It’s a tradition in my family that when a child graduates from high school, their parents get them a nice used car to replace the hand-me-down they drove once they got their license. The complication happened when my sister and I graduated high school: because we are twins and my family was going through move, my parents didn’t get us a car. My sister and I were going to the same college, so we just kept using the same old Jeep. It was a typical first car; the air conditioning sucked and it was pretty old, but it got us from point A to point B so we didn’t complain. My father, though, felt guilty that he wasn’t able to keep up the tradition with us, especially since six years earlier he’d gotten my brother his own car.

We went through college with this Jeep, and every year my father promised that “this will be the year you get your own car.” It didn’t happen, so we kind of just ignored it; the Jeep worked well enough. Still, he constantly tried to figure out the kind of cars we would want, and the color.

My sister and I went to a famous SEC school that had a huge football team in the 90s. Their school colors are orange and white, and I’m his football child. So, when he asked me what color car I wanted, I said, “Believe it or not, I really like that kind of dark orange color.” My dad laughed and said, “Trust me, I’ll never find one in that color.” I laughed, agreed, and said I’d be happy with any color or even just keeping the Jeep. I didn’t care that much.

My sister and I were in our last year of college and I was preparing to apply to masters programs. My father was determined to get us the promised cars, but we honestly didn’t believe him. He had a make and model that he thought I would like, and was looking through used car listings when he saw a picture of one and couldn’t believe it. It was the exact car he wanted to get me in the same dark orange color I’d wanted but didn’t think anyone would find.

He went straight to that dealership, determined to get that very car. He started talking to the salesman and he brought up the color, noting that it probably wasn’t a very popular color, especially in Georgia, where my father was.

The dealer agreed and kept talking about how it was possible to get it repainted, trying to make the color not that big of a deal. My dad kept saying things like, “I really like it; I just don’t know about this color. Orange? In Georgia? I don’t know.”

He wound up getting the sales guy to lower the price a bit more. My dad signed on the dotted line, got into the car, and was ready to drive off. But he couldn’t resist.

He lowered the window to talk to the salesman one last time. “By the way, the car is for my daughter. She goes to [University]. She’s going to love this color.”

He drove away laughing; the sales guy laughed, too. He knew he’d been out negotiated in the funniest way.

I still drive that orange car every day; I love it to death. Thanks, Dad!

(I live in a house divided into three apartments. The largest is occupied by the homeowner, the upstairs apartment is occupied by the owner’s 20-something son and his girlfriend, and my husband and I rent the smaller, downstairs apartment below them. My husband has known the family for years, hence the good price; however, I am viewed as “the outsider” and often end up at the center of any gossip. The homeowner’s son and his girlfriend have been pushing to kick me out so that the apartment can be rented to one of their friends. Because of this, I make it a point to keep my head down, and try to be as polite as possible. I always get a kick out of hearing the latest gossip about what I’m doing.)

Husband: “So, [Homeowner’s Son] says that you’ve been spying on them through the windows.”

Me: “Oh, the bedroom windows with the blackout curtains? Or the living room windows that look out into the woods? Wait! I know! It’s the bathroom window isn’t it? The one that’s too high for me to see out of, and has the blinds?”

Husband: “Oh, and they say you spy on them on the porch. You’re always out there.”

Me: “You mean where I enter and exit through the front door?”

Husband: “Exactly.” *joking* “You’re not allowed to have a life. Just stay in your box. And no more windows.”

(Later:)

Me: “I ran into [Homeowner’s Son] in the driveway. He was working on his truck. He asked me for a jump, but I didn’t have any jumper cables.”

Husband: “I heard. He threw a fit to [Homeowner] that you’re bragging that your car works. He then threw a fit that you’re blocking the driveway and he can’t get out. He wants you to start parking up against the front door to our apartment.”

Me: “On the porch? What about [Homeowner]’s car? Or yours? His truck doesn’t even run.”

(It’s a very large driveway, with two entrances; it curves around the front of the house and then into the back. I’ve been parking in the same spot for almost ten months.)

Husband: “Yeah. Nothing said about that.”

(I continue parking where I always have. Another time:)

Husband: “[Homeowner’s Son’s Girlfriend] complained that she could hear inappropriate sounds coming from our bedroom the other night.”

Me: “But we just got back from [vacation] last night. Nobody was here.”

Husband: “I know. [Homeowner] called her out on it, and she got upset and ran off.”

(A few weeks later, I’ve picked up a box of a dozen donuts on my way home. As I’m unlocking my door, the son and girlfriend come outside and see me. As I get the door open, I wave hello, smile, then head inside, closing the door behind me.)

Husband: “[Homeowner’s Son] and his girlfriend threw a tantrum to [Homeowner], saying that you’re being unneighborly and rude. They said you bragged about your donuts, then didn’t invite them in to have any.”

Me: “Gee, I wonder why.”

(Nothing ever comes of their complaints.)

(I was recently in a pretty bad car accident that left me with a broken jaw which had to be wired shut. While I can talk, I tend to avoid it since it is painful at times, and it is sometimes hard to understand me. My boss understands this, and has even gone so far as to have these big “Cannot Speak” signs made up with some details to explain my problem. For the most part, the customers have been nice and understanding about it. One day, around noon, I’m sweeping the front of the store when a smartly-dressed woman steps through the door. She walks over to me and asks where something is, and I don’t answer. Instead, I wave in the direction of the manager who comes over and asks what it is she wants, while I go back to sweeping. The woman asks and is directed to what she needs, and the manager comes back and tells me to ring her up.)

Woman: “Oh, hell no. I don’t want him ringing me up.”

Manager: “And why not? Did he do something wrong?”

Woman: “No, it’s just that he’s obviously a [disabled slur]. I don’t want this waste of human space screwing up anything.

Me: “Not [disabled slur].” *my words slur due to clenched teeth*

Woman: “See? They can’t even talk right. If I were president, I’d have all of them aborted before birth.”

Me: “Not [disabled slur].” *slurred again*

Woman: “Oh, shut up and let the adults do business.”

(I held up a finger to my manager, who I could see was VERY pissed. Walking over, I picked up a piece of paper from the copier, snagged a marker, and wrote out, “You ignorant, uneducated bigot. I can’t speak because I had a car accident, which you may have read about in the newspaper. My jaw is wired shut.” I turned the paper around so she could read it. I watched her look at it, look at me, and then look at the manager. You could almost hear the gears working in her mind as she started to blush, and refused to look at me the entire time. Shortly after she left, one of the regulars who overheard the conversation noted that it was everything he could do not to smack her in the head, in the hopes it might knock some sense into her.)

(It’s Thanksgiving night, and the women’s clothing store where I work is open and selling away for Black Friday. Black Friday brings out the crazies, and this is no exception. We have a visitor from out of state who is in constant need of attention and help. My coworker and I can’t leave her side, and most of our interactions go like this:)

Customer: “I love these navy pants. Can I get them in grey, too?”

Me: “No, ma’am, I’m sorry. Unfortunately, we don’t carry our bootleg pants in grey. The only grey pants we have are our trouser fit.”

Customer: “Oh, let me try those!”

Me: “You already have, ma’am. Remember? The black ones. We didn’t have your size in the grey, but we said we could order them for you in the color you wanted and it would ship to your house.”

Customer: “Oh, yes. I don’t need any black pants, though.”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, I know. We just had you try the black ones on to see if you liked the fit. The grey ones we are ordering for you fit the exact same way.”

Customer: “Oh, okay. Can I get those in navy, too?”

Me: “I’m sorry. We don’t have our trouser pants in navy. Only grey, black, white, and brown.”

Customer: “I only need grey. Let me try on the grey ones.”

Me: “We don’t have your size in the grey, remember? That’s why you tried on the black. Those are the ones we’re shipping to you?”

Customer: “Ah, yes, yes. yes. Like the ones I’m wearing now. Only grey.”

Me: “Nope. The ones you’re wearing now are our bootleg pants.”

Customer: “Oh. Well, can I get them in grey?”

Me: “We only sell our bootleg pants in black and navy.”

Customer: “But I don’t need black pants. I need grey pants.”

(This went on for two hours. She finally checked out and we made sure we explained everything that was going to happen very carefully. She seemed to finally understand, and we thought nothing more of it. A few weeks later, we got a phone call from a very frustrated store in her home state. She had apparently called them, very irate, because the package they delivered to her was the wrong pant. She wanted the grey bootleg pant — which doesn’t exist — and they sent her the grey trouser pant — which she ordered. When they tried to explain that to her, she demanded a refund. You just can’t help crazy.)

This story is part of our Thanksgiving 2023 roundup!

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(Our store has a few floors, and each floor has a counter with registers. Because we’re usually short-staffed on the upper floors, we only put people on the second and third floor registers when it’s really busy. I’m behind an empty register pricing some products.)

Customer: “Hey, can you ring me up?”

Me: “Oh, sorry, only on the first floor.”

Customer: “You know, you should really have a sign that tells me you’re closed!”

(I glance over to the three huge signs in front of every register that say, “REGISTER CLOSED.”)

Me: “Yeah, we probably should.”

(This happens every single day, without fail!)

Related:
Lack Of Register Does Not Register, Part 9
Lack Of Register Does Not Register, Part 8
Lack Of Register Does Not Register, Part 7