An older male customer comes in asking for a refund. I direct him to my nearest manager since the item is waaaaay outside the return range. It should be noted that my manager is a Muslim woman, wearing a hijab.

Female Manager: “Sir, I’m sorry, but you purchased this item over a year ago. I can’t give you a refund, but I can offer you store credit.”

Customer: “Get me a manager!”

Female Manager: “Sir, I am a manager.”

The customer sneers at her, looking her up and down.

Customer: “They let [slur]s like you become managers?!”

Another manager, a white male, is passing by and hears this specific statement.

Male Manager: “What’s going on here?”

Female Manager: *Maintaining an amazing level of professionalism* “This customer would like to return this item that was purchased thirteen months ago.”

Male Manager: *To the customer* “No can do. You need to leave now.”

Customer: “Are you the top guy around here? Maybe we can figure this out.”

Male Manager: “I’m not in a position to figure out anything for you. You might be able to get store credit from the store manager, but I can’t give you anything.”

Customer: “Well, go get him, then!”

The male manager and I, both smiling, point back toward our manager in the hijab.

Female Manager: “That would be me. You need to leave now.”

Customer: “Sorry, that was before I realized you were a store manager. I’m happy to accept your offer of store credit.”

Female Manager: “And that offer was before I realized you were a racist a**hole. You won’t even be getting store credit now.”

Customer: “You f****** [slur]! We should have wiped you all out in Desert Storm!”

Female Manager: “My family moved here in the sixties from Pakistan. Desert Storm was in the nineties and was in Iraq. You can’t even get your racist history right!”

Male Manager: “That’s enough of that. Please leave now, sir.”

Customer: “You f****** traitor to your people!”

Male Manager: “You are not my people. Now shoo! Or do I need to call security?”

The customer gives us the finger and storms out, shouting that he’s gonna call up the news and “get Hannity to tell the nation that our chain trains terrorists”. 

Male Manager: “Ooh! Free publicity!”

I’m waiting in line to pick up a prescription. There are two women in front of me being served.

Mother: *Eyeing the large paper bag that is handed to her daughter.* “Why do you need all that?”

Daughter: “Like I said last month, [Son] needs it for [condition]. He inherited it from his father.”

Mother: “He doesn’t need that. I’ve told you; they need to go to church more. Jesus heals all who come to him.”

The daughter then picks up the bag that the mother just received.

Daughter: “Oh? Well, I guess you won’t need your insulin.”

The daughter then walks off. The mother is standing there dumbfounded before running after her.

Me: *To the pharmacist.* “That was… odd.” 

Pharmacist: “They do it every month. Rumour is the mother was a smackhead in the 60s and her memory is totally butchered. Given it’s been like a year now, I’m starting to believe it.”

I am taking the orders of a couple in our diner.

Customer: “I’d like the cheeseburger and sweet potato fries, please. Oh, and I don’t mean to cause a fuss, but I notice one of your cooks is a bit… well… flamboyant. Can we have someone else prepare our food, please?”

I look over to our kitchen, which can be seen through the large, wide serving hole in the wall.

Me: “Which of the cooks would you like to prepare your meal, ma’am?”

Customer: “The nice-looking guy to the left seems fine. He seems… normal.”

I bring the order over and call over the “normal”-looking cook to explain my interaction.

Cook: “On it…” *sly smile* “…girlfriend!“

What happens next at any other time would have been an offensive display of OTT stereotypes of an interpretation of a sassy gay man.

Cook: “Ooooh, these jala-PEN-yos be on fire today, just like me!”

He is “sashaying” around the kitchen, bending over dramatically to pick up ingredients and cookware, and whenever he passes by the cook who was described as “a bit flamboyant”, he gives him a peck on the cheek and calls him “darling” or “lover”.

All of this is performed in plain view of our homophobic customer.

When the food is finally ready and I go to collect:

Cook: “Food’s up, girlfriend! I made it with some extra love from a special place, ya feel me?”

I bring the food over, and the customer is as white as a sheet.

Customer: “Can… can we get this food to go?”

Me: “Absolutely! Let me just go get you a takeout box.”

My manager is the one to bring them the takeout box. He’s a big, burly, hairy, cage-fighter-looking kinda guy. When he walks up to the customers, he takes the performance art that was our cook and cranks it up a few notches in how he “sissies that walk” up to them.

Manager: “Hey there, queens! We heard you had to sashay away… so sad! Please come again soon and stay fabulous!”

To the bigot’s credit, they paid quickly (no tip) and got out of there as quickly as possible. Strangely enough, they haven’t been back. Also… not one employee of this diner is gay. Not one.

I work in film and television. We were shooting in a pretty upper-class neighborhood, and the woman living beside the house we were filming in decided that she hadn’t been paid enough.

A few hours into our day, she started playing opera music as loud as she could with all of her windows open. After an hour or two of that, she ramped it up and started mowing her lawn. Then, she just sat right on her property line with the mower going full blast, until a producer went over and kindly asked her to stop.

I’m not high enough in the production to know how much she was asking for, but apparently, it was too much because he walked away shaking his head and told the sound guys there was nothing he could do.

Once night rolled around, my boss had had enough of this lady and decided to annoy her right back.

We got some 10k lights — which are pretty g**d*** bright — and pointed them directly into her windows. It was basically midday sunlight blasting into her house at 10:00 pm. They’re designed for cinematic-level cinematography, so we were able to direct them tightly enough (and the houses were big and far enough apart) that no other house on the street would even notice they were there… just her.

That’s when she called the police, saying that we were filming illegally. (It was a full union show with permits, and on-duty police were also there.) A cop pulled up and saw the other officers already around to block traffic for us. They went to the craft table, got a snack, and left.

We did turn off the lights around 1:00 am, though, because we’re not animals.

I am working at the register when an elderly man comes up with a few cans of soup.

Me: “Your total is $3.00, sir.”

He waves a “Veteran of Foreign War” card in my face.

Customer: “My discount?”

Me: “We don’t do a military discount, sir. I’m sorry. Your best—”

Customer: “So, [Company] doesn’t care about the vets who fought for this country. I see. I see.”

Me: “Your best bet to see a change is to contact corporate.”

Customer: “And what about now?”

Me: “Your total is $3.00.”

Customer: “Nothing? You can’t even give me $1.00 off?”

Me: “I can’t do that.”

Customer: “I won’t tell.”

Me: “Your total is $3.00, sir.”

Customer: *Muttering* “Lazy b****.”

Me: “Are you paying or not?”

Customer: “I’m going, I’m going.”

He reaches into his wallet, leafs through a few bills, and looks up smiling. He hands me a $100 bill. 

Customer: “There. Legal tender, so you can’t say no.” 

Me: “No problem.” 

I give him seven $1 bills, eight $5 bills, and five $10 bills. I count it back to him, bill by bill.

Me: “$97 is your change, sir. Have a nice day.” 

Customer: “You have twenties in your drawer!” 

Me: “You had a five in your wallet. It’s all legal tender, sir.”