One year, I am on vacation at a large gaming convention in Indianapolis. The convention goes well, but when it comes time to fly home, I arrive at the airport and am informed that the flight is delayed due to engine trouble. Due to how busy the airport is, there aren’t going to be any alternative flights available until at least the next evening. So I and the other passengers on that flight wait. And wait. And wait some more.

Finally, more than two hours after my connecting flight in Denver has already left, my flight to Denver makes it to Indianapolis. Naturally, this means that we don’t get to Denver until late at night, and the airline puts us up in complimentary hotel rooms. They also give us little travel bags with toothbrushes, toothpaste, and other basic personal hygiene items.

Since I try to avoid checking through luggage, I still have all my stuff and proceed to toss the travel bag into my suitcase and forget about it.

The next morning, I am shuttled back to Denver International Airport. Things go smoothly until it is my turn to go through TSA screening. The screener scans my bags and then pulls my suitcase off the line.

Screener: “You were on that flight that was delayed from Indianapolis last night, weren’t you?”

Me: “Yes, how could you tell?”

He opens my suitcase, pulls out the travel bag, and removes the toothpaste.

Screener: “It’s just over the maximum size limit. I’ve been pulling these out all morning.”

He then waved me through, minus the toothpaste.

When I finally made it to my destination, I made sure to let the airline’s representative know about the issue with the toothpaste. I also was given a travel voucher over the flight delay; I know now that they should have given a cash refund. It turned out to have so many restrictions on what and how it could be used that it would have actually cost me more money trying to get the “discount” than just booking my seats regularly did. I made a habit of avoiding booking flights on that airline after that.

I am eating out, sitting in a booth, when I suddenly feel a sharp pain on top of my head. I flinch and turn to look, and I end up dodging the second swing of a spoon being held by a toddler in the next booth over. He has evidently stood up and decided that drumming on my head with a spoon would be a lot of fun.

I look at his parents; both of them are fully engrossed in their phones and are paying absolutely no attention.

The toddler swings again. I dodge and then fix him with a direct stare and a frown, before sharply shaking my head.

Me: “No, that hurts.”

The smile he has been wearing fades, and he ends up turning around and flopping down on the seat. I turn back to my meal, figuring that is the end of it, when the mother speaks up.

Mother: “How dare you?!”

I turn to see her glaring back at me.

Mother: “It’s not your place to scold my kid.”

Me: “It’s not my place to be your kid’s drum, either.”

She scoffed and actually stuck out her tongue before turning back to her phone. Meanwhile, her kid had moved on to doodling on the menu with a couple of crayons.

I’m waiting in line at a popular fast food restaurant when a man comes flying up to the counter and slams a burger container down beside the register, crushing it as he does so.

Angry Customer: “I said no pickles!” 

Employee: *Understandably startled* “I’m sorry?” 

Angry Customer: “You put a pickle on my burger when I said no pickles!”

He angrily jabs the crushed burger box with his finger as he speaks.

Employee: “I’m so sorry. We’ll make you another right away. What did you want on it?”

I think it is smart of her to ask since he may have had other specific requests, and this man’s blood pressure won’t survive another undesired ingredient.

Angry Customer: “No pickles! How hard is that?! Go get your boss!”

He is acting and moving in a physically intimidating and aggressive way as he speaks. I step in. I’m not a confrontational person, but I feel awful for the employees.

Me: “Why? Do you need to show even more people that you’re irrationally angry?”

The angry customer turns and steps toward me.

Angry Customer: “What did you say?”

Me: “You’ve already proven it to all of us.”

I gesture to the line of customers, including myself.

Me: “Or maybe you want the manager to write up a complaint on paper, making your irrational anger totally official?”

Unfortunately, the man didn’t stop being a jerk. He yelled at me and the employees some more, then the manager. But he did, at the very least, stop moving as if he were about to hit someone. Instead of eating there, as I planned to, I actually left with my hands shaking nervously.

I am an assistant manager at a large national drugstore chain. One afternoon, I’m called to the register to help a customer. The clerk flashes me one of those “kill me now” looks as I approach.

Me: “Hi! How can I help you today?”

Customer: “I’m looking for Wintergreen Altoids gum, but your clerk said you don’t have any. Can you order some for me?”

Me: “Hmm, let me take a look.”

I don’t recall ever seeing that flavor, but I go digging around in our inventory database anyway. Sure enough, there’s no record of it.

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it doesn’t look like we carry that flavor.”

Customer: “I know I’ve bought it here before!”

Me: “Huh. It doesn’t look like something that’s been discontinued. I’m just not seeing it here at all.”

Customer: *Indignant* “Can’t you just call them and get some?”

Me: “Well, no, unfortunately. Since all of our purchasing goes through a central facility, we don’t deal with the manufacturers directly. If our distribution center doesn’t carry a product, I have no way to order it.”

Customer: “Well!” *Huffs* “I didn’t realize I was living in Soviet Russia!”

Without another word, the customer turned on her heel and stomped out the front door. My clerk and I were speechless.

I’m a waitress and we recently had a manager transferred to our restaurant. She’s nice but has a tendency to mess up orders in the kitchen, and the servers get wrong orders sent to wrong tables.

For the first couple of days, we’re a little understanding. But after a week, it keeps happening repeatedly, and we’re constantly double-checking tickets. It takes longer and customers get impatient with us, and it’s affecting our tips. 

One busy Friday night, after a few mess-ups, the manager gives us permission to double-check with her. But after two rounds of the servers asking, “Are you sure?” or, “Table number?” she gets frustrated and snaps at us.

My coworker finds a clever way to get around it by saying, “You just said table number forty-three, right?” and if it’s wrong, then she just plays it off, and if she’s right, then it makes everyone look good. So, the rest of us start following suit. 

However, even when I’m double-checking, I’m still getting wrong orders or missing something from the orders. Up until this point, I’ve been fortunate to have patient and understanding customers, but my last table yelled at me for taking too long and forgetting a few items. So, I go back to the kitchen to clarify.

Me: “Manager, table forty-three is missing some items from their order.” *Sets the receipt on the counter* “Could you please get that out to me really fast?”

Manager: “Fine, fine. In the meantime, will you take this to table twenty-one?”

Me: “I’m not opposed, but that’s not in my area and—”

Manager: “Take it to table twenty-one!”

I stand there a little shocked and start to take the plate when the waitress who has that section comes and gets it. I wait a moment longer and the manager slams down a platter of sides that I assume were for my original table, despite them not being the sides. 

Manager: “Table forty-three!”

Me: “Are you sure?”

There’s a moment of silence as the manager stares at me, appalled, and then glares, and I realize that I have let my frustration get to me. 

Manager: “You don’t need to take that attitude with me! I told you the table number!”

Me: “I’m sorry, I just wanted to be sure—”

Manager: “If you can’t tone down that attitude, you might as well go home. I have no use for sassy, disrespectful waitresses right now.”

My heart is pounding really hard and my cheeks are burning with embarrassment and anger. Half of the guests are looking at us, having heard the manager yell at me, and the other servers are staring at the two of us, waiting to see what will happen next. 

For some reason, however, I reach behind me, undo my apron, and toss it into the hamper behind the door.

Me: “Fine, then. See you tomorrow night.”

Manager: “WAIT A MINUTE! YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE IN THE MIDDLE OF DINNER RUSH!”

Now the entire restaurant is staring, and I find the courage to say:

Me: “You gave me the option, so… I’m going home.”

And, with that, I walked out the door, trying to hold my head high and not cry. 

If this doesn’t improve, I will probably put in my two weeks this next week.