I work in a dollar store. A customer has been laying into me about everything for the last few minutes, and I’m about to snap.

Customer: “And another thing! You need to have more bathrooms!”

Me: “We’re not a large store, so one bathroom usually—”

Customer: “—There’s only one! You can’t sit there and tell me you thought only one bathroom was a good idea!”

Me: “Yes, totally, it’s all my fault. When I designed the store, and we had the meeting on the number of bathrooms, I decided on one, and then I quit my job as an architect and started working here, at the dollar store, as a cashier.”

Customer: “Are you f****** talking back to me?!”

Me: “Considering you’ve spent the last few minutes talking at me, I figured you wouldn’t notice. If you want to talk at my manager about it, they’re at lunch and will be back in an hour.”

The customer scrunched up their face like they were sucking lemons but finally shut the f*** up and let me cash them out.

There’s a small dollar store in a shopping center that I like going to because it’s conveniently located near other retailers I visit while doing errands.

This store is in a small shopping center, and people are prone to taking the carts out to their cars and leaving them in the parking lot rather than taking them back to the store, which is only a few hundred feet away at most, because the parking lot is small. 

And because the store itself is also small, they don’t have a large number of carts, which means some days, all of the carts are left in the parking lot.

Since I know it can be frustrating to have to return to the lot to track down a cart, I typically try to grab two or three carts as I head into the store so that other shoppers can have a cart.

On the day of this story, the weather is pleasant, and I’m not in a hurry, so I round up half a dozen carts and am pushing them toward the store when a woman approaches me. Note: I also have my nine-year-old son with me, who has one hand on the cart farthest away from me to help me keep them straight.

Woman: “Ugh, finally! I’ve been standing out here for like fifteen minutes waiting for a cart! You should move faster! This is ridiculous!”

Me: “Okay, well, I don’t work here. I just felt like being a Good Samaritan today, so…” *Shrugs.* “Just take a cart and get to shopping, I guess?”

Woman: *Huffs.* “How rude! You should round up the carts ASAP so that your customers don’t have to wait to do their shopping! Some of us have better things to do than wait on lazy slugs like you!”

My son, who is slightly autistic and does NOT like rude people, gives her a dirty look.

Woman: *Glaring at my son.* “And what’s your problem?!”

Son: *Glaring right back at her.* “You are! You’re a rude person, lady! You need to go learn your manners! My mama doesn’t work here and is just tryin’ to be a nice person, so someone old or holdin’ a baby might can get a cart faster because they need it! You’re a mean person!

At this, the woman turns beet red and mutters to herself before storming into the store.

Son: *Glaring after her and puffing up his cheeks.* “I don’t like that lady! I hope a house falls on her like The Wizard of Oz!”

I nearly choked on my laughter as I told my son that he has to ignore awful people like that. We passed her twice while we were shopping, and both times, my son glared at her, and she turned red as she looked away.

I’m helping at a resale shop that’s having a large sale – all items in a certain room are $1 apiece, and I’m doing cash payments for that room. A particular woman keeps picking items up and bringing them to me to ask, “How much?” and I repeatedly tell her, “It’s only $1. Everything in this room is $1.” Nearly an hour later, she buys twelve items and stuffs them into a purse that I quickly add to the sale.

Three hours later, she comes back.

Lady: “Where’s that doll?”

Me: “What doll are you talking about?”

Lady: “You know what doll! You took it back and sold it to someone else, didn’t you?”

Me: “We’ve had a good number of dolls we’ve sold. Which one are you talking about?”

Lady: “The creepy doll!”

Me: “I don’t remember a creepy doll. Are you sure you bought it from us?”

Lady: “Yes, I did, I know I did, because you put it in my purse.”

Me: “Can you describe the doll to me?”

Eventually, through lengthy description, I figure out she means a mini Gollum statue from The Lord of the Rings. I know for a fact that I didn’t sell a statue, so I can only guess she hid it in the purse. We reach an impasse, and she storms out, and I think that’s it. Wrong! Her friend came in shortly after to ask the same thing, and I again said I haven’t sold a Gollum statue, or any statue. 

Finally, the friend says:

Friend: “I’ve known that woman most of my life, and she’s one of the most honest people I’ve ever known.”

Me: “I’ve known her for only the hour she was here earlier. I know I didn’t sell her a statue, so either she stole it or lost it.”

When the friend leaves, I mention to one of the other workers about the lady and suggest they keep an eye out for her. Even the manager of the shop commented:

Manager: “Why would you believe she’s an honest person, just because another complete stranger tells you she is?”

I am a closing manager at a small-town dollar store. While there are a handful of regular customers who can make my day when they come in, many are just pains in the butt. Okay, they’re really not that bad. It’s just that I work my shifts alone and am expected to get a lot done, so I am in a constant state of frustration and have little tolerance for the slightest bit of time-wasting. Admittedly, I complain a lot. I think that’s why I feel the need to share this story from this past weekend. It was just such a sweet, funny transaction, and I think it will bring a smile to my face for the rest of my life.

An older woman and her daughter-in-law approach the register. Both are very pleasant with me and with each other. The older woman is the shopper, and as I’m ringing her up, she is searching through her rather large wallet.

Older Woman: “I can’t find my money. I know it’s in here. [Younger Woman], I’m going to need you to find my money. You found it the last time.”

As I continue to scan items, [Younger Woman] takes the wallet from [Older Woman], flips over another flap, and pulls the cash out of a pocket.

I finish scanning and set the bag on the counter, and [Older Woman] hands me the cash. As I’m counting out her change, I glance over and notice that the bag is gone.

As I hand [Older Woman] her receipt, [Younger Woman] asks her:

Younger Woman: “Did you get your bag? Where’s your bag?”

[Older Woman] and I notice at the same time that [Younger Woman] has a bag in her hand.

Older Woman: *Pointing* “Is that it?”

[Younger Woman] facepalms.

Me: *Cracking up* “You need each other.”

Younger Woman: *Laughing* “We do.”

When I was maybe eight or nine years old, my mother took me along when she went shopping. One shop we went to was a local cheap and cheerful type of place which claimed that everything in the shop cost £1. It’s important to note that the name of the shop made this very clear, as well as the large signs pasted to the windows advertising this same fact. These days, a lot of shops that call themselves pound shops actually sell things for more than £1, but at that time, you could expect everything to be £1 per item — sometimes less than £1 but very rarely any more.

After browsing for a few minutes, my mum picked something up and called over a staff member.

Mum: “Excuse me. This doesn’t have a price sticker. How much is it, please?”

Staff Member: *With a bemused look* “That’s £1.”

Mum: “Okay, thank you.”

The staff member walked off, and I chuckled slightly thinking my mum had forgotten which shop we were in. We browsed some more until she found something else and called the staff member back.

Mum: “And how much is this? It also doesn’t have a price sticker.”

Staff Member: *Now looking confused* “It’s… £1?”

Mum: “Are you asking me or telling me it’s £1?”

Staff Member: “I’m telling you it costs a pound.”

Me: “Mum, we’re in a pound shop. Everything is £1.”

Mum: *Waving me away without listening* “Be quiet while I’m talking.”

We browsed a little more, and Mum muttered about how nothing had a price sticker and there was no way to know how much it cost, so she flagged down the same poor staff member.

Mum: “This doesn’t have a price sticker, either! How much is it?”

Me: “Mum, it’s a pound! Everything is a pound!”

Staff Member: “Your kid is right; everything here costs £1. There are a few items which are slightly less, but nothing is more than a pound.”

Mum: “That’s ridiculous! How am I supposed to know how much things are if they don’t have price stickers on them?”

The staff member tried to walk away, only for her to call him back.

Mum: “Excuse me! Don’t walk away! I need you to stay here and tell me how much things cost! What kind of shop doesn’t tell its customers what they’re going to spend?!”

Me: “Mum! It’s a pound shop! It says on the windows that everything is one pound! It’s even in the name of the shop!”

Mum: “Will you be quiet when I’m speaking to another adult?! Go stand outside until I’m finished!”

I mouthed the words “I’m sorry”, gave a deeply apologetic look to the staff member, and went to stand outside, directly in front of a window display bigger than my torso which said, “Everything inside just £1 each!”

For the next fifteen minutes, I listened miserably to Mum getting more and more annoyed at the staff, but she respected other adults too much to shout at them, so I knew she was going to end up yelling at me. Finally, she left, and I was bracing myself for the talons in my shoulder as she dragged me back to the car, but instead, she looked at me and then looked at the display behind me, and I could see the gears finally turning in her head.

Mum: “Oh, would you look at that? It’s a pound shop! I wish they’d told me that before I spent all that time asking for prices.”

I don’t know if she realised how ridiculous she had been and let me off, or if she just forgot, but thankfully, I didn’t get punished for her mistake that time.