I am stocking produce in our imported tropical fruits section. Each fruit has a sticker showing where it comes from. A customer approaches, waving a mango menacingly. It has a sticker on it showing it comes from the Caribbean.

Customer: “Why aren’t these grown locally?! I don’t want to support foreign countries!”

Me: “We have to import the mangoes, sir.”

Customer: “I want locally-sourced mangoes!”

Me: “Tropical mangoes, grown locally?”

Customer: “Yes!”

Me: “In Scotland? In November?”

Customer: “Yes!”

Me: “We… can’t do that.”

Customer: “Why not?!”

Me: “You… can’t grow tropical fruit in cold climates.”

Customer: “Well, I don’t want it, then!”

He then picks up a pineapple and sees that it comes from Costa Rica.

Customer: “Why aren’t these grown locally?!”

Me: “…”

This happened about twenty years ago.

My mother and I go out to buy some food, and we successfully find everything on our list. We head to the checkout and chat with the cashier as she rings us up.

Cashier: “Oh, wow, hahaha. Okay, a ga— Gall-gallen-ga—”

She turns deadly white, eyes opened wide and staring into space as she struggles to speak.

Mom & Me: “Are you okay?!”

Cashier: *Faintly* “Yeah, I just-just-just—”

Mom: “You ‘just’ need to sit down!”

The cashier seems upset but is still speaking faintly.

Cashier: “My manager…”

Mom: “We’ll explain to him. [My Name], take her to the chairs near the entrance. I’ll find someone to call a manager.” 

Working in retail myself, I know it’s a big no-no for customers to come behind the register, and ESPECIALLY for them to actually touch the cashier, but she hasn’t regained her color and she’s starting to recover her senses enough to be visibly upset.

I speak gently as I put one hand on her shoulder and the other on her back.

Me: “Here, come with me. Don’t worry. There are chairs right here. Come sit down. I’ll sit with you. It’s okay. Do you need water? We were buying water bottles; I can get you one.”

She continues to protest about her manager and insists that she’s fine, but she clearly isn’t.

After a couple of minutes, my mother returns with a manager. He takes one look at her and shakes his head.

Manager: “Did you drive or take a cab today?”

Cashier: “I got a ride. She’s picking me up.”

Manager: “Good. You stay here until she arrives. Ladies, you can come back to the register. I’ll finish ringing you up.”

Me: “I’ll sit with her until we’re ready to go.”

The manager nodded and started ringing up the rest of the groceries for my mom. I sat with the cashier and tried to calm her. She was slowly regaining some color and seemed to be focusing again, and she told me her shift was over in just a few minutes anyway. Because of this, we chose to sit with her until her ride came to get her, and when her friend came in, we warned her about the cashier’s sudden distress. Thankfully, her friend was able to get her up and walking steadily, and they headed out the door together.

Whatever it was that happened, I hope she recovered quickly.

I’m in my late twenties and am currently the assistant manager of my entire store. I have a bit of a baby face at the best of times and got this job when I was twenty-five, so I’m pretty used to people scoffing when they hear I’m the manager.

I took six months off last year to deal with my divorce from my controlling, horrible ex-husband. (I would not recommend getting married at eighteen, kids!) As soon as I was free of him, I checked what was and wasn’t allowed in our dress code and finally started expressing myself the way I had desperately always wanted to.

It is the day I get back from my leave of absence. A regular problem customer is barking orders at one of my team and demands to speak to the manager, and she pages me down.

Customer: *Still yelling at my poor cashier* “…and I don’t want to talk to that mousy little thing who looks like she should still be in high school! Get me a real manager!”

Me: “That would be me, mate.”

The customer turned around and found me standing behind him. Gone was the shy person with the cross necklace, thick glasses, and light brown hair. My hair was now in an electric green pixie cut, I had tattoos covering both forearms and a nose ring, and I was wearing contact lenses.

We don’t wear uniforms in my store, so he was used to seeing me in the “modest” dresses my husband allowed me to wear. I’ve gotten REALLY into suits, so I was wearing dress pants, a black button-up shirt with some cool little chain details on the pocket, and combat boots that also had chains on the sides.

I really did expect more pushback, but the customer meekly apologized to my giggling cashier and scurried off into the night. I’ve never felt more confident or powerful.

I’m eight months pregnant, and I’m at the store with my toddler, buying food to meal prep for my freezer for when the new baby comes. My husband travels for work, so I have no choice but to do this on my own. I’ve had some complications with this pregnancy that consist of a few fainting spells, so I’m always cautious.

I opt for self-checkout because the line is shorter. I’m next in line and start to feel dizzy. My toddler has also had about enough of being stuck in a cart. I know I need to get out of there quickly since I don’t feel good.

I’m walking up to the register, and a man around fifty years old behind me speaks to me.

Older Man: “Let me go first since I only have a few things.”

He does only have about ten items, but I know I need to get home.

Me: “Sorry, sir, I have to get home as soon as possible.”

Older Man: *Openly screaming* “It’s awful how people your age don’t respect their elders!”

Me: *Turning around and yelling back* “Sir, anyone can see I’m heavily pregnant with a toddler on the verge of a meltdown. Now, tell me again how you’re more important than me and can’t understand the concept of a line?”

He walked away to another line huffing, and I made it home and was able to relax without a fainting spell.

I work in a high-end grocery store, so most of the items we sell are usually out of my price range. However, I am hosting a dinner party and I want to serve some nice things, so with some staff performance vouchers (instead of bonuses we get vouchers — oh, well) and my staff discount, I am able to buy some relatively nice things for a not-crazy amount of money.

I am waiting in line, and the customer ahead of me turns around and spots me.

Customer: “Oh, did you need to get by?”

Me: “Oh, no, thanks. I’m just waiting in line.”

Customer: “You’re… shopping?”

Me: “That’s right!”

Customer: “But… you work here!”

Me: “Yes, but I am just a regular customer today!”

Customer: “But… you’re poor!”

Me: “Thanks for the reminder!”

It’s the customer’s turn, and she’s checking out. She leans over and whispers something to the cashier (who I also know), and then she finally pays and takes her shopping, glancing back at me worriedly.

Me: “What did [Customer] say?”

Coworker: *Sighs* “She said that you’re a poor person, like me, so make sure I don’t let you waste your food stamps on good food.”

Me: “Wow. I don’t know what’s worse: that she thinks that, because I work retail, I must be on food stamps, or that poor people don’t deserve to eat nice food.”

Coworker: “Actually, I think she was just upset that you were able to afford the same stuff she could, at least this once.”

Me: “Yeah, she’s probably worried that after we eat rich, we’ll eat the rich!”

We both laughed, and I went on to host a very successful dinner party!