I work as the sole attendant at a twenty-four-hour gas station during the overnight shifts. It’s typically pretty quiet, but it clearly isn’t tonight.

While I’m handling a guy getting scratch-offs, two customers come into the store roughly at the same time. One is this tall dude with a scowl on his face, and the other is a regular I know works nearby because of her fast food uniform and because we chill during the quiet hours and talk about customer horror stories.

Tall Dude is eyeing the Fast Food Girl and sort of following her around while she’s browsing some racks looking at chips, and she gets in line and pulls out her phone. Tall Dude steps in front of her while she’s looking at her phone, and he just snaps for no reason and pushes her shoulder.

Tall Dude: “HEY!”

She looks up.

Tall Dude: “Smile already! Stop looking like such a b****!”

The scratch-off guy and I are looking at both of them and each other like, “What the heck was that for?” Fast Food Girl just looks at Tall Dude for a moment… and smiles.

Then, she starts shrieking like a chimp on drugs, rips off her coat and uniform shirt — she is wearing clothes underneath — and proceeds to grab a nearby loaf of bread and start HUMPING IT without breaking eye contact with the dude. She’s still screaming. The bread bursts open and starts falling out onto the floor, and she starts grabbing fistfuls of it and rubbing it on her chest, stuffing bread down her pants, and cramming bread into her mouth and spitting it out while still screaming.

Tall Dude freaks out and runs. Fast Food Girl starts beating her chest like Tarzan. My scratch-off customer and I just stare in shock.

The second the door closes behind Tall Dude, Fast Food Girl straightens her hair and clothes out.

Fast Food Girl: “Can I have a broom to clean this up, please? And I’ll pay for the bread.”

Scratch-Off Dude is cracking up now that the craziness is over, and he helps kick some of the bread from under the shelf so she can clean it up.

Fast Food Girl: “That dude is a daily regular at [Fast Food Place], and his favorite pastime is to abuse staff both on the clock and off in the parking lot. He even followed me here! Threateningly humping a loaf of bread at him was much more cathartic than punching him in the throat.”

So far, she hasn’t seen him since, so I guess it was more effective, too.

I was working for a county office at the time, and we would get a one-hour lunch break. I decided to stop and fill my car up with gas before I went to go get something to eat. The gas station was on the corner of two streets down the road from where I worked.

The pumps were at an angle, and you could access them from either street. I was the only customer there at the time. You could not pay at the pump at this store. I went inside and paid for $20.00, went back out, took the gas cap off, removed the gas nozzle, pressed the button for gas, inserted the nozzle, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

I went back inside the store to let the cashier know that the pump hadn’t been turned on.

Cashier: “I’m sorry, we have been having problems with that pump.”

She walked back out with me and reset the pump and it started working. Since I was the only customer and she wasn’t busy, we start chatting for maybe a minute. A car pulled up in front of the store and a lady got out and went inside. She came back out and looked in our direction.

Cashier: “I’m over here.”

Being all chatty and trying to be funny, I meant to say: “Oh, it’s my fault, because she is helping me.” Instead, what came out of my mouth was:

Me: “Oh, it’s my fault; I’m holding her up.”

The cashier and I chatted for a few seconds more and I thanked her. I looked over at the other lady and she was on her cell phone. The cashier and I said goodbye and she walked back into the store. Before I finished pumping my gas, a police car pulled up and parked by the other car.

Then, it dawned on me what I had just said.

The officer was sitting in his car looking at me and I was having a “Holy Crap!” moment and about to have a panic attack, waiting to be surrounded by cops. I finished pumping my gas and got back in the car, and I had to drive right past the cop to exit the parking lot. He was still looking at me as I pulled out, and when I looked in my rear-view mirror, he was getting out of his car to go into the store. I booked it out of there and went to a restaurant for food and a glass of wine.

And that is my story of telling someone that I was holding up a gas station.

Several times a year, I make rather long round trips in my vehicle. I stop at the same gas stations every time and use my credit card to pay for the gas.

All of the stations want extra information when I try paying at the pump for the gas. Usually, the requested info is my zip code. No problem. However, recently, some stations want a PIN (which is normally assigned to debit cards). Since I pay with a credit card, no PIN is available, and a couple of additional button presses get around this request, and the pump is turned ON.

However, one station decided to go further. It asked for a PIN but did not turn the pump ON unless the PIN was provided, even though credit cards have no PIN. Eventually, after several tries, the display told me to “prepay inside”. So, I went inside, left my card with the attendant, and filled my tank. The attendant never asked for a PIN.

After recovering my card and signing the card payment device, I checked to assure the bill was correct. It was, and there appear to be no unwanted charges added to my card bill.

Me: “Prepaying inside with a credit card that should have been accepted at the pump is rather strange, isn’t it? Credit cards have no PIN.”

Attendant: “There were some false payments using credit cards, and the new system prevents future false payments.”

Me: “If I used my debit card and PIN at the pump, I would not have to come inside to prepay?”

Attendant: “Yes.”

I really wonder about their understanding of card safety, since the only real difference was me scribbling my name on the inside device.

For about two years, I worked at a small gas station that was part of a Midwest supermarket.

I worked the evening shifts and doors were locked at twelve. I had to operate out of a rotating window and a faulty speaker, catering to boozy customers. The most memorable night I can recall is when I discovered that the lock on the door was faulty.

I found this out when a lady pushed her way into the store at 3:00 am. There were two feet of snow on the ground outside and she was wearing a micro-skirt, a bikini top, a fake fur jacket that stopped above her midriff, and Uggs. I say this not to shame her, but to illustrate the scene that followed.

The girl was obviously intoxicated, and I was pretty unnerved, not knowing what to do about the lady and thinking about how I could be fired for someone being in the building, even though it was not my fault.

After repeatedly telling the lady that she could not be in the building and that she had to go outside, which she ignored, she stumbled over to the nacho and chili stand.

Customer: “I want nachos! I can get this cheese, right?”

Me: “Uh, Yeah… I guess.”

At this point, I just wanted her to get what she wanted and leave.

She proceeded to fill up a whole nacho tray with cheese, and then she tottered toward my register. Halfway to my register, she spilled some cheese down her BARE stomach. She then proceeded to scoop some of the cheese off and lick it as though she was part of an X-rated film while staring drunkenly at me.

After this tasting, she looked confused and angry. She placed the chips and cheese on the counter in front of the register and proceeded to get mildly belligerent.

Customer: “You didn’t tell me this cheese had spice in it! I am allergic to spice! Why would you do this to me?”

Me: “Ma’am, all nacho cheese is mildly spicy. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but since you already dispensed it, you have to pay for it.”

Customer: “But I’m allergic to spice!”

She said this while scooping more of the cheese out of the tray and attempting to perform another X-rated gesture with her cheese-covered finger.

Me: “It comes out to [total]. Is that all you want?”

Customer: “But it has spice!“

Me: “And you’re still eating it. Pay up and get out.”

She then paid for the nachos and wove her way out of the gas station. Thinking that it was over, I exhaled and made sure the door was firmly locked this time.

Ten minutes passed and I saw her vehicle pull in front of pump one. After attempting the door three times and discovering that it was locked, she went over to the window.

Customer: “I need a refund. You sold me spicy nachos and I’m allergic to spice!”

Now, as a particular stipulation, I was not allowed to give refunds from the gas station. I needed manager permission to give a refund, and since I worked alone locked in the building on midnights, the customer had to go up to the main store, which was open twenty-four-seven, and go to the service desk to get a refund.

I explained this to her, and it took many times to get it through to her that I could not possibly help her at that point.

She was still mad, and she decided that the proper response was to take what was left of the cheese — only about a quarter of it — and smear it along the store’s window, spelling out, “F*** YU ND UR SPISY CHEZ!” Then, she drove off.

When my coworker came to relieve me in the morning, I told him the story. He barely believed me, and he made me scrub off the half-frozen cheese. I wish I had a hidden camera for this experience, but it’s mind-boggling and worth sharing.

I’m glad that I stopped working there. This is only one of the many horrible memories I have associated with the place, but at least this one is amusing.

I used to work as an attendant for the largest gas station company in my country. At the time, I’d been working there for about two and a half years. The job itself was actually really enjoyable and I loved my time there. Currently, I am working at the same company as a recruiter, and whenever I am offered shifts as an attendant, I always accept them.

I was finishing up one of my last shifts as an attendant, cleaning the oven, doing the dishes, mopping the floor, etc., when a Russian-speaking man came in and wanted to fill up his truck. I tried my best to tell him, in my broken Russian, that we are a fill-first-pay-after-type of gas station. And with the help of a regular customer, we managed to get the point across.

He then went and filled up his truck, the total was about 350L (approximately 92,5 gallons). It was an hour until the end of my shift when he came in to pay. After he entered the PIN for his debit card, the terminal gave an error. After two more unsuccessful tries, I decided to contact our in-house IT team.

It turned out that his bank did not have a contract with our service provider; hence, he couldn’t pay with his card. All that time, the regular stayed there and helped me as a translator.

By that point, I was all out of ideas. I had the regular tell him to wait for a bit until I could get a hold of my station manager. Unfortunately, she didn’t answer the phone, so I decided to call the regional manager.

Regional Manager: “Call the Head of External Partnerships; he has more experience in dealing with foreign banks.”

Unfortunately, that was a dead end because he hadn’t even heard of the customer’s bank. So, off I went, calling the regional manager once again.

Meanwhile, the truck driver had called the owner of his company and told him about the whole ordeal. The owner requested to speak to me. Thankfully, he spoke a bit of English.

Company Owner: “Is there a way for you to bill us and have the charge paid via a bank transfer?”

That lit a bulb in my head. We have a debt certificate form we can fill out, which basically says that the customer agrees to the charge and agrees to pay it by a certain date.

As I was finishing up filling the forms, my station manager called me back, and after I explained the whole story, she told me to call the head of security at our company. He, on the other hand, said:

Head Of Security: “The debt certificate is a bad idea since the company and the driver are from Poland; if they decide to not pay, it would be too expensive to seek legal action. Why didn’t you just tell him to use a nearby ATM to retrieve cash from his card?”

I literally facepalmed in front of the customer. How had I missed the simplest solution to the problem at hand?

I had the regular tell the truck driver to follow me, and I drove him to the ATM. The driver successfully retrieved cash. While driving back, we chatted a bit — as much as I could, at least. He boasted to me how his boss had wired him so much money for the trip that he could buy three cars just like mine with it. He also told me that the first thing he’d do when he got back to Poland was go to his bank and make them sign a deal with our company’s provider.

When we made it back, the regular left, the truck driver paid for his fuel, and all was well.

I gave both the regular customer and the truck driver a free coffee and a pastry of their choice for the inconvenience. In the end, I had spent almost three hours and made a dozen or so phone calls to help the customer. Thankfully, the truck driver was understanding the whole time and didn’t make a fuss about the whole ordeal.

But I learned a lesson: always try the easiest solutions first.