I have been going to my local [Swedish Furniture Chain] to pick up bookcases, bedside tables, and whatever else I need for my new apartment. It’s about half an hour away from my home, so I have been going after work, still dressed up in work clothes. My job is an office situation, and I wear a shirt and tie, so I guess I can’t blame the confused-looking old-timer who accosts me in the “As Is” section.

Customer: “Do you work here?”

Me: “Nah, I just dress up.”

We share a laugh and he looks disappointed and lost. I guess years of retail work have me broken in because I then continue:

Me: “I can try to help if you like. What’s up?”

The old man looks thankful as he pleads.

Customer: “How the heck do you get out of here?!”

I’m not sure why, but in my absurd mind, I like to imagine that the old-timer might have been a young man when he first entered the store and that he has been subsisting on meatballs and sleeping on display sofas as he wanders endlessly. He is so close to the exit. Of course, I have to help him escape this Swedish purgatory.

Me: “Oh, yeah, I can help. Follow me.”

I politely walked him to the exit. He thanked me and was on his way, into a world much different than the one he knew when he first ventured into [Swedish Furniture Chain].

Sadly, they did not have the Billy bookcase I wanted, so I got the Kallax ones. But at least I did a good deed and used my weird middle management vibes for good and not for evil.

If you are out there, old-timer, I wish you well, not as an employee, but just as a helpful human.

I’m a medical intern. Little old groggy me is finally leaving the hospital after a thirty-six-hour-long shift, the second of the week. It is a Friday and I am really looking forward to everything going dark as soon as my head hits the pillow, but first, I need to go to a pharmacy. In my country, some pharmacies have a small lab adjacent where [contagious illness] tests can be taken, and a few lab technicians, chemists, and general practitioners may be found to do certain procedures, run certain tests, and make common diagnoses. Here is the thing: they are all wearing the full one-piece white, hooded suits and protective gear you all have seen so much. I am wearing surgical scrubs.

So, into the pharmacy goes sleep-deprived me. I immediately go on to examine the toothpaste and brushes. After a little while, I hear a throat being cleared.

Me: “Oh, my bad.”

I scoot over closer to the shelves to let the person walk by. Wrong answer.

Woman: “No, I need you to take a look at me. The line to the appointments area is too long.”

Confused, I turn and see a woman with an all-too-familiar look about her.

Me: “Oh, I don’t work here. I work in a hospital.”

I’m hoping this is enough justification for the woman to understand why I’m dressed the way I am. She, of course, dismisses my claim.

Woman: “You must work here; you’re uniformed and stacking shelves!”

Me: “No, but I’m sure an employee will be happy to help you.”

Woman: “You are a health worker; why don’t you help me?!?”

As an intern, I don’t even have my degree yet. I can’t and shouldn’t do much, even if I wanted to.

Me: “I’m not on duty, and I don’t—”

Woman: *Interrupting* “Hey!” *Snaps her fingers* “Hey!” *Snaps again* “I paid for my ticket just like everyone else. You will see me!”

Me: “Again, I don’t work here, and I have no obligation to do random consults in the wild whenever you please, lady.”

A floor tile nearly breaks upon the gaping of her jaws. At this point, she is pissed.

As if summoned by her indignation, a manager walks over and asks if all is well. The woman seizes her opportunity to talk faster than you can blink.

Woman: “No, this employee is very rude! I want him fired!”

Manager: “Umm, ma’am, he does not work here. Our employees wear—”

Woman: “He works here! Stop trying to cover for him. You need to fire him now. His behaviour is unacceptable. He refuses to help me!”

Manager: “Ma’am, I am going to have to ask you to stop harassing customers or leave.”

The woman, now enraged, lets out a hybrid between a roar and a sigh.

Woman: “Oh! I can’t believe the audacity of you people to treat customers this way. This is outrageous!”

She slaps the products off of the closest shelf, sending items flying onto the manager and me, and an accusatory index finger flying erratically.

Woman: “I will not give you a**holes any business, and I hope this putrid little pharmacy goes under!”

She stormed off, huffing and puffing.

I hurried off to pay and leave before she looked at the appointment ticket still clutched in her other hand, realized she’d paid for something she had not used, and decided to return, demanding a refund, or worse… attention.

I exited the pharmacy and movement caught my eye. I turned and I saw the woman inside her SUV, clutching her steering wheel and violently pushing and pulling herself. Then, she saw me. The horror! I walked faster, trying not to look at her. She lowered a window and started screaming some more at me. I ignored her and hurried to my escape pod on wheels. Escape successful.

In the early 2010s, my husband and I were somewhat short on money in good old Germany. For some travels between my parents’ and our place, we used the newly opened and cheap long-distance bus lines.

My husband worked as much paid overtime as possible as a freelancer. He sometimes jumped on the bus directly from construction sites wearing full protective gear, including a yellow reflective jacket. These buses usually stopped at every larger town on the track with some waiting time for the passengers leaving and the new passengers to get on.

My husband — again, directly from work — was hungry and went out at one of the stops to get a snack at one of the takeaways. While he was standing next to the bus eating, an angry guy came from behind the bus, shouting at him.

Man: “What the h***?! How dare you just stand here eating?! How long should I wait out there and block the road? Move your g**d*** bus! There is enough space in front of you now!”

And he stormed off.

My husband, oblivious that he was the target, just continued eating, thinking the bus driver must have been nearby. A few minutes later, he got onto the bus again and was stopped by a nice old lady in the front row.

Old Lady: “What a rude guy. There are no manners anywhere anymore.”

My husband was polite as he made small talk a little with the old lady, still oblivious. While he was still talking, the angry guy came again, now poking his finger at my husband, screaming again.

Man: “Will you get your butt in that seat and move it, g**d*** it?!“

My husband finally realized that they all thought he was the driver.

Husband: “I can’t; I am a passenger.”

Man: “Haha, nice try. YOU WEAR THEIR JACKET!”

My husband turned around to show the actual label of his client — a well-known company in Germany — on the back of his jacket.

Husband: “No, I am not.”

Man: “Oh.” *Long pause* “But why don’t you tell me where the driver is?”

Husband: “Because I don’t know. I. AM. A. PASSENGER.”

Man: “Oh.”

Then, the angry guy turned away and left. The real bus driver came back a few minutes later and obviously had needed a longer “bio-break”. He moved the bus of his own accord, and during the left waiting time, the old lady told him the story and he had a good laugh. And no, the angry guy did not come back.

I’m a thirty-year-old guy, traveling with my family to Miami to shopping and stuff. It’s my first time in the USA. There is a nice mall in front of our hotel. The shopping mall is big and very exciting. It is pretty fun to see different people at the same time and place from all over the world. I go into a clothing store to buy something for myself.

Suddenly, a female customer approaches me.

Customer: “Excuse me, do you have this in a larger size?”

At first, I think something like, “You know what? I want to help this lady!” I look around and find the same shirt in what appears to be a larger size.

Me: “I found this one. Take a look.”

She takes it from me, looks it over, and then gives it back to me.

Customer: “Okay, I’ll buy it.”

Me: “Um… okay.”

I try to hand the shirt back. When she stares back at me, I realize what is going on.

Me: “Oh, I don’t work here. I’m sorry!”

She takes her glasses off.

Customer: “Okay. Can you call the manager, please?”

I know this is probably the wrong decision, but it is my first time out of my country. At the time, I really think that the best thing to do is try to help and then leave. I go to a guy at a register and tell him what is going on.

Me: “That lady thought I worked here. Now she wants to talk with the manager. I just tried to help, I’m sorry.”

The guy gives me a smile, trying not to laugh.

Guy: “A wild [Nickname For An Entitled Woman] appears, huh?”

I get the Pokémon reference, but at the time, I think she is a well-known customer with a normal woman’s name. The guy goes upstairs to find the manager.

Since I am trying soooo hard to help, I make the most unforgettable/unforgivable mistake of my life. I approach the woman and say:

Me: “Ms. [Nickname], the guy on the register was—”

Customer: “HOW DARE YOU?! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TALKING TO?!”

I go pale. I just freeze while the entire store is looking and lift up my hands the exact way I’d do if I was getting robbed. For five minutes, the woman rants, saying all sorts of rude things. Slowly, I approach the register, as if I were a little deer scared by a wolf or a wild boar. The woman is following me, of course, step by step.

I see the manager approaching as my great white horse knight ready to protect me from that dragon.

Customer: “I demand you fire this… this lazy [profanity]!”

The manager takes a look at me and I slowly drop my hands down.

Manager: “Okay, lady. This guy tried to help you, from what I was told, but he doesn’t work here.”

The woman does not seem to be satisfied.

Customer: “You Latinos are just lazy, aren’t you?”

Manager: “If you don’t back off and leave this store, I will call the police, and I and this guy—” *points to me* “—are going to press charges for your racism.”

The woman left. I was like, “WHAT THE HECK JUST HAPPENED?!”

The guy on the register then explained to me what a [Nickname] was.

I had just finished work. Exhaustion was threatening to take hold of my body and I was fighting with every fibre of my being to stay conscious enough for the final push of making the drive home. I had just popped into the local supermarket and picked up some cereal and a trifle. (I know, it’s an odd combination, but I hope future historians will struggle to find an explanation for it.)

I was walking toward my car, the light at the end of the tunnel glinting hopefully and signaling an end to my twelve-hour work day. I opted to cut down a quick side street since, outside of work, I’m anti-social, and working in retail sucks the enthusiasm to deal with the general public. A woman was coming in the opposite direction.

I side-stepped a dog turd a particularly lazy pet owner had decided to leave, and then the two words every brave retail knight dreads escaped the lips of the woman who was bearing down on me now.

Woman: “Excuse me!”

I stopped to look at her.

Woman: “Are you going to pick up that dog s***?”

I looked down at myself and at my cereal and trifle. Yup, I was most definitely not the designated s***-shoveller she presumed me to be. I was mystified as to how a random stranger she just accosted in the street should be responsible for cleaning up a random turd.

Me: “What?”

Woman: *Emphatically* “Are you going to pick up this dog s***?”

Me: “Why would I?”

Woman: “I see. This is what my council tax goes toward? Lazy workers who don’t keep the streets clean? I’m going to be reporting you.”

This is where I remembered something I read online about a similar situation, and it was perfect.

Me: *Earnestly* “Are you all right, dear? Do you need me to call someone to come pick you up?”

Woman: *Confused* “Yes, I’m fine. Why are you going to call someone?”

Me: “Because you must be senile, have dementia, or just be eternally stupid if you think a random person who just happens to be walking in the opposite direction is there to pick up s*** off the pavement.”

Woman: “There’s no need to be rude!”

Me: “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll just ring the care home to have someone swing by in the van and meet you.”

Woman: “I don’t live in a care home! HOW DARE YOU BE RUDE TO ME?!”

I just stepped around her and continued walking. Her tirade ceased momentarily as she stared at my back in awed confusion. Apparently, this woman was not used to being ignored, and not having instant fulfillment of her entitled demands short-circuited her brain. The hamster in her head had apparently shrugged and decided to bail, leaving the proverbial hamster wheel spinning idly. She flapped her mouth open and shut as I threw her a cheeky wave and went on my way.