I’m working at a Renaissance Faire — my first job — where the fairground is built in a circle formation. Security has blocked off part of the circle and designated the gate as “employees only”. This has been in force for all four weeks. As the nearest worker to the gate, I try to politely inform customers that they must go around.

Me: “Good morrow, miladies!”

They ignore me and keep walking.

Me: “Miladies, please do be advised that the gate be intended for employees only.”

Customer: “Don’t get an attitude with me! My husband works here, you know!”

Me: “Milady, I work here, too. Please do not go through that gate.”

She huffs and continues through the gap in the fence. I hear her talking to security on the other side.

Customer: “That girl at the soda booth had such an attitude!”

I don’t hear the rest, but when the security guard peers around the barrier, I raise my hands in an irritated gesture. Later, one of the other security people comes over to me.

Security: “I heard you had an altercation with some customers. What did you say to them?”

I recount the conversation.

Security: “Okay, well, they said you swore at them.”

Me: “What? W-why would they say that? I don’t swear!”

By this point, I am tearing up. I never, ever swear, and especially not at people I’ve never met before.

Manager: “What happened?!”

Security: “Some customers accused her of swearing at them. She says she didn’t do it.”

Manager: “I believe you, [My Name]. You okay?”

I was now crying hard enough that I couldn’t talk. He was kind enough to sit with me until I calmed down, and many of my coworkers came by to say that they didn’t believe the customers, either. I can’t wait to go work at that faire next year!

For clarification, in Slovenia, you have nine grades of primary school, four years of high school, and upwards of three years of university.

I am browsing a book fair and come across some digital biology textbooks for primary school. I go over to look at them as they are something new at this point and I am always interested in biology. Up comes a salesman.

Salesman: “Oh, hi, I see you’re interested in our textbooks!”

He starts explaining everything about them, how useful they are supposed to be and such.

Salesman: “And they are a great addition in preparation for external exams!”

Don’t ask me why, but this is what final exams in ninth grade are called.

Me: “Umm, well, thanks for the presentation, but I’m kind of too old to use this.”

Salesman: “Well, what year are you?”

Me: “Second.”

Salesman: “You can still use them! Everything in here is up to date and is useful for even children in first or second year—”

Me: “Of university.”

He couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I was twenty at the time and looked like it.

My mother was known for the perfection and beauty of her knitted and crocheted items. She always made a couple of afghans or sweaters for the church to sell at their fairs.  

One year, a committee member approached and asked if she would make an afghan for the raffle. Mom agreed and went out to get new yarn. Those of you who knit know that yarn is not cheap and that making something beautiful and perfect takes time.

Mom created a lovely afghan: it had many rainbow squares surrounded and bordered in white. I would estimate that there was $75 worth of yarn — this was in the 1980s, so probably more today — in it, and it took her several weeks of working nights to put it together. She presented it in a nice wrap with a ribbon. All the church ladies oohed and aahed.

When I was home from my job that weekend, we went to the fair to see what was going on. We went over to the raffle table and there was… a grey and brown afghan draped over a chair and showing every dropped stitch and every oversized loop. Mom and I stared at it and then at each other.

The woman running the raffle turned to Mom and shook her head.

“I wish they had asked you to donate an afghan,” she said, “because no one wants this one.”

“I did donate an afghan,” Mom replied, and she described it in detail.

The raffle lady shook her head. “Haven’t seen it.”

Mom and I began to search the fair and finally found her afghan at the knitted items table. Or rather, behind it, hidden under several other items. The plastic wrap was removed and the ribbon was gone and it was all bunched up in a heap with a price tag of $10.  

“Oh, no,” said Mom. “That isn’t happening.”

She took the afghan and said to the knit items table lady, “I hope you don’t mind, but there is more than $75 worth of yarn in here and over a month of evenings spent working on this. This was requested for the raffle. And I found it hidden under a bunch of other items with its packaging missing.”

The table lady looked like a deer in the headlights.

“So,” continued Mom, “since you don’t think it’s worth enough to even put out on display, I will take it back and give it to someone who will enjoy it.”

“Oh, but… um—” was all the woman got out before Mom walked off with me following behind. To be honest, I had no idea what was going on because at the time, I wasn’t much of a crafter and, being a self-centered twenty-something, I was thinking, “Why is she so upset? They’re selling it, aren’t they?”

She found the person who ran the fair, told them what had happened, refused to let the item be put up for the raffle and, with the organizer’s blessing, took the afghan out to the car.

It turned out, as we learned from the organizer later, one of the ladies had snatched Mom’s afghan away and substituted the other. She was hiding it with the low price tag because, yup, she was planning on buying it herself.

When my cousin got married the next year, he and his bride received several presents from my side of the family, including a rainbow afghan bordered in soft white yarn. They still have it.

My village frequently holds a “buy local” fair, where I sell handmade items. I frequently give people discounts — as long as they are nice and I am still making money on the product.

Customer: “These cushions are £3 in [Big High Street Store].”

Me: “That’s nice. My versions are £10, I’m afraid.”

Customer: “Give me one for £3. That’s what [Store] sells them for.”

Me: “I am afraid I hand-make my cushions; that’s why they’re slightly more expensive.”

Customer: “You’re ripping me off! They’re only worth £3; [Store] sells them for £3!”

I want to get rid of her.

Me: “I can give you one for £8, but any less than that, I am making a loss.”

Customer: “£3.”

Me: “£8 is the lowest I can go. Any less than that and I won’t make any money.”

Customer: “BULLS***! [Store] sells exactly the same thing for less!”

Me: “That’s because their cushions are of a lower quality; plus, I am not working hard for absolutely no return for someone who has done nothing but be rude to me.”

Customer: “GET ME YOUR MANAGER NOW!”

Me: “Hi. Self -employed. I am the boss, manager, cashier, and manufacturer. If you don’t like it, piss off.”

The customer then left, screaming about how my products were rubbish and no one would ever buy them. I ended up leaving halfway through the penultimate day, because I had completely sold out.

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This happened a bit of years ago, at a fair/carnival-type thing my home town sets up on a specified street each year. I don’t remember all the specifics of what happened, but I can sorta tell of the basics of what went down. It went mostly like the following: I was with my friend’s mother, waiting in line to get tickets from a booth, when something happened with the woman in front of us.

Woman: *Talks to the ticket booth guy, and then seemingly begins demanding something*

Me: (Silently) “Woah.”

Woman: *Begins yelling and swearing at the ticket booth guy*

My Friend’s Mom: “Hey, don’t do that! There are kids around!”

Woman: *Grunts in anger and soon walks away*

Me: *Looks at friend’s mom* “Uh, nice job!”

Ticket Booth Guy: “Umm, next?”