I work in a high-end sunglass store in a stylish mall in Los Angeles, California. A lot of our customers are those stereotypical “valley girl” types — usually harmless, but mostly clueless.

Customer: “My sunglasses completely fell apart! You all should be ashamed that you sell such shoddy crap!”

She pours what used to be a pair of sunglasses out of her bag and onto my counter. Immediately, I can see there’s going to be an issue.

Me: “Ma’am, this isn’t one of our sunglasses.”

Customer: “What do you mean?! It has Ray-Ban written on them, clear as day!”

When a customer presents us with a counterfeit version of one of our official products, we’re not allowed to call them out on buying a fake. All we can say is a variation of the line, “That isn’t one of our products.”

Me: “Ma’am, I am afraid I can’t help you. This isn’t one of our products.”

Customer: “It is! It’s a Ray-Ban!”

Me: “Which branch did you buy it from, ma’am? And do you have the receipt?”

Customer: “I didn’t buy it here! I got it from a market in Morocco last month!”

Me: “…I see. And the receipt?”

Customer: “I didn’t get one, but I paid fifty local dollars for it!”

Me: *Doing a quick Google search* “So, fifty Moroccan dirhams?”

Customer: “Yeah!”

Me: “That’s about five dollars.”

Customer: “They must have been having a sale.”

Me: “Ma’am, you purchased a five-dollar pair of sunglasses from a market in Morocco, and you’re complaining that they fell apart after a month. I feel I must repeat what I said earlier: this is not one of our official products.”

Customer: *Realization dawning* “Wait, are you saying this is some kind of cheap knock-off?!”

Me: “I am saying this is an unofficial five-dollar pair of sunglasses from a market in Morocco.”

Customer: “Well, you should still replace it! It’s got your name on it!”

My manager has overheard the last few sentences and has had enough.

Manager: “Ma’am, what’s your name?”

Customer: “Jane.”

My manager takes a post-it, writes “Jane” on it, and sticks it on the sunglasses.

Manager: “There. By your own logic, it’s now got your name on it. Go complain to yourself.”

The customer tries to complain to a manager, but upon realizing that she is talking to one, she makes a frustrated huff and starts to storm out.

Customer: “I’m never buying anything from you guys again!”

Manager: “Technically, you never did!” 

It was only afterward that we both noticed the brand on the glasses was “Bay-Ran”, so in the end, it didn’t even have our name on it anyway!

We have this creepy older guy who always tries to flirt with the woman working the checkouts, even the part-time new starters who are around sixteen. It’s totally gross.

I’ve rejected him so many times that he’s become a bit bitter and cruel whenever he sees me. This is fine by me, as he usually tries to avoid my checkout lane, but for some reason, I get him today.

Customer: “Oh! It’s you! I didn’t recognise you as you’re actually wearing makeup today! No wonder. It’s amazing how much better you girls look in makeup.”

I try to ignore the remarks and just scan his items.

Customer: “Make sure whoever you’re wearing the makeup for knows what you really look like, eh? Don’t want him to be too shocked when it all comes off!”

My checkout manager has seen who I am currently serving and has wandered over. She strikes up a conversation with me, loud enough for the customer to hear.

Manager: “I’m always concerned for men who complain about how different women look without makeup. Like, do they think eyeshadow is permanent?”

Me: “I know! Like, do these people get scared when people change clothes?”

Manager: “Well… babies have no concept of object permanence.”

And with that, my manager stared pointedly at my customer for a moment before smiling at me and wandering off.

He was noticeably silent for the rest of the transaction.

When I was school-aged, my mother would drop me off at Sunday school while she attended the adult church service.

As was typical, in the weeks before Christmas, we were inundated with the story of Jesus’s birth: being born in the barn, cradled in a manger, visits from the Wise Men, the little drummer boy, etc.

Then, right after Christmas, we were taught about some of Jesus’s teachings. This led up to Easter, where Jesus was betrayed, arrested, convicted, and then executed.

One of my female classmates broke into tears when we first were taught about his execution, which was rather brutal. The teacher tried to console the girl.

Teacher: “It’s okay. This happened hundreds of years ago.”

Girl: “But he was just a baby!”

She obviously didn’t get that the narrative was covering his whole life; she thought it was happening in real time. Still, the crucifixion story is a bit graphic for elementary kids to handle.

When I worked for a prestige car dealership as a collection and delivery driver, part of my job was to book customers’ cars in and maintain some sort of order in the car park.

First thing in the morning, a lady brought her car in, parking it right in front of the entrance to the workshop.

Me: “Good morning, madam. Would you like me to move your car for you?”

Customer: *Clutching her car keys in a fearful grip* “No! I don’t know who you are!“

Fair enough. I was employed by an agency, and their ID card would have meant nothing to her. I went on to explain, politely:

Me: “You can’t leave your car there as you’re blocking the workshop entrance.”

Customer: “But my car is going in straight away.”

I explained further, still politely:

Me: “Your car won’t be seen to straight away if the technicians can’t get the cars that are already in the workshop out of it.”

She wasn’t having any of it. She sashayed into the service department with her nose in the air.

Her jaw dropped when I followed her in and the service advisor handed me her keys and service book.

As I was booking the cars in, I made sure her book was at the bottom of the pile.

I walk into a tiny convenience store. It has only one self-checkout machine, and I almost laugh at what I see as I pass it.

Hanging above the machine, from the ceiling, is a huge sign saying: “NO CASH! THIS MACHINE DOES NOT ACCEPT CASH!” There is a slightly smaller version of the same sign stuck to the top of the screen in a laminated sheet. There are also more signs saying the same thing next to the scales, on the wall behind the machine, next to the card machine, and somehow even in front of the “impulse purchase” section where customers can grab last-minute candies or gum. (The decision to put a sign there must be costing them a few sales.)

The cashier notices me reading all the signs.

Cashier: “Trust me, they’re necessary.”

Me: “I’ve worked retail; I believe you.”

He smiles at me and shows me that he is writing up yet another sign right that moment at the counter! We share a laugh, and I go to pick up my few items.

As I am returning to the checkout, I hear a woman arguing with the cashier.

Customer: “What do you mean, no cash?!”

Cashier: “Ma’am, we’ve been through this. No cash at self-checkout. There are literally signs all over it saying the same thing.”

Customer: “This is so inconvenient! How am I supposed to know those signs are for me?!”

Cashier: “What’s your name?”

Customer: “Carol.”

The cashier finishes making the sign he was working on as I was walking in.

Sign: “NO CASH, CAROL! THIS MACHINE DOES NOT ACCEPT CASH, CAROL!”

He places the sign literally on the screen, covering an almost comically large part of it, and points at it.

Customer: *F*** you!” *Storms out*

I approach the self-checkout.

Me: “Does this thing do cashback?”

Cashier: “Noooooo.”

Related:
Cash Back Attack, Part 18
Cash Back Attack, Part 17
Cash Back Attack, Part 16
Cash Back Attack, Part 15
Cash Back Attack, Part 14