When Management Messes With Maleficent

, , , , , , | Working | November 16, 2018

(I’m a woman, and I’m in the feminine product aisle. I hear a loud noise behind me.)

Old Woman: “AHEM! Where are your [items]?”

Me: “I dunno. Try [the section likely to have said item].”

(I turn back, still trying find my preferred item.)

Old Woman: “EXCUSE ME! I ASKED YOU WHERE [ITEM] WAS!”

Me: “And I told you that I don’t know. Here’s a pro tip. Go find it yourself, or go ask someone who actually works here.”

(It is worth it to note that I am wearing a black shirt with [horned Disney Villain] on it. It is very much NOT a uniform employees would be allowed to wear. I find my necessary package of product and put it into the basket on my arm, before turning around and walking away. I’ve moved on three more aisles when an enraged-looking manager suddenly looms over me.)

Manager: “What the f*** did you think you were doing?”

Me: “Beg pardon?”

Manager: “What. The f***. Did. You. Think. You. Were. Doing?”

Me: “I would appreciate some context, please?”

(While this is delivered in the most non-sarcastic, genuinely confused tone of voice I can muster, it sets him off.)

Manager: “Maybe you’re new to this, but the Christmas season? You know, the time when we have a bunch of customers pouring in to buy presents for their kids? Yeah, that’s happening right now, and you’re sitting here f****** around with your g**d*** baby wipes! And a customer who asked you an honest question doesn’t need your attitude.”

(I look to him, then the basket in my hand, then at my black [Disney villain] shirt, and back to him.)

Me: “I don’t—”

Manager: “I don’t care what you think!”

(He gets really close to me at this point, and actually backs me into a corner.)

Manager: “You need to work on your customer service skills!”

(I try to say my side, that I don’t work at this business, and that I’m trying to shop, and all that gets an explosion before I get two words out.)

Manager: “I’M NOT HERE TALKING TO YOU SO YOU CAN ARGUE BACK! YOU WILL LEARN RESPECT! YOU WILL SHUT UP AND ACTUALLY LISTEN TO ME! YOU WILL NOT ACT LIKE A SPOILED F****** BRAT TO CUSTOMERS—”

Me: “I didn-“

Manager: “STOP. TALKING. I DON’T WANT TO F****** HEAR IT. SHUT! UP! NOW! YOU’RE A WASTE OF SPACE! YOU’RE GOING TO GET YOUR F****** A** INTO MY OFFICE!”

Security Guard: “Excuse me. Just what the h*** is going on over here?!”

(This situation looks bad from every angle. I’m a woman, backed into a corner by a much taller, screaming man. I have this man in my face, screaming obscenities and abuse. Tears streaming down my face, I look at the security guard and scream hysterically:)

Me: “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET HIM AWAY FROM ME!”

(Somewhere in my hysterics, I vaguely recall reality had apparently snapped back into the manager’s brain, as he jumped back from me and spluttered something that sounded vaguely apologetic and explanatory. I have flashes of a lady leading me away from the scene, flashes of the security guard planted between myself and my assailant, and a single, crystal clear image of a box of tissues getting pressed into my hands. It took quite a bit of time to get me back into a position of “functioning human” and away from “blubbering, traumatized mess.” By the time I was stable again, police were very much involved. Statements were taken, and yes, I wanted to press charges against this psychopath. This couldn’t possibly be his first incident, after all. The company got in contact with me right away, doing a frantic dance of appeasement, apology, and PR rescue… but regardless, I don’t think I want to shop there again for a long while.)

Alcohol Makes You Flirt With Danger

, , , , , | Right | November 5, 2018

(My high school choir works concessions for home games and I usually take cash from the customers and hand back change. While I do get flirted with a bit, especially by the younger, drunk customers, this one just takes the cake. I take his order and hand back his change.)

Drunk Customer: “So, what are you doing after this?”

Me: “Going home.”

Drunk Customer: “Not going to tailgate some?”

Me: “No, especially since I’m not old enough.”

Drunk Customer: “Okay. Wait, how old is not old enough?”

(At this point, I drop the polite customer service voice I’d been using and speak as if to a small child.)

Me: “I’m. Not. Legal.”

Drunk Customer: “Oh. OH! Sorry, I’m a little drunk.”

(Yeah, I noticed that.)

Café Staff Handbook Updated To Subtly Reiterate That Physical Brawls Are Not The Best Way To Resolve Coworker Conflict

, , , , , , , | Working | November 5, 2018

At the café where I work, we don’t have a tip jar, but if a customer chooses to give the cashier a tip, we’re allowed to accept it. It’s a dumb corporate policy, but there’s nothing we can do about it.

Generally, what most of us do is divvy up whatever we get with whomever else is working with us; that is to say, if I get fifty cents and only have one other coworker on the floor, he gets a quarter and I get a quarter. But this isn’t an official policy, and if someone chooses to keep all the tips that they get, there’s nothing anyone else can do about it. It’s not very good form, in my opinion, but if that’s the choice that someone makes, no one gets too bothered by it. And it’s pretty much expected that if someone doesn’t share their tips, no one else is going to share with that person; it’s a trade-off.

I have one coworker who not only doesn’t share his tips, but also loudly announces to the rest of us whenever he gets a good tip. He’s even gone so far as to wave a handful of change in my face at the end of his shifts. Although no one gets too bothered by someone choosing not to share, this guy being so “in your face” about the whole thing has always rubbed me the wrong way.

I was on the register when one of our regulars came up, and said that he paid with his card almost every time he came through, but that he wanted us all to know how much he appreciated our hard work. And then he handed me sixty dollars.

In the café that day, I had two other coworkers on the floor with me. One of them has always shared his tips with me. The other one was the hoarder I mentioned earlier. So, instead of handing out a twenty to each of them, I opened the register, broke one of the bills, and gave the sharing coworker $30, keeping the other $30 for myself.

My coworker whined. He begged. He complained to our manager. But what I had done was completely in line with our store’s policy. My coworker cornered me after my shift, got very close in my personal space, grabbed my wrist so tightly that it left a mark, and asked me what he’d ever done to deserve me “acting like a stuck-up c***.”

I was going to be mature(ish) about this. I was planning on giving him $10 and then reminding him that that’s a bigger percent than he’s ever given me. But after he called me that? I let him have it.

And then, I filed a harassment complaint with my manager. Turns out, I was not the first person he’d gotten physical with.

My coworker is now my former coworker.

That’s Not How Tanning Works

, , , | Right | November 4, 2018

(I go back to the supermarket where I work after a two-week vacation. A creepy regular is at my register:)

Regular: “It’s been a long time.”

Me: “Yes, I was on vacation.”

Regular: “On vacation? But you didn’t tan?”

Me: “I’m red-haired! I’m not easily tanned.”

Regular: “Twaddles! If you took off your clothes, you would tan!”

This Relationship Has Turned Sour (Milk)

, , , , , | Romantic | November 2, 2018

(I have been dating my boyfriend for two years when our milkman asks me out. He and I are close to the same age, and he’s been delivering our milk for years.)

Me: “I’m sorry, but no. I have a boyfriend.”

(A couple of weeks later he tries again.)

Milkman: “Hey. I spoke to your ‘boyfriend’ and he said it was all right for you to go out with me.”

Me: “What the h***? You really think I’m going to stuff up a two-year-long relationship on that?”

(He starts dating my best friend for a few months. She dumps him because he’s too clingy, telling me that I was lucky to avoid that. A couple of years later I get married and am back at my mother’s place for visit when he arrives to deliver the milk.)

Milkman: “Hey, [My Name]. Where have you been?”

Me: “I got married.”

Milkman: “Oh… How is it?”

Me: “Well, I’m back here”

Milkman: “Oh, how about you and I…”

Me: “I’m joking; I’m just here for a visit.”

Milkman: “Oh…”

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