A woman wanders up to my register and plops down a six-pack of beer.

Me: “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am. I can’t sell you the beer until 8:00 am, it’s a state law.”

Customer: “But I need beer. When I walked in, it was almost 8:00, anyway.”

Me: “The register locks out alcohol sales until 8:00 am, so I can’t sell it to you until the register unlocks itself.”

Customer: “I really need this beer! I have to have it. You understand, don’t you?”

Me: “I’m sorry, I can’t do anything about it until eight. The store could lose its liquor license and I could be arrested, fined, and probably fired.”

Customer: “What if you total up the price of the beer and I’ll pay you cash for it? Nobody has to know.”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t do that. You’ll have to wait until eight.”

Customer: *Finally losing it* “I REALLY NEED THIS BEER! MY DAUGHTER IS IN LABOR AND SHE CALLED ME AND SAID SHE NEEDS BEER!”

Me: “If your daughter is in labor, do you think it’s wise to give her beer?”

Customer: *Gets even madder* “FINE! I’ll go somewhere else where they’ll sell some beer!”

I told the store owner about it later and he said, “I’ve heard lots of stupid excuses from customers over the years, but that’s a new one for me.”

We have a store-wide mask policy, and the employees have to confront anyone not wearing a mask. I’m the only person in my department, and a middle-aged man comes in with his mask off.

Me: “Excuse me, sir, you need to wear a mask; it’s store policy.”

I’m short and unthreatening so people think they can walk all over me, but this is another level. He gets in my face and starts yelling.

Customer: “This is fascism! You can’t control me! This is fascism!”

I think he’s going to punch me, so I repeat that he needs to wear it or leave.

Customer: “I’m not a sheeple; I’m a man! I’m an American! Live free or die!”

He stormed out of my department.

CONTENT WARNING: Injury Detail

I’m working at the counter at a store having a pleasant conversation with a customer. We exchange pleasantries, and I admit it’s been a bit of a long month and I’m looking forward to it being over.

Customer: “Oh, no! What’s wrong?”

Me: “It’s a long story. Now, how much of this did you need?”

Customer: “What’s going on, honey?” 

After another few attempts to get her to focus on the task at hand only for her to continue digging at why it’s been a long month, I just sigh and give up in an attempt to placate her.

Me: “My mother-in-law’s been in the hospital. She had to have from just above the knee down amputated and she almost died because an infection was misdiagnosed. Her sister had a heart attack and the funeral was Saturday and there were a lot of questions as to whether my mother-in-law could attend. My nephew is finally being assessed so he can get his autism diagnosis, and someone almost started a big fire in my apartment building last night.”

Customer: “Oh, no! How’s your mother-in-law doing now?”

Me: “She’s doing better; things are rough obviously. And they’re keeping a close eye on her leg since diabetes can—”

Customer: “You know she’s going to die, right?”

Me: “Pardon?”

Customer: “She’s not taking care of herself; that’s why she has diabetes and lost her leg. This had better serve as a wake-up call!”

Me: “Ma’am, she was in an accident. There was a cut on her foot and when she went to a doctor about pain in the area, he didn’t even look at the cut and told her it was gout. The infection killed tissue in her foot and leg. The first hospital accidentally gave her an almost lethal overdose of painkillers and neglected the leg to the point where she was transferred to a second hospital and had more of her leg amputated. She’s been taking care of herself as best she can, given the circumstances.” 

Customer: “Yeah, well, just be ready when she dies.”

The rest of the conversation was short and clipped, just trying to get her order done. My mother-in-law is still going almost a year later.

My dad got his bachelor’s in industrial engineering from Cornell — on a full academic scholarship no less! — and his master’s in public health from Harvard, both in the 1970s. He has spent the last forty-four years of his life with his job being his biggest passion other than my mother, my sister, and me.

A year into the health crisis, and fully vaccinated, he goes to the grocery store for the first time in a year. Another customer walks in behind him, not properly masked.

Store Employee: “Sir, please pull your mask up.”

Other Customer: “Oh, that doesn’t matter.”

Store Manager: “Actually, sir, it’s our rules that you have to wear your mask properly.”

Other Customer: “I have my right to my beliefs!” *Blah blah* “First amendment!” *Blah blah* “You have no right to make me!”

My dad steps in.

Dad: “Actually, sir, you really should wear it as a matter of public health; it protects you but also everyone else. We need to protect both ourselves and each other with this going around.”

The customer whips around to face my dad and snarls.

Other Customer: “Oh, yeah?! Where’d you get your degree in public health?!”

Dad: “Harvard.”

The other customer stomps out of the store while the manager laughs. Dad approaches the manager.

Dad: “Sorry for losing you a customer.”

Store Manager: “Were you serious or just trolling a troll?”

Dad: “No, I really have a master’s in public health!”

I work in a doctor’s office that happens to be located inside a big box retailer. A few days ago, I had three punch biopsies done. The bandage on my shoulder blade feels weird, so I have a coworker check it for me.

An older and very condescending customer walks up and sees the bandage.

Customer: “You young people and your tattoos!”

For the record, I’m forty-five.

Customer: “What did you get, your latest boyfriend’s name? Or something else you’ll regret later in life?”

I choose my words carefully.

Me: “I have stitches on my shoulder blade from a punch biopsy to see if I have melanoma from multiple horrific sunburns in my youth. Would you like to see them?”

Don’t know why, but she walked away.

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