This happened to me around five years ago, just after high school. I was picking up something to cook after work at the local grocery store, still in my work uniform. As I was walking to the meat section, I heard:

Customer: “Sir, excuse me, sir! Sir! Can I get some help, sir?”

I turned to see what was going on. The instant I turned around, the guy asked me:

Customer: “Do you sell [item]?”

Me: “Do I look like I work here?”

Customer: “Oh, sorry, but you kind of do.”

Me: “Since when do [Grocery Store] employees wear red shirts?”

And I kept walking. I turned the corner, and there was a guy stocking the shelves dressed exactly like me. I almost left the store right then.

When I was at university, I took a Woman’s Studies course. We had a paper to write about gender differences within the toy industry and early childhood development.

My childhood dream of spending three and a half hours in a toy store was way less fun when I realized it as an adult.

For our paper, we had to go to a toy store and make a detailed map of the entire store  — which sections were next to which other sections, etc. Then, we had to go and find two items in each section and rate them on four different criteria. Finally, we had to go and ask a store employee to give advice on what toy we should get for a fictional four-year-old boy/girl.

I went to a now bankrupt big box toy store. I had a clipboard, and I first went around and made a detailed map of the store. Then, I went back and created my itemized list and started categorizing two toys per section in each of the four criteria. As you can imagine, this took quite a while.

Occasionally, as I was doing my task, people would ask me questions. Since I had just made a map, I was able to answer quite a few of their questions.

Me: “The stuffed animals, ma’am? That’s aisle four, right next to the doll houses.”

Me: “You’re looking for a microscope? That would be in educational toys in the far right corner of the store, next to the grow-your-own crystal set.”

One customer asked:

Customer: “Where are the tricycles? And the bicycles?”

I promptly told them the difference between each section. They went to look and came back.

Customer: “Can you get me a different color from the back?”

Me: “Oh, I don’t actually work here. I’m just a student doing a project.”

They rolled their eyes and left in a huff, and I could tell that they thought I was just a lazy employee with a clipboard.

Living in Japan, you will see that most of the convenience stores have either Vietnamese staff or foreign workers from Nepal, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, India, Pakistan, etc. Service jobs are greatly understaffed there, so you will mostly see one Japanese worker and multiple foreign workers at the minimum-wage jobs.

I, an Indian, worked at a [Convenience Store] for three years part-time during university. In my third year there, I was made “leader of the night shift”, which meant running the whole store at night by myself. The night shift is very different from the day shift. Besides serving a large number of customers, you have to sort out the accounts, record and check the inventory, liaise with supply people, do deep cleaning of equipment, stock up, cook, etc.

Fast forward to a couple of years later. I am in the Japanese corporate world. I get an apartment in Azabujyuban, a posh, high-income district in Tokyo, famous for being populated by white ex-pats. It’s two in the morning, and I go to the nearby [Convenience Store].

It is a big store, and it’s full of irritated, drunk salarymen and rich brats. The only employee there (Japanese) is confused, panicking, and overworked. The supply truck guy is yelling. Salarymen are yelling. It’s mayhem.

The employee eyes me and yells:

Employee: “Hey, what took you so long?! Come and help me a bit.”

I almost lose my temper, but then I smile and think, “Let’s do this! Tomorrow’s Saturday, anyway.”

I first meet up with the annoyed supply guys. They have to bring their trucks to every store in Tokyo, so staying at one store for more than a couple of minutes will disrupt the whole schedule. I have the supply checked, dial in the records, get the Hanko from the usual place, stamp it, and finish the procedure.

Next, I call a taxi for some passed-out people and escort them to a safer place. Then, I take up a register, and in the next ten minutes, all the customers are served and the store is empty.

The employee gives a huge sigh of relief, closes his eyes, and gets on his knees. I quietly go to stock the ice cream supply in the cold cases. After a bit of a rest, my dude calls out:

Employee: “Thank you for the efficient help! By the way, you’re not wearing your [Convenience Store] jacket. Could you wear it, please? Otherwise, it would be super unprofessional.”

Me: “I don’t have a jacket. I don’t even work here.”

Employee: “What? Didn’t my manager send you as a replacement?”

Me: “Nope, I live in an apartment a block away and came here to shop. I used to work in a [Convenience Store] many years ago, so I’m familiar with the procedures.”

The employee was very, very embarrassed and said sorry and thank you in around twenty different phrases of polite Japanese.

Me: “Chill, man. I am gonna come here often so Yoroshiku ne.” (I am in your care.)

I felt good overall in the aftermath, and this reminded me that, as a senior guy in corporate headquarters, I must always be mindful of the mental and physical health of the people on the frontlines. They are the ones who represent the big company to the world and do the actual work.

I work multiple jobs, and in my free time from my main job, I work for a delivery service.

[Delivery Service] has a uniform for their drivers, but they don’t require us to wear them. I am wearing a rainbow-striped tank top, blue-jean shorts, and flip-flops.

I have just finished shopping for a customer at a chain retailer and have just processed the order. [Retailer] is nice enough to have a stand with lots of bags for [Delivery Service] drivers to bag their ordered groceries. In this particular [Retailer], it is a closed register lane.

As I’m bagging my order, in a lane with a sign on the conveyor belt that says, “Closed,” a guy starts to unload his cart onto the unmoving belt. I look at him with confusion, and he gives me the same look. I’m wondering why he placed his stuff on a clearly closed belt, and he’s wondering why I’m not scanning his stuff.

I mean, I get it. I clearly look like a [Retailer] employee what with my red shirt (rainbow striped), nice long brown pants (blue-jean shorts), and closed-toe work shoes (flip-flops).

Customer: “Aren’t you gonna scan my stuff?”

Me: *Confused* “Dude, this register is closed, and I don’t work here.”

I could see the gears turning in his head as he finally noticed the “closed” sign and my clearly not-[Retailer] outfit. He said nothing as he reloaded his cart and went to an actually open register.

I chuckled as I left the store. I get it. On autopilot, you see a person’s presence behind a register and assume that you can go there without actually looking at the details of your surroundings. It was still pretty funny.

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 44
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 43
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 42
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 41
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 40

My bus was delayed by five hours at a long-distance terminal in bumf*** nowhere, rural Florida. I, a short, husky teenager, was dressed in a black button-up, a red tie, and black pants with my eyeliner and mascara from “The Rocky Horror Show” which I had attended before traveling, probably looking a bit worse for wear.

I was sitting for a decent while when I noticed that a lady in her late sixties or early seventies was trying to do something on a self-service kiosk and muttering to herself in Spanish. She seemed to be getting frustrated and was darting her eyes around for employees, but the place was packed with people due to the delays at around 3:00 am, so not many employees were around. Someone eventually did stop to try to help her, but I heard “No hablo Ingles,” causing the person to just look kind of puzzled and walk off.

I was in my third semester of Spanish at the time, so I slowly walked over to the lady.

Me: *In Spanish* “Excuse me. Do you need some help?”

She asked if I spoke Spanish, to which I replied that I was still learning but would do my best. She clapped her chest with a literal “Dios mio!” and we pleasantly worked through what she needed done and went our separate ways.

Someone had taken my seat, so I was just standing around for a minute or two when I got “The Tap” on my shoulder. I turned around to see a woman with an inordinate amount of luggage and a child in tow. The kid was nose-deep in a Nintendo DS and wasn’t really paying attention, but the woman looked me up and down with what appeared to be disgust before demanding:

Woman: “Get my luggage to wherever it has to go!”

I had no idea where that is, and I was honestly super exhausted.

Me: “I’m sorry, but I don’t w—”

Woman: *Cutting me off* “Don’t you f*** with me. This place is going crazy, and every other employee is busy, so even an office guy or supervisor or whatever you are should be out here working with customers. I saw you help that other lady, so you can d*** well help me with my bags.”

I raised my hands and started to explain again that I didn’t know anything and didn’t work there, but she was not having it and started to raise her voice a bit. At that point, her child noticed her volume, looked up at me with what seemed like a mixture of confusion and embarrassment, and then tugged on the woman’s shirt.

Child: “Mom, I don’t think he—”

She turned quickly and gave him a “snit” — not even a “shush,” just that loud click/hiss noise that dog whisperer guy used on TV. Then, she started in on me being a “lazy, unprofessional snowflake” or whatever.

Just then, the elderly lady came up from the side of us, shaking her cane at the woman, and shouted in the best English she could muster:

Elderly Lady: “You leave my nephew alone! He’s a good boy!”

The rude woman turned to see this old lady with straight-up lightning in her eyes and the big bit of mahogany inches from her face, and then she just turned around and left with her kid. No apology, nothing.

Once she and her kid were a fair distance away, I thanked the older woman, and she just motioned for me to follow her.

We went outside to a bench by the entrance and she offered me a cigarette as she lit one up.

Me: “No, thank you.”

She then pulled a thermos out of her purse and offered me some coffee.

Me: “No, thank you.”

But she poured it anyway and commented about how the coffee here was so terrible. It turned out that she was visiting from Guatemala to see her son, who works with a company that imports, blends, and roasts Guatemalan coffee. We’re both coffee snobs, so we just sat and chatted about coffee, our families, and why on earth I was dressed like I was until her bus was called to board. Of course, I offered to help her with her luggage, but she said she only had one small bag and was fine with carrying it.

It was definitely an interesting capstone to a very interesting weekend.