(I am the manager of a store in a neighborhood that is heavily populated with Cuban-American people. This exchange happens between a customer and my employee, Fernando.)
Customer: *speaks Spanish*
Fernando: “I’m sorry, sir; I don’t speak Spanish.”
Customer: *yelling in English* “You need to learn your roots and speak the mother-tongue of our people!”
Fernando: *pointing to his name badge* “Fernando… Italiano!”
Customer: *quietly walks out the door*
(I have a cold with a sore throat, and a long drive home ahead of me, so I stop in a fast food place for some hot tea before leaving the Florida town I’ve been visiting.)
Me: “Can I get a small fries and a medium hot tea?”
Cashier: “Hot… tea?”
Me: “Yeah. Tea that’s hot?”
Cashier: “I’ve never heard of that.”
Me: *double checks the menu* “Tea. It’s on the drink list.”
Cashier: *points to iced tea jugs behind her* “Yeah. Tea.”
Me: “No, it’s hot—”
Cashier: “You want me to warm that up? I’m not sure we can do that.”
Me: “No, no, never mind. I’ll just have a small coffee and a small fries.”
Cashier: “Okay.” *shakes her head* “Hot tea…”
(Even in the south, how do you just not know that tea can also be made hot?)
(A local news story about a little girl who was murdered makes national headlines. Our station cuts into the afternoon’s soap opera with breaking news regarding the case.)
Me: “Thank you for calling [Station]. How can I assist you?”
Caller: “Why are you interrupting my stories? You can’t do that!”
Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is breaking news regarding the murder case. A lot of people want to know what’s going on.”
Caller: “I know the little girl is dead and all, but you just can’t take people’s television away from them!” *click*
(Sadly that was only one of the many calls we were inundated with during that time.)
(I recently moved into a house in a quiet neighborhood. The house was previously occupied by a friend of mine who reports that the neighbor tends to be nosy and has strange ideas about the neighborhood. I don’t see said neighbor for my first few months living there. One evening, I’m putting the trash on the curb for pickup and am shocked to see a row of trashcans and recycling bins across our driveway and lawn, and the college students who have just moved in across the street are bringing yet more out, headed for my yard.)
Me: “Whoa, what’s going on?”
Student #1: “What? Who are you?”
Me: “I live here. Why are you bringing your trash into my driveway?”
Student #1: “Uh… Isn’t this where we put it for pickup?”
Me: “No, you put it in front of your house! Is all of this yours?”
Student #2: “Uh, no, I think that’s hers…” *pointing to my neighbor’s house* “She told us this is where it goes.”
(The neighbor hasn’t ever put her bins in my lawn, so this is surprising. Moreover, she has her own driveway and lawn.)
Student #1: “Yeah, she, um… said that this is basically her yard because she’s the only one on this street who doesn’t rent her house, and that all the bins should go here.”
Me: “What?! That’s ridiculous. I can’t have everyone’s bins in my yard. Plus, this is my driveway, not hers!”
Student #2: “I know, I mean… We’re sorry. She was really rude about it and we didn’t know what to do.”
(I feel bad for the kids because they seem a little naive, so I tell them no worries and simply move the neighbor’s bins onto her lawn. Nothing else happens for months, until one Sunday morning. I am sleeping in when I hear a loud series of knocks. Remembering that my friend was supposed to come by to pick up something, I rush to the door and open it to find a strange woman.)
Neighbor: “Hi, I live next door. Do you live here?”
(Oh, no.)
Me: “How can I help you?”
Neighbor: “Do you own this place? Or do you rent?”
Me: *exhausted from a long week* “What do you want?”
Neighbor: “Well, there is a car parked right next to my house.”
(My fiancée parked her car in my driveway, which runs between our houses. It’s been there for a good 24 hours at this point.)
Me: “Yes?”
Neighbor: “The car needs to move. It’s making noise.”
Me: *wondering how a parked car that’s turned off is making noise* “Okay, well—”
Neighbor: “It’s in the driveway of your house. But no one is supposed to park there.”
Me: “Uh…”
Neighbor: “People don’t know, because of all the turnover–” *shudders* “–but I’m the one who’s lived here longest, and I don’t have a lot of space around my house. So, I need that driveway, and because I’m the only one who owns their house, people usually let me use it.”
(She regularly parks in her actual driveway.)
Me: “Mm-hmm. Well…”
Neighbor: “NO ONE IS SUPPOSED TO PARK THERE! I HAVE AN AGREEMENT WITH THE LANDLORD!”
(I can’t help thinking it’s interesting that she asked if I own the house if she knows the landlord, who’s actually a landlady.)
Neighbor: “So, you’re going to move the car?”
Me: *fed up* “Not right now.”
Neighbor: “What is your name?”
Me: “I’m not giving you my name.”
Neighbor: “Fine! Call right now and get the car moved. I’ll wait right here. “
Me: “You’re going to be waiting a long time.”
Neighbor: “Ugh! I’m calling the police!” *storms off*
(I shut the door and went about my day. No police ever arrived, nor did I ever figure out how my fiancée’s car was making so much noise while sitting in the driveway.)
This story is part of our Neighbor roundup!
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(At the time of this story, I’m 19 and working as a cashier to pay college tuition. I’m also battling some autoimmune issues that have not been officially diagnosed. All of the baggers have wandered off, so I’m pulled off a register to bag. A lady with three young children and a full cart comes in. She’s got her hands full, so I offer to help her out to her car. We get halfway out the door, when…)
Customer: “Hey! When I said I needed help, I thought one of the boys would do it. I’ve got all those packs of soda and water bottles. I don’t want to make you lift it! Go back inside. I’ll find a guy.”
(All the boy baggers are hiding in the breakroom, and won’t be out anytime soon. I don’t want to say this, as my manager is in earshot.)
Me: “Oh, it’s no problem, ma’am! I’m used to it.”
Customer: “I see. Typical male behavior. They wander off all the time, huh?”
Me: “I…”
Customer: “Oh! Your manager is right there. You can’t talk. Well, let’s get this cart to the parking lot, and I’ll help you unload when I get these kiddos buckled in. So, I’m guessing you’re a college student. Where do you attend?”
(We chat all the way out to the car. While she’s turning on the car and buckling in her kids, I get the cart unloaded. She comes back, and…)
Customer: “Wow! You are so fast! I said I’d help; you didn’t need to do that all by yourself!”
Me: “You don’t need to do that. It’s my job!”
Customer: “Well, at least let me give you a tip or something.”
(We are not supposed to take tips; however, management allows us to accept if the customer insists we take it. We have to decline it once, first, however.)
Me: “No, ma’am; that’s not necessary.”
Customer: “But I insist! Is that the magic word? I insist that you take this tip, and I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Me: “Well, if you insist, I can take it.”
Customer: *places something in my hand* “Don’t look until you get inside. And good luck with college!”
(Once I got inside, I ducked into the bathroom. She had tipped me $20! I never saw her again, but if she’s reading this… THANK YOU!)
