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

Customer: “I really want to complain! You don’t have spaghetti on your kids’ menu, and that’s all my daughter will eat!”

Me: “Ma’am, this is a Mexican restaurant.”

Customer: “So?”

Me: “Spaghetti is Italian.”

Customer: “Shut up! Spaghetti is as American as pizza!”

Me: “Well… you’re not wrong.”

I work in a bookstore that has a large educational and textbook section. A woman walks up to the helpdesk, looks at me, looks around, sees no one else available to help, sighs, and then approaches me.

Customer: “My son is starting high school after summer, and I want him to get ahead in his math.”

Me: “That’s great! We have a huge selection of guides to mathematics, both general and specific. Is there any area in particular you’d like him to focus on?”

Customer: “Algebra.”

I bring her over to the relevant section. As we head over, we’re joined by her son. He identifies a specific book before I can even recommend it.

Me: “Good choice! This is the book I actually used when—”

Customer: “Look, I’m sure you’re a nice boy and all that, but my son is going to be going places. I’m sure working in a bookstore in America is a great achievement for someone from… your part of the world, but if my son is going to be Ivy League, I need him to be using something more advanced than what you used to get into a job at a bookstore.”

I am silent for a moment, not because I am angry — this happens to me a lot as I am of Moroccan descent — but because her son looks like he is about to explode.

Customer’s Son: “Mom! You can’t be serious!”

Customer: “What? I’m not being mean; I’m just calling it how I see it.”

Me: “I’m an American, ma’am, same as you.”

Customer: *Scoffs* “You are not the same as me! I’m a full-blooded American who can trace her lineage back to the fifth president of the United States!”

Me: “Unless you’re Native American, then I’m as full-blooded as you are. My relatives are from Morocco, and yours are from Europe.”

Customer: “Look, I just need you to get your manager or someone else more qualified to recommend a book for my son.”

Customer’s Son: “Mom, his relatives invented Algebra. Ours invented gerrymandering. I’m going to be just fine with his recommendations, thanks.”

And with that, he chose my book recommendation and walked back to the checkouts with his (mercifully silenced) mother glaring at me as they left.

I work in a bookstore in a mall that has a grocery store attached.

Customer: “I came here to get a book, I think?”

Me: “What book is it?”

Customer: “I’ve actually forgotten.”

Me: “Did you pre-order it?”

Customer: “No, I just came in because I remembered I wanted to get a book, but now that I am here, I forgot what it was!”

I ask her some questions about what the book is about, but we come up with nothing.

Customer: “Oh, well. I needed to do my grocery shopping anyway, so I’ll go do that, and hopefully, I’ll remember before I need to leave.

An hour or so later, I see the customer coming back in.

Customer: “I remembered what book it was!”

Me: “That’s great! And you got your grocery shopping done!”

She stops and looks at her hands, a look of shock coming over her.

Customer: “Oh, no! I forgot my groceries!” 

I seriously had to check that she wasn’t buying a book about how to improve your memory…

I work at a large grocery store that’s open twenty-four hours a day. Customer traffic usually dies out around eleven at night, leaving us to wander the store, restock, take inventory, and clean.

This particular night, I am on the one register we keep open. It’s getting near what we call the “pick-up” where activity starts to increase, and suddenly, every customer in the store files into my line at once, a total of eight people.

I process the first woman who is paying for a number of groceries with cash, and a young man at the very back of the line suddenly calls forward.

Irate Customer: “Hurry the f*** up!”

The line as a whole turns to look at him in a mixture of confusion and disgust.

Irate Customer: “Who the f*** uses cash? There are eight f****** people in line, and this lady is going to keep us all here using f****** cash in 2024? We have places to go, lady!”

What follows is the most delightful act of unspoken malice I’ve witnessed out of a group of people. Slowly, everyone in line puts away their cards, and once the first woman leaves, every person after her conducts a cash transaction.

The customer who yelled at the first woman grows more and more frustrated, but he is forced to wait because all of the other registers are closed. He throws random insults at the backs of each customer, pacing and walking around in circles in the queue.

The best part is when I get to the man right before him. After I scan and bag all of his items, he smiles and winks at me, pulling something out of his pocket.

Nice Customer: “Do you still take personal checks?”

Me: “We do!”

Nice Customer: “Okay. Who do I make it out to?”

Irate Customer: “WHAT THE F***?!

At this point, he throws the packet of sandwich meat and the soda he is carrying on the floor and storms out of the store. The nice customer and I watch in amusement as he walks past the woman the irate man originally yelled at; she stayed to watch the spectacle, having noticed what was happening. She gives him a wide smile as he forces our sliding doors open by hand and exits.

The man laughs as he pulls out a debit card and taps it on the reader.

Me: “Have a nice day!” 

Nice Customer: “Already am.”