Me: “Thank you for calling [Hardware Store]. How can I help you?”

Caller: “This is Bob. I want to order an XXL Hawaiian with a stuffed crust.”

Me: “Sir, this is [Hardware Store]. We don’t sell pizza.”

Caller: “I’m hungry.”

Me: “Sir, this is a home improvement store.”

Caller: “And I said I’m hungry!“

Me: “Well, in that case, I’ll contact the CEO and ask him to change the company because Bob wants a pizza.”

My dad moved for work to a small country town in the outback. Actually, I think we were a hamlet or a village, technically. The point is that it was a very small place with a lot of old, white, salt-of-the-earth men. The white-haired Boomer-generation man who ran the local hardware store was exactly what you’d expect from a man running a hardware store in a small farming town. 

That made it even more surprising that said hardware owner agreed to let me work there on weekends. I am weedy, I have never nailed a wall in my life, and my clothing choices lean to the swishy-skirt side of nonbinary. I was not who you expected in a hardware store.

Still, money was money, and I wanted to make a good impression. On my first day, I wore my manliest pants and a nice button-down shirt. The owner greeted me and, in order, showed me how to work the register and how to search his inventory database and then got down to running down with me the details for how I’d be paid and what he wanted me to do if I had to call in sick.

Owner: “Now, I think that’s the basics, so the rest I can show you on the— Oh, no, wait. There are questions I’m meant to ask. What was… Ah, do you have any of them pronouns?”

Me: “Sorry?”

Owner: “Pronouns. My daughter says it’s important these days.”

Me: “Um… I prefer they/them.”

Owner: “That all?”

Me: “Like, do I use other pronouns? Nooooot really?”

Owner: “All righty, you show me how to do that later. And if you change your mind, no tails on the floors.”

Me: “Wait, tails?”

Owner: “My grandkid, she and her mom come up for the holidays, and she’ll wear them cat ears, but tails aren’t safe when you’re moving pallets. The identity stuff is all well and good, but we don’t compromise on safety here, understand?”

Me: “Hold up. It doesn’t bother you?”

Owner: “The old folks round here might say they’re not taking hardware advice from some cat-not-man, but they come in already thinking they know better and weren’t going to take any advice from you kids on the floor anyway. So I don’t see what difference it makes.”

Best job I ever had.

An older customer is ordering a lot of timber for a home renovation product.

Customer: “Can I ask you about your installation services?”

Me: “Absolutely! We partner with lots of verified local contractors, so I should be able to help you find what you need.”

Customer: *Narrows his eyes* “Where are you from?”

Me: “New Zealand, originally, but I’ve lived in the States for over—”

Customer: “All you immigrants coming over here! An American-born man could be doing the job you’re doing right now, but you had to come in and take over!”

Me: “Sir, I am not here to steal anyone’s job. I’m just—”

Customer: “It’s disgusting! But you’re here now, and I have work to do. But I’ll be writing to my Facebook group about this so they know [Hardware Store] hires immigrants instead of Americans!”

Me: *Trying to move this along* “That’s fine, sir. You were asking about our partnered contractors?”

Customer: “Yeah, I’m looking for some guys who have experience with installing kitchens. Oh, and try to get me some Mexicans; those guys are always cheapest.”

I work in a hardware store. I am also trans and transitioning from female to male. Sometimes customers can tell, and sometimes they can’t.

A customer is asking me for advice about some construction methods and has been directed to me since this is my department.

Customer: “Oh… uh… I need to ask a man about this stuff.”

Me: “I can help you, sir. This is my department.”

Customer: *Looking around* “No… can you get me a real man?”

Me: *Staring him dead in the eyes* “I can’t currently see one.”

He got the hint and slunk away like the waste of oxygen he is.

Back in the 1970s, I work the service desk at a big box hardware store.

Customer: “I want to return some tools.”

He dumps some screwdrivers, wrenches, etc. out of a paper bag onto the desk. Along with the tools come about five cockroaches, that scurry off to hide in my desk.

Me: “You get over here and find them and kill them.”

He caught a couple, but couldn’t find the rest, and that’s how we got a roach infestation.