Two teenage girls are making a large purchase (lots of flashy designer items), and the total comes to almost $3,000. They hand over an American Express card to pay for it, and I notice the card has a man’s name.

Me: “Is this you?”

Customer: “No, that’s our dad.”

Me: “Is he around?”

Customer: “Oh, he died yesterday. I’m just trying to max out his credit card before we report it.”

Me: *Instant look of horror* “Why would you tell me that?!”

Customer: “You’re minimum wage! Why should you care? I work in a [Dollar Store] and let people get away with all kinds of s***.”

Me: “I’m a manager, and you realize I’m gonna have to report this now, right?”

Customer: “Why you gotta ruin all our fun?”

Me: “Fun?! Your dad just died!”

Customer: “Noooo, he died yesterday. Weren’t you listening?”

Me: “I listened to the part where you admitted to committing fraud and the non-reporting of a dead body.”

Customer: “Fraud? What fraud?” 

Me: “Dead people can’t use credit cards.”

Customer: “He’s not using it. I am!”

She just… didn’t get it. She still didn’t get it when the police were escorting them away. 

Related:
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 17
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 16
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 15
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 14
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 13

I was at a high-end department store. I was not unkempt, but I did have jeans and a T-shirt on. I was twenty-three years old, and at the time, I was making a very high salary. My friend was getting married, and she had registered for a high-quality brand of cookware.

Me: *To a sales clerk* “Excuse me, where can I find [Cookware Brand]?”

Clerk: *Looking me up and down* “It doesn’t make sense to show you where it is unless you actually intend to buy it.”

I was very insulted. I went across the mall to their competition and bought the entire set in cash. In those days, the employees of the department store earned commission on sales. That woman lost out on quite a bit of money.

I went back to that store and showed the clerk the shopping bag containing the expensive cookware.

Me: “I’ll be sure to inform the bride-to-be, but you’ll soon be able to remove the cookware from the registry.”

I showed her my receipt from the other store.

Me: “Gosh, they’re expensive these days, aren’t they?”

The look on her face as I walked away with the cookware set was priceless.

Customer: “You. I need you to fetch me the following items.”

Me: “Sir, I am serving this customer at the moment. I’ll be with you as soon as I have finished serving them.”

Customer: “Unacceptable. The correct response would be to write down the list of items I am about to provide for you and hand the list to another worker who is available.”

Me: “It’s just me in this department at the moment, sir. My coworker is on lunch. I’ll be with you as soon as I—”

Customer: “Unacceptable. You should not be allowed to go on lunch while there are customers still to serve. Summon him back at once.”

Me: “Sir, I can’t and won’t do that. Please be patient, and I will—”

Customer: “Unacceptable. You leave me no choice but to request your manager and have you dealt with accordingly.”

I simply nod and page for a manager to come over to my department. As soon as I have done so, I go back to serving my current customer, but I am interrupted yet again.

Customer: “What are you doing? Now you serve me!”

Me: “Sir, I have called my manager. When he gets here, he can—”

Customer: “Unacceptable. Your manager will be here to deal with you. You are still here to serve me.”

Finally having had enough, my current customer speaks up.

Current Customer: “Are you serious?! Dude, I am standing right here! You’re interrupting me!”

Customer: “I am a customer, and I should not have to wait.”

Current Customer: “And I should?”

Customer: “The store should supply ample staff to—”

Current Customer: “Unacceptable.”

Customer: “What?”

Current Customer: “Unacceptable. I find you unacceptable. Now, shut up or clear off. He might not be able to tell you that, but I can. One more word out of you, and I’ll call security for harassment. Now shut… up!”

The manager turns up just as my current customer finishes their defence of me. The entitled customer just stands in the corner and stews.

Manager: “You called for me?”

Current Customer: *Speaking on my behalf* “Thanks, but I think we got it. Things are okay.”

My manager looks to me for confirmation. I simply nod.

Me: “Things are acceptable.”

I am sixteen, starting my very first job in retail as a Saturday employee on the deli counter in the food section of a large department store.

One rather slow day, I have just measured and wrapped a rather large quantity of bacon for a small, hunched over, frail-looking little old lady. As she walks toward the checkout to pay, another sales assistant irritates me by remarking:

Coworker: “I wonder what such a lady is going to do with all that bacon?”

The two of us idly watch the customer slowly hobbling away.

Me: “It’s wrong to make assumptions about someone just by looking at them. She might not be a lonely little lady going home to her empty house. She could be anyone! She might cook for a huge, four-generational family in a busy home!”

However, just as I had gotten to the magic words, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” the lady picked the packet of bacon out of her basket, put it smartly into her handbag, and made for the door.

My friend and I pursued her; I initially did not really think that we were apprehending a shoplifter, but rather that we might be assisting a frail person with a memory problem.

However, her pace was incredible. Both of us girls were young and fairly fit, and she really didn’t have much of a head start on us. However, for a little old lady, she hurtled out of the store and ran off up the road like Usain Bolt. There was no possibility of our overtaking her.

I never could work out if she really had been an elderly lady who had realised that she could get away with this kind of thing with impunity, as she had been a world champion sprinter in her youth, and liked to keep herself in trim, or if she was a young, incredibly fit shoplifter who went to all the bother of disguising herself, just for the sake of two pounds of bacon. 

My friend certainly learned not to judge a book by its cover, though. Actually, reading this back now, I hope that I did, too.

I am working the drive-up at my large department store, and an older woman calls our drive-up phone number.

Customer: *Screaming* “I’ve been out here for twenty minutes!”

That’s weird because nothing has come through on our app telling us a pick-up is here. We go out there and find her aggressively waving us down.

Customer: “Finally! I’ve been pressing this f****** button to tell you I’m here!”

She had printed out the email telling her to press the button to tell us she’d arrived.

On a piece of literal printer paper.

She was “pressing the button” on a printed sheet of paper.

I had to excuse myself and let my coworker deal with her because I was so utterly shocked by how incompetent she was.

She was so clueless — and she DROVE there! 

Related:
Not As Bright As A Button, Part 3
Not As Bright As A Button, Part 2
Not As Bright As A Button