This happened a few years ago when I was a babysitter. I was working at a grocery chain and going to school. In the little free time I had, I slept at a friend’s house to be there with her three kids while she went to work. The kids were old enough to take care of themselves but not old enough to know what to do in an emergency.

One day after work, I went over as my friend was leaving, and there was no food.

Friend: “I don’t get paid until tomorrow. They can have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner.”

When we checked, there was only enough peanut butter for one sandwich. No biggie; there was another grocery store right down the street, so I could buy them something cheap for dinner. I drove all three kids to the grocery store and we started picking out dinner.

Here is where I kind of understand the confusion. Yes, I worked for the grocery chain, and I was in uniform, but I worked at a different store, and I was wearing a jacket so you could not see my uniform, and I was pushing a cart with three kids around me. You could clearly see that I was shopping.

I guess the top of my shirt poked out and this lady could see my uniform, because she came over and asked where something was.

Me: “It’s in the aisle with the condiments.”

The stores are laid out similarly.

Customer: “I checked there and didn’t see it.”

Me: “They might be out, then. I saw a worker at the end of the aisle behind us; you could ask him.”

Customer: “I asked you and you need to check.”

Me: “I don’t work at this location. I’m watching the kids here.”

Customer: “It’s so irresponsible of you to have kids at your age! And you brought them to work with you?!”

I was so tired that we just walked away. The kids were staying close because they were pretty freaked out by the woman. I told them to not say anything and keep walking. The lady followed us for a bit, ranting, until she found another poor soul.

I was at the checkout when the lady came over with a manager.

Manager: “Why wouldn’t you help this woman?”

Me: “I work at [Location], and obviously, I’m here just to get dinner for the kids.”

He sighed — he was obviously tired, too — and then walked away with the woman. The lady glared at me but followed the manager.

My wife and I are “senior citizens”; in other words, we are OLD. My dear wife is a strong, independent, take-no-s***-from-anyone type of woman. I adore her for it! She keeps me in line, pushes me to be a better man, and is the reason behind my (modest) success in life. She is sarcastic, is wicked smart, can cuss like a sailor, and as she gets older, her filter is practically non-existent!

A few months ago, we decided to treat ourselves. We made reservations and went to a rather high-end restaurant. They had a maître de, sommeliers, highly trained waitstaff, etc. My wife, even though she is in her seventies, has very little grey hair and can pass for fifty-five. She was wearing a very pretty white, lacy blouse, very flattering black pants, and black flats. She looked GOOD!

When we arrived, there was no line surprisingly, and the maître de had apparently stepped away from the podium where he stands. We waited there; my wife was right next to the podium, and I had sat down at one of the benches provided by the entrance. Another couple came in. Without missing a beat, the man walked up to the podium and addressed my wife.

Man: “[Man’s Last Name] — we have reservations for two.”

Wife: “I’m sure someone will be with you shortly.”

The woman huffed a little.

Man: “Please seat us now!”

Wife: “I don’t work here; I’m waiting to be seated.”

Man: “Seat us now!”

Wife: “Right away. Walk this way.”

They followed my wife as she walked around the partition separating the entrance to the dining area, circled around to the other end, and led them back to the entrance. She pointed to the bench.

Wife: “SIT DOWN!”

The man looked like he was going to blow a gasket.

Wife: “I don’t work here, you moron. You wanted me to seat you, so sit the eff down!”

As the couple were sputtering, and before it could escalate future, the maître de arrived, we gave our name, and he led us away.

There was no yelling and no threats of police. We had a wonderful meal. The other couple was several tables away from us. We didn’t interact again with them, but they did shoot us dirty looks now and then.

I work in a grocery store, but I was off one day and went to my store to grab a couple of things. I was picking out eggs, and a woman stopped me.

Woman: “Can you check in the back for more water?”

I froze.

Me: “Um… I don’t work here, lady. Sorry.”

And I turned back to picking my eggs.

Woman: “You do work here. I’ve seen you here before.”

Me: *Absolutely frustrated* “Lady. Ask someone who’s not in a f****** dress and heels and who looks like they’re working.”

All I remember was hearing her say she wanted to speak to a manager — she even name-dropped one of them — but… yeesh. I don’t want to go in the back of a dusty store when I’m off; I barely want to go in when I have to go in.

To clarify: I do not have to do anything when I am not scheduled unless I was called into work by a store manager or district manager. If I went in the back to look for and grab a case of water, I would be fired. Immediately. My whole outfit, plus heels, was an extreme safety hazard.

I was not fired nor would I have been fired for not helping someone when I was not working.

This incident took place about ten years ago or so at my favorite pub next to my college alma mater. I had been going there for about three years at the time and got along extremely well with the staff. I’d stop almost every day after work to wind down; I work in the steel industry four minutes away.

This took place on a Saturday, and unknown to me at first, the same exact day a huge tailgating extravaganza was going on near the stadium for a huge rivalry game that was to take place in the afternoon. I had just gotten off work and wandered in and found my favorite spot at the bar. As I sat, I started seeing more and more folks filter in — older people, younger people, kids with parents, and of course, college kids. I was around thirty-eight at the time. Most of the older people and families stayed away from the bar to order food before the big game at the tables.

Most of the college kids started to gather around the bar… and gather… and gather… and gather. Within thirty minutes, the bar portion itself was packed three to four people deep, all getting drinks and shots and whatever else they needed. It was a madhouse so with only one bartender and I think one bar back, they were getting overwhelmed.

Then, it happened. A full fresh beer and shot were shoved down in front of me by the bartender.

Bartender: “[My Name]. Dishes. Now.”

And she went back to serving the mob of college football fanatics. I glanced down to where the clean glasses were normally, and it was nearly empty. I guzzled some of the beer, slammed down the shot, rolled up my sleeves, and walked behind the bar to where the sinks.

I started pounding out the dishes through three different sinks. Suds and water were flying everywhere. And of course, that’s when it started. A drunk football fan called to me over the bar.

Customer #1: “Can I get a beer and shot?”

Me: “Sorry, don’t work here.”

As water splashed in my face:

Customer #2: “Can I get some wings and a beer?”

Me: “Talk to [Bartender]. I don’t work here.”

As I was stacking clean glasses:

Customer #3: “Can I get a round of Fireballs for friends?”

As I was stacking sixteen-ounce wet glasses in a cooler to frost:

Me: “Sorry, I don’t work here.”

Customer #3: “What? Yes, you do.”

Me: “Nope, but I’m getting free drinks to do dishes.”

Customer #3: “I need that gig. Can I at least get a beer?”

Me: “I don’t know which tab is which. Gotta wait for [Bartender].”

This same exact scenario played out every couple of minutes as people waded in from the back to the front. Over and over. At least forty times.

Finally, the game was about to start, and the crowd started to slowly filter out after an hour. I was caught up and leaned back to take a breath and stare at my shriveled-up hands. [Bartender] ran into the back to get some last-minute food order… and there it was. A finger snap. I looked over and some young college kid was getting my attention drunker than drunk.

Customer #4: *Slurring badly* “One more shot before I go.”

Me: “I don’t work here, sorry. I was just helping with dishes.”

Customer #4: “Of course, you do!” *Hiccups* “Just get me my shot so I can go, old man.”

I blinked repeatedly as she slapped down a five-dollar bill.

Nope, this ain’t happening. I leaned forward from where I was resting, grabbed a double shot glass, and set it in front of her. I grabbed her liquor of choice and filled it to the brim. As she reached for it, I picked it up and slammed it down in .32 milliseconds right in front of her. She just sat there staring at me with half rage, half a bewildered look.

Me: “You’re drunk and cut off as of this moment. Take your money and kindly leave. I hope you have fun at the game if you remember it.”

As she was trying to speak, I just pointed to the door. Defeated, she staggered out. I FINALLY got to go back and sit at my seat and relax. I never did tell [Bartender].

I wear bright blue scrubs for my job. I had a doctor’s appointment, so I’m taking a later lunch and decide to get curbside pickup at a fast food place. Unfortunately, the poor store is visibly swamped. After waiting about fifteen minutes, I decide to walk in to pick up my order. It’s no biggie; I have eyes and I see what’s going on.

After I collect my meal and walk out, a lady rolls down her window and starts waving and yelling her last name — I assume — over and over. I ignore her and get in my car with my bag, take out my delicious baguette, buckle my seatbelt, etc., when suddenly, SHE OPENS MY CAR DOOR!

Woman: “You took my food instead of delivering it to me! How dare you?!”

I am in shock and fear. She grabs my bread! I am so scared I start yelling for help. Thankfully, some people on the patio and the girl who is actually delivering food hear me screaming and come running. The delivery girl actually drops this woman’s bag of food to run and intervene.

The police are called, and while they are on their way, I finally understand what is going on.

Me: “Look at me! I am in scrubs! I work at a hospital, not [Fast Food Place], you idiot!”

The manager of the restaurant gave me some gift cards and more bread, and the crazy lady was arrested. BONUS: she parked in a handicapped spot, and I think her car will be towed.