I see a sign inside a Tokyo restaurant:
Sign: “Do not touch our waitresses, ask for their contact information, or wait for them outside. This restaurant will not be responsible for any injuries happening to anyone who ignores this warning.”
Duly noted, yikes!
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.
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We have a patient whose employer did not activate his health insurance. The patient is on the phone with his employer and the final resolution was the employer saying that if the insurance coverage did not go through, the employer would reimburse the patient for the full cost of the medication.
For those unaware, the pharmacy has no control over insurance coverage. All we do is send an electronic claim to the insurance, and the insurance either comes back with a copay (aka, what we charge the patient for the medication) or a rejection (patient not covered by [x insurance], medication not covered by insurance, pharmacy not in network, etc.).
The patient informs us he’s paying cash price without his insurance since this insurance isn’t going through. I let him know what the total cost is for all his medications – it’s less than $50, so not even that bad.
Patient: “I’m glad we got that figured out. If I had to come here again, it would be with a gun.”
Me: “…okay, so your total cost is [total]. We’ll ring you up at the register to your left.”
Patient: “Doesn’t that scare you? That I might come back with a gun?”
Honestly, yes, but he’s clearly looking for a reaction.
Me: “Nah. At my last job, patients would bite me on a daily basis.” *Actually true.* “This job is much less scary.”
Patient: “Oh…” *Walks off in disappointment.*
Most French people assume that most English don’t speak any French… which is true to a fair extent.
My father and I went into a pub in England. In there were two Frenchmen, chatting away. As well, there was a young woman serving at the bar, plus another two men at another table — seven people in all. The two Frenchmen were well-heeled, yuppyish, I guess up-and-coming managers in finance or consultancy. Actually, it was unusual to see French people in this pub; although it was a popular tourist town, this wasn’t London, and it was in an obscure part of town that many locals didn’t really know. So French people would not reasonably expect to encounter other French speakers.
I’m afraid to say I took a dislike to them — not because they were French but because they were obnoxious. As well as looking and sounding like they’d been drinking for a few hours, they would also make occasional disparaging remarks about the décor (okay, it could’ve been better), “les Anglais”, my father’s hat, etc., all while looking down their noses at us and the two men on the other table.
Although my father and I both speak some French, we just ignored them, getting on with our own chat and beer. The barperson came round the pub to pick up empties, etc. Then, she stood on the bar footrail, leaning over to reach something behind the bar.
One of the Frenchmen, watching her bend over, exclaimed in French something very crude.
The barperson froze. My father and I froze, too, staring at the two Frenchmen. Also, the other two people stopped talking and stared. The barperson righted herself and walked back behind the bar.
The [Barperson] said something under her breath, clearly in French, maybe street French, but I didn’t quite understand.
The Frenchmen clearly understood, and I’m sure they noticed the atmosphere had changed, but they pretended not to notice and continued with their beers.
One of the men at the other table spoke up in fluent French, “So, which part of Paris are you from?”
The man’s partner, asked, also in French, “Le [Redacted]ième?” (A rough part of Paris.)
This seemed to catch the Frenchmen unawares. One of them started to reply in English, then switched to French, and he seemed about to say where they were from, but he stopped. Then, they quickly finished their pints and slid out.
So, all seven people in this obscure English pub could speak French.
I’m a server working on a busy Friday night when I get a family of three: a dad, a mom, and a guy who we can plainly see is in the military. He looks young and is very flirtatious.
Me: “Hello and welcome! I’ll be taking care of you.”
Son: “Thank God we got a hot one.”
Me: “Ha. Okay. What can I get you to drink?”
Mom & Dad: “Water, please.”
Son: “I’ll take a peach margarita.”
Me: “What kind of tequila?”
Son: *Starts to smile* “Which do you prefer?”
Me: “Don Julio is top shelf here.”
Son: “Great. I’ll take that.”
Me: “Okay. Can I see your ID, please?”
Son: “I’m not sure if I have it. I just got home from the military and I’m looking for a good drink and good company.” *Winks*
Me: “Okay, but I can’t serve you unless you have ID.”
Son: “All I have is my military ID on me. I don’t know if it has my birthdate on it, though.”
As a bartender as well, I know it does.
Me: “That’s fine. I’ll just look at it quickly.”
The son smiles really big and winks again.
Son: “Okay… here you go.”
I take the ID and flip it over to see his birthdate.
Me: “Wait… you aren’t twenty-one. You just turned nineteen.”
The son loses his smile and takes back his ID.
Dad: “I’ll take the peach margarita.”
Me: “Sorry, but I can’t serve a drink he ordered to you.”
Dad: “But he’s in the military, for Christ’s sake!”
In my head, I’m thinking he just got out of boot camp. At this point, I’m pretty pissed at all the time they’ve wasted. I’ve been sat again, and I know I’m not going to get a tip from this family.
Me: “Sir… I don’t care if he’s in the Avengers. He isn’t twenty-one and looks it. I’ll get fired on the spot.”
Dad: “Can we request another server?”
Me: “If you don’t like this table, you can go back to the host and put your name down for another table and server. The wait is forty-five minutes. I’ll be right back with your waters if you decide to stay.”
I then turned around and greeted my next table. They did stay but complained about everything, so the manager went by. They tried ordering the drink with him, and since I had already explained everything to him, he carded the kid and said, “I’ll bring you a virgin peach margarita on me.”
No tip on $40.00.
