(There is a regular who always makes a big deal of making her order and spelling out her name in a very slow, condescending tone. When I am resolved to leave for another job, I finally have had enough of it.)

Customer: “I’ll have the [usual]. That’s the [uuuuuuuuuusual], okay? And that’s for Pam. That’s Peeeeeeeeeeeee, Ayyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Emmmm—”

Me: “Hold on; slow down. B?”

Customer: *huffily* “AHEM, PEEEEEEeeeeee! Ayyyy—”

Me: “Whoa, whoa. D?”

Customer: “PEEEEEEE—”

Me: “G?”

Customer: *turning red* “P!”

Me: “Steve?”

Customer: “NO, it’s PAM!”

Me: “Oh, Pa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-aaam.”

(She glared at me, snatched her ticket without another word, and moved on down the line. The next time she started in, I played dumb again and wrote down her name as “Pem” with a backwards E.)

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(I am at a coffee shop. I have already gotten my order and am sitting at a table with my headphones on low.)

Barista: “Order for Elizabeth!”

(A minute passes.)

Barista: “Elizabeth, hello! Order for Elizabeth!”

(I glance up to see the barista shaking her head and no one getting the drink. Another minute passes, then I gasp as someone pulls one ear of my headphones off.)

Barista: “Hey! I said order for Elizabeth!”

Me: “I’m not Elizabeth… and I have my drink.”

Barista: *grumpily walking away* “B**** looks like an Elizabeth.”

(My dad relayed this story to me from when he was in high school. He and his friends are at a restaurant waiting to be seated when this happens:)

Waitress: “Okay, and how many are in your party?”

Friend: *looking around* “Several.”

Waitress: “Um… Okay. And can I get a name?”

Friend: “Bob. We’re all named Bob. Well, this guy’s Billy Bob, he’s Billy Joe Bob, and that one’s Billy Joe Jim Bob. But you can just call us Bob.”

Waitress: *laughing* “And what do you do for a living?”

Friend: “We’re rodeo riders.”

(I am ordering a coffee. The barista has asked for a name to put on the cup. I use my nickname, Jim. I then take my place with the other customers waiting.)

Barista: *after several minutes* “GERM!”

(No one responds.)

Barista: “GERM! J-I-M, GERM!”

(I walk up to him, slightly discombobulated. He pushes the coffee into my hands.)

Barista: “Why the h*** didn’t you answer when I called the first time?”

Me: “I’ve never heard anyone say my name like that.”

Barista: “Well, how am I supposed to know how you say it?!”

Me: “You took my order, though. You heard me say it.”

Barista: “So?”

Me: “And you spelled it right on the cup.”

Barista: “So?!”

Me: “What did I say my name was?”

Barista: “Jim.”

Me: “And somehow, in the space of a few minutes, you forgot how to pronounce it?”

Barista: “It’s not my problem if you have an unpronounceable name.” *turns and works on the next order*

(I would have just ignored it and gotten on with my life, but I’m sure the guy was playing a game with me, as I’ve also used my full first name, to which he shouted, “Janine!” and when I gave him “Bob,” he shouted, “Burp!” I don’t go in there anymore, and the place looks a lot less crowded than it used to.)

(I am eight and at a work event with my mom. It is important to note that one of my mother’s coworkers and her kids are black.)

Me: “Mom, look! The Brown kids are here!”

Mom: “[My Name]!”

Me: “What? That’s their last name, right?”

Mom: “Oh. Yes it is.”