I’m in the Canadian military, and I’m doing some grocery shopping after the workday at a local grocery store. A customer approaches me with their grocery list in hand.

Customer: “Excuse me. Could you help me find a few things?”

Me: “I’m sorry, I can’t really help you. I’m not sure where most of the stuff in here is; I just go up and down each aisle until I find what I’m looking for.”

Customer: “Oh, but aren’t soldiers supposed to help anyone in need?”

Me: *Laughing* “I guess you’re right. All right, let me see your list.”

We ended up shopping together for the remainder of our time in the store and are now pretty good friends.

I’ve recently returned home from Spain after studying abroad for a year. It’s a couple of days after getting home, and I’m out shopping for my parents since I’m staying with them until I can get an apartment. I’m browsing the bread, deciding between brands and types. I hear a woman talking, but I assume she’s talking on the phone, so I’m not paying much attention. Suddenly, she’s at my ear.

Customer: “I SAID, DO YOU KNOW IF THEY HAVE HONEY-WHEAT BREAD?!”

I jump, then automatically go to Spanish, as it has been my life for the past year.

Me: “¿Perdón? No trabajo aquí.” *Sorry? I don’t work here.*

Customer: “UGH! Typical! D***ed immigrants not learning English before coming here!”

I catch myself and remember to go back to English.

Me: “Lady, I was born five miles away and except for the past year, I’ve lived in this city my entire life. And during that year, I’ve been studying abroad. If you have an inventory question, I suggest you ask an employee!”

I grabbed my bread and turned my back on her, walking away.

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 33
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 32
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 31
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 30
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 29

I work as a manager in a grocery store, where members of management wear polo shirts. We have three different colors to choose from: red, royal blue, and navy. On this occasion, I was wearing my red shirt. 

We had been having some issues with our phones, so I walked to the [Office Supply Chain] in the same plaza as my store with the phone that was broken and quickly grabbed a replacement.

As I was heading back to the registers to make my exchange, I was stopped by a customer asking for the location of flash drives. I must have looked baffled, because he repeated his question, at which point I glanced down at my shirt where my store name and job title were embroidered.

I looked back at the customer, looked back at my shirt, and then back at the customer once more, hoping he would clue in. It wasn’t until he asked a third time that I finally explained that I worked in the grocery store, and his wife and son started cracking up.

Beware of khakis and polos; in certain combinations, you become a customer magnet.

I’m currently out shopping with my brother. We shop by the week, not the month, because there has been some panic buying going on and we have adopted a “Go often and grab what is available” sort of thing.

While we are looking around and trying to navigate the one-way aisle setup, we are stopped by an elderly lady and her middle-aged daughter.

Middle-Aged Daughter: “Do you know where to look for [item] in the store?”

I am about to give the “We don’t work here” line but look around and see that all the employees are dealing with the many people in the store. I figure, “What the h***?” and point out the aisle, walking with them to confirm. They find it and nod to us.

Elderly Lady: “Do you work here?”

Me: “No, ma’am. The others looked busy, and we weren’t in a hurry.”

They’re surprisingly courteous and I realize I don’t want to get snarky or jokey about it. Why ruin someone else’s day?

Elderly Lady: “Oh… Well, thank you, but you look like you work here.”

As they walk off, I look at my brother, who says:

Brother: “Face it. We are going to look like retail forever.”

I am a customer in this story. The store where I work is closed down due to state-wide lockdown. My main job is as a cashier leader; I ring out customers, solve problems without manager assistance, and generally do anything else the managers need me to do. A lot of people in my town know me.

I am at the grocery store stocking up on some food for the next week since my husband is still required to go to his essential job and needs lunches made for him.

Random Lady: “Ma’am!”

I have half my face covered with a mask, not expecting anyone to recognize me, so I do not even notice she is speaking to me and carry on browsing the items on the shelves. 

Random Lady: “MA’AM!”

She ends up grabbing my arm, which I immediately and forcefully pull back due to the fact that I do not want anyone touching me during this time. She is furious, to say the least.

Random Lady: “The disrespect you have shown! I will let your manager know about this!” 

I finally realize who she is — a regular customer of mine — but my rage gets the best of me.

Me: “Go ahead, tell my manager. We have been closed for over a month. Is there something you need from me? Oh, maybe a question, ‘When are y’all opening?’, ‘Will items be marked down?’, ‘Are we going to limit people inside the store?’ I DO NOT F****** KNOW. MY MANAGER HAS NOT CALLED ME YET.”

I drop my basket in my arms during my rage and break a bottle of wine that I was going to purchase.

She stands there looking at me, stunned. I just stare back at her while wine pools around my feet. An associate of the store comes around the corner.

Associate: “Are you all right?”

Me: “I’m fine. I apologize for breaking the wine bottle; let me help clean it up.”

He refuses and then looks back at the lady.

Associate: “Ma’am, is everything all right?”

Random Lady: “I’d like to report her to your manager. Now.” 

Associate: “She doesn’t work here. I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do.” 

I stood there with my arms crossed with a kind of “go on, leave” look, and she eventually sunk away into another aisle. I can’t wait to deal with this one once my store reopens.