, and the other location is fifteen minutes back that way, and when we went through the drive-thru they forgot part of the order.”

Cashier: “Oh, yeah, sure. We can get that for you. What was it?”

(I let her know and the manager passed by nodding and saying, “Yep, just put it through.” I was told it would be a few minutes, but really it was only a few seconds because the manager went over to the line and had them make the food real quick. I was very grateful because I was willing to buy another sandwich since I did not check that my order was correct before leaving the other location. This just shows that if you are polite and understanding, a lot of places will work with you.)

(It’s about 7:40 pm. The deli stops serving hot foods at seven, and deli clerks are to clock out by nine. We are behind as it is. My coworker and I are cleaning the deep fryers, washing dishes, and the like.)

Customer: *approaches hastily* “Are you guys closed?”

Coworker: *stops washing dishes* “Yeah, we are. Sorry.”

Customer: *annoyed* “Well, that’s just great! When do you normally close?!”

Coworker: “We close every night at seven, ma’am.”

(The customer lady checks her phone to see the time and just grunts annoyingly.)

Customer: “So, you’re telling me I can’t get four chicken tenders?!”

(There is a pan of old, kind of burnt chicken tenders in the now turned-off display case. It’s not been heated for way over the ten-minute rule and was dried out even before we turned off the heat. I stop in the middle of cleaning the deep fryer and turn to her.)

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am. But we stop serving food from that side of the deli at seven. I can get you something from our salad bar—”

Customer: *interrupting me* “You’re telling me you can’t give me four chicken strips?!”

Me: “No, ma’am…”

Customer: “Then what’re you gonna do with them?!”

Me: “Normally at seven, if the tenders are still fresh, we put them in the fridge to be packaged up tomorrow and sold as cold food. But those have been sitting for a while even before we closed, so—”

Customer: *interrupting again* “You can’t give me four d*** chicken tenders?!”

Me: “I just said—”

Coworker: “Sorry, we can’t. It’s the rules.”

Me: “Yeah, it’d be against code for me to serve them to you.”

Customer: “Fine! Whatever!” *leaves*

(My coworker and I exchange looks and then get back to what we were doing. The customer comes back not two minutes later.)

Customer: “So, you’re telling me I can’t get four d*** chicken tenders?!”

Me: *internally screaming* “No, ma’am. You cannot. If you really want some, we do have some cold packaged tenders over at the cold display case.”

Customer: “But isn’t that stale, too?”

Coworker: “No, it’s not, ma’am. It was cooled and packaged before it was stale, keeping it mostly fresh for you—”

Customer: “So, you’re telling me that the packaged tenders are stale?”

Coworker: “No… It’s not. It’s more like…” *starts trying to explain to her how bacteria in food and temperature works like on our food handlers test*

Customer: “So, the packaged ones are filled with bacteria.”

Coworker: “No. It’s…” *starts repeating himself*

Me: “It’s not how it works, ma’am. And it’s just too late. The hot food is closed down for the night. We’re just following the rules.”

Customer: “I just want four chicken tenders!”

Coworker: *starts explaining again*

Me: “We’re not supposed to, ma’am. We don’t make the rules.”

Customer: “So, you’re telling me the packaged tenders have bacteria in them?!”

Coworker: *getting really tired of repeating himself*

Me: “Look, I’m sorry, ma’am. But we just don’t want to give you bad food and get in trouble. All right?”

(That seems to have done it, because she then leaves again and doesn’t come back.)

Coworker: *after a few minutes* “I miss her.”

Me: “Me, too… If she comes back, I wanna make sure to throw those tenders into the compost right in front of her.”

(I make the drinks for the restaurant. A few minutes after delivering an order to the table, the server for that section comes up to my bar.)

Server: “You’re not going to believe this.”

Me: “What is it?”

Server: “The lady who ordered the pint of soda…”

Me: “…”

Server: “…she says she wants her pint in a smaller glass.”

(We separate the drink out into two half-pint glasses, not wanting to rip her off and waste any of it seeing as she already paid. Her response?)

Customer: “I don’t understand how you expect me to drink all this!”

(I’m shopping in a big shoe store with my mom. While wandering the back rows, a woman grabs me and this conversation ensues.)

Woman: “Excuse me. Can you help me with these shoes?” *points to a display of shoes on an end row*

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry; I don’t work here.”

Woman: *snottily, rolling her eyes* “I know you don’t work here. I just have a question about these shoes.”

Me: “Oh, okay.”

Woman: “Do you know what the price is?”

Me: “No… because I don’t work here.”