Sometimes I can’t believe these people are real.

Me: “Hello, this is [My Name]. How can I help you?”

Customer: “You can tell me why my parcel isn’t at my front door! It was a Christmas present for my son that I ordered before Christmas, and [Discount Retailer] promised me that the parcel would be here today. And they’re very pissed at you guys and are going to press charges.”

Me: “Well, we’re not beholden to a delivery date that a third-party company gives you. Do you have a tracking number so I can check where the parcel is for you?”

Customer: “No, I haven’t gotten it from them yet.”

Me: “Okay, can I get your address?”

Customer: “Yeah, it’s [address].”

I go use another piece of software to find the tracking for the parcel.

Me: “Okay, I’ve got the tracking number here and I can see that we’ve only received the manifest from the sender today and haven’t actually physically received your parcel, so you’re looking at an estimated delivery date of three business days from now.”

Customer: “[Discount Retailer] is going to press charges against you guys because, in their terms, if the parcel doesn’t arrive on the day they say, then they have to give me a refund.”

Me: “Okay, well, you can go tell [Discount Retailer] to call us and they can certainly try to press charges against us.”

Customer: “Well, if you’re going to be like that, I’ll also press charges cause you’re f****** with my son’s Christmas present. I sued the state government because I got cancer working for them.”

He then goes on an expletive-laden rant.

Me: “If you continue to be abusive, I’ll hang up on you.”

Customer: “Hang up, then!”

Me: “Thank you, bye.”

He never called back, so I guess he must be speaking to a lawyer.

I work in an indie bookshop. It is two days before Christmas. We’re packed so there’s three of us working. Ten large boxes arrive (it’s a mixture of restock and customer order) so we start sorting through it. Our usual process for customer orders is that we ring them up to let them know their order has arrived. Simple concept, right? Apparently not.

A guy comes in:

Customer: *Demanding.* “Get my order!”

We look up his order: three flat kids’ books.

Me: “Sir, we haven’t called you to pick these up yet, and the books haven’t arrived yet, but I reckon they might be in the remaining seven boxes we have yet to unpack.”

Customer: “Then get me my books!”

Me: “You’re going to have to wait while we sort through them.”

He gets angrier and angrier, eventually resorting to assaulting my coworker who’s shelving books. We threaten to call the police. Some of the other customers butt in and tell him to stop. We give the angry man a refund and tell him to get out and never come back.

When we eventually got to the end of the ten boxes, his books were nowhere to be seen. I think they arrived after Christmas, so we popped them on the shelves and sold them out of spite.

I am checking out a woman at my register. This is a few years before the health crisis.

Customer: “I don’t like how dirty the conveyor belt of your register is!”

It’s not dirtier than any others.

Customer: “You need to close your register immediately and clean it! And do it while I watch!”

Me: “Ma’am, we are very busy today so I can’t do that right this second.”

Like, hello, there is a line!

Customer: *Yelling.* “Get me a manager!”

The manager comes over and has me close and clean the belt to appease her. I have to go to the back to calm down as I am on the verge of a panic attack from being berated like that.

As I am leaving, I hear her berate the manager about something else:

Customer: “I came in right at opening time on Christmas Eve and there were still some employees finishing setting things up in the produce department! You need to make people come in earlier because I wanted to shop in a perfectly set up store!”

We opened at 7 am, and as if Christmas eve isn’t already our busiest day of the year!

Manager: “Employees were in as early as 5 am on Christmas Eve.”

Customer: “Clearly that wasn’t enough! You all needed to come in earlier than that!”

And with that, she finally leaves.

My parents divorce when I’m about six years old, and my biological father moves to a different city. When I’m eight and my brothers are ten and twelve, we spend our first Christmas with my dad instead of with Mom.

Everything is fine for the first few days, though our father takes us daily to his parents’ house to play with the kids there — they work for the government taking care of children whose parents cannot look after them — while he sleeps on their sofa. We don’t get affected by it because it’s the normal procedure every time we visit.

But then, we wake up on the twenty-fourth, and our father is nowhere to be seen. We look around his apartment and find nothing — no note and not even food in the fridge. Since we are three children in a really bad neighborhood — my father’s house has been robbed three times at this point — my oldest brother calls my mom back in [Hometown] to ask what to do. They talk for a bit and she calls back later.

Brother: “She said Grandma and Grandpa will be here soon and to pack all our things.”

We do as we’re told, and half an hour later, our grandparents show up.

Me: “Where’s Dad?”

Grandma: “He had a very serious emergency at work, so you three are going to spend Christmas with us.”

They take us to their house, and I proceed to have the worst Christmas ever. My brothers and I end up sitting alone at dinner at a small table, and at night, my grandfather distributes BOXES of fireworks to the children. Imagine twelve children — not counting us — ages five to fourteen, all armed with fireworks. There is so much smoke that I get dizzy and I cough all night.

And because we are not supposed to be there, we also have no presents. As soon as I set foot back inside, my grandma shoves two unwrapped board games into my hands, no “Merry Christmas” or anything, and walks off. I found out later that what she did was unwrap presents aimed at other kids and give them to us, not caring what it was; my brother got a ball, despite his dislike for sports.

Many years later, nearing another Christmas and talking to my mom about bad holiday experiences, I recall this whole story.

Mom: “A ‘very serious emergency’?! Is that what they told you?! Yeah, I guess the police coming for him would have been an emergency!”

Me: “What?”

Mom: “When your brother called me, your father didn’t answer my call, so I called your grandparents. You know what his ‘emergency’ was? [Girlfriend] booked two nights for them at [Seaside Resort]. He abandoned his children without a word to go spend Christmas at [Casino]!”

Me: “…”

Mom: “And you know what? Your grandparents didn’t want to pick you all up! They said they already had too many kids, with [Favorite Grandkid] coming, and that they didn’t want the hassle of three more kids! They agreed and rushed to get you only after I told them that as soon as I was done with the call, I was calling the police and coming myself to pick up my kids — their d*** grandchildren — and I was having that b*****d arrested! That’s why I never allowed him another holiday with you!”

So, to recap, my biological father abandoned his three young kids in a dangerous neighborhood to go gamble with his girlfriend, and my grandparents refused to take care of us because it would have been “a hassle” to accommodate their grandchildren for Christmas in an emergency. I cut ties with that whole side of the family as soon as possible.

It’s Christmas Eve and I’m working at a small, family-owned Italian restaurant in a small city. We close at 4:30 to allow everyone time to be home with their families because most of us have kids and the boss man is good about stuff like that.

Cue the lonely, odd regular. She’s not a mean lady, but she’s certainly different. I’ve had to ask her to put her shoes back on several times and she regularly tells me about her bowel movements — that kind of regular. She comes in around three. I know she always stays for a while, but I don’t think anything of it as we don’t close for another hour and a half. At four, I drop off her check and start my cleanup as she and one other table are left and I am not seating any more.

At 4:15, the second table leaves, wishes me a Merry Christmas, and leaves me a banging tip so I am in great spirits.

At 4:30, I’m already pretty much done with my cleaning. The regular is done with her food and I have all her dishes but her tea cup. I tell the back it’s no biggie if they bounce; there’s only one dish. Now it’s only me, the closing manager, and my husband, who happens to be the general manager. I check on the regular and drop a subtle comment.

Me: “Man, I can’t wait to get home! It’s been crazy busy; I’m dead on my feet!”

She laughs and excuses herself to the bathroom.

At 4:45, she’s still in there. I’m getting a little stir crazy but it’s not bad yet. The guys and I are just chatting in the back.

At 4:50, the regular emerges. Instead of getting ready to leave, she settles in and starts sipping her tea and reading her book. Now I’m getting mad. I go to her table and check the bill — nothing. I gently remind her that we closed twenty minutes ago and she scoffs at me as if I’m rushing her.

By 5:00, my husband is pissed and shuts off the music and dims the lights. I go to the regular’s table again and she’s visibly angry.

Regular: “Excuse me, I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I don’t understand why you guys are closing up.”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ve been here for two hours, you finished eating over an hour ago, and we’ve been closed for half an hour. Most of our staff is gone and the rest would like to get home to our families. I apologize, but we are officially closed and would appreciate it if you settled your tab.”

Regular: “This is your job! You’re required to stay open until I am ready to leave! I don’t care about your stupid family and your plans. What about people like me who don’t have anywhere to go?!”

Me: “I am sorry about that. There are other places open, though, if you’d like.”

Regular: “I WANT TO STAY HERE!”

She’s irate now. My husband hears the screaming and rounds the corner, placing himself in between me and the woman who’s now screaming and stomping her foot like a petulant child.

Husband: “Pay your bill and leave, now.”

Regular: “Who the h*** do you think you are?! I’m the d*** customer and I can stay as long as I like!”

Husband: “I’m management, and I’m telling you to leave. Go, now.”

Regular: “THIS IS F****** BULLS***! I’M IN HERE SEVERAL TIMES A WEEK AND I’VE NEVER BEEN KICKED OUT! I’LL NEVER COME BACK AGAIN!”

She slams her money down on the table then and gets right in my husband’s face.

Regular: “I’ll have your job for this, a**hole, and that stupid b**** behind you, too.”

I’m floored. She’s never behaved like this before; she has always been off, though, so I’m not totally shocked. I get that the holidays can be rough for some, but don’t try to ruin mine, as well.

Husband: *In a shockingly calm voice* “After your behavior today, we don’t want you back. Gather your things and exit the restaurant before I call the cops. You’re no longer welcome in this establishment.”

She stands there, her mouth hanging open, for a solid thirty seconds before she finally understands.

Regular: “YOU CAN’T DO THAT! I KNOW THE OWNER PERSONALLY!”

She doesn’t.

Regular: “I AM GONNA HAVE BOTH YOU A**HOLES FIRED! THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!”

As she rants, I go to my area and grab my phone. I make sure I am close enough for her to hear.

Me: “This is the non-emergency police line, yes? I need a patron removed from our restaurant. No, there’s no physical threat, but she’s being verbally abusive and refusing to leave.”

Regular: “Screw this. I’m leaving! Just you wait; I’ll have your jobs!”

She proceeded to storm out, “accidentally” knocking her teacup over with her purse as she did so.

We didn’t get home until 6:00 pm, but we managed to have a lovely evening. I felt somewhat bad for her because she was alone, but I was happy I’d never have to see her or her nasty black toes — that’s a whole different story — again!