For reasons I doubt I’ll ever understand, I had many “I don’t work here” incidents between the ages of nine and fourteen. It never happened again past my fifteenth birthday. I was taller than average during the early part of that time, but at nine and ten, I still looked very obviously like a child not old enough to work.

I am at the grocery store with my mom after school. I am wearing my school uniform, which consists of a plaid jumper — not the UK definition, more like a dress — a white button-down shirt, and knee socks. In my area, this is immediately identifiable as a Catholic elementary school uniform. I’m in the freezer section browsing some popsicles themed after kids’ shows, as my mom has sent me off on my own to pick out a snack.

So, basically, I look like a kid, I’m wearing an outfit only a kid wears, and I am standing in front of products aimed at kids. Despite all this, a woman approaches me. It doesn’t occur to me at first that she somehow thinks I work for the store.

Customer: “I need you to show me where I can find an [item I don’t recognize].”

Me: “Huh?”

Customer: “[Item]! Show me right now!”

Me: “I don’t know what that is.”

Customer: “Oh, you don’t, huh? Then radio someone for help!”

Me: “What?”

Customer: “Get. Out. Your. Radio. And. Call. Your. Manager. Now! Honestly, I don’t know why they hire people like you, with mental deficiencies.”

It finally dawns on me that she thinks I’m an employee. After standing frozen in shock for a moment, I glance pointedly down at myself and my obvious elementary school uniform while the woman is tapping her foot at me. She doesn’t take the hint.

Me: “Um… I’m nine.”

Customer: “I don’t care. Just call your manager already!”

Me: “I don’t work here. I’m a kid.”

Customer: “Manager! Now!”

I’m not sure what to do, but then my mom starts coming down the aisle. She sees the strange woman yelling at me and hurries over.

Mom: “Excuse me! Is there a reason you’re yelling at my daughter?”

Customer: “Are you the manager? Thank God! This employee is refusing to help me.”

Mom: “I’m not a manager. I don’t work here, and neither does she. She is my daughter. We’re shopping.”

Customer: “Of course she works here. What are you talking about?”

Mom: “No, she doesn’t. She’s a little too busy being a fourth-grader to have a job.”

That got through to the woman where nothing else did. She flushed bright red and walked away as fast as she could without running. And from that point on, I was mistaken for an employee about every third time I went to a store for the next six years. My family still jokes that I skipped the pre-teen stage of childhood and replaced it with a “sales associate” stage.

I work in an office that has fairly frequent, if impromptu, foam weapon battles. As such, one day while on my lunch break, I head over to a nearby toy store to browse their selection. While I’m there, there is a lady standing right next to me, alternating between looking at me and the wall of dart guns. Eventually…

Lady #1: “Sorry, but do you work here?”

Employees at this store wear black dress shirts and red vests; today, I happen to be wearing a red dress shirt with a black vest. Understanding her confusion, I laugh.

Me: “No, sorry, but I’m kind of familiar with the brand. Maybe I can help?”

It turns out that I can! We spend a couple of minutes picking the right darts for her son, discussing the pros and cons of various ones, and [Lady #1] walks off happy. While we were talking, however, another woman was hovering at the end of the aisle, and as soon as [Lady #1] walks off, [Lady #2] swoops in.

Lady #2: “Where can I find [Specific Toy]?”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I don’t actually…”

I glance over her shoulder, and what should I see?

Me: “Uh… Are those the ones you’re looking for?”

Lady #2: “Oh, yes!”

And as she bustles off to pick up her toy, an elderly gentleman approaches me, toy in hand.

Man: “Could you tell me how much this is?”

At this point, I just accept my fate.

Me: “I’m afraid I don’t know right off hand, but there is a price scanner two aisles over; I can show you where, if you’d like!”

I never made the mistake of wearing that outfit there again, and I am still waiting on my paycheck for that accidental ten-minute shift!

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 39
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 38
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 37
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 36
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 35

My luggage was stolen during a work trip. As a result, the selection of clothes available for my return voyage is dramatically limited. The current restrictions on people movement and shop opening hours don’t help either, so I have to make do with something that won’t get me arrested and is not soiled or stinking. Almost as soon as I reach the airport, well in advance of departure time, another traveller waves to me.

Traveller #1: “Excuse me, sir? What’s the way to the railway station?”

I check the overhead signs and tell him. He thanks me and leaves. I complete my check-in and go through security controls and toward the gates. The route, as often happens, winds through the duty-free shop.

Traveller #2: “Sir? Sir, please? How does one get through?”

There are arrow signs on the floor, so I can easily point her in the right direction. She thanks me and runs ahead. I keep walking.

Traveller #3: *Showing me his boarding pass* “Excuse me. Where? Please.”

I checked and we were going the same way, so I just told him to stay with me. I left him at the right gate and he thanked me profusely. Finally, I reached my own gate and sat down, getting strange looks from the other people waiting.

Only then did it dawn on me why so many lost-looking foreign travellers approached me of all people: I was walking around unhurriedly, with no luggage, wearing a none-too-clean high-viz parka with a massive company logo and English motto on the back!

I was in a popular department store today where the employees wear red shirts and khaki pants. I had just gotten off work, so I was in my grey scrubs and a black jacket because it was cold outside. I think I should add that I had my purse on my shoulder, too. Clearly, no one with functioning eyes would assume I worked there. You’d be wrong.

I’m at the checkouts, standing in between the two rows of checkout lanes where the magazines typically are, looking for my mother who I am shopping with. I make eye contact with this lady walking down the aisle.

Lady: “Which lane are you on?”

Me: “I believe she’s open at register two.” *Points*

The lady comes up next to me and starts loading her groceries on the belt at the register nearest to where I’m standing, which is unoccupied, so I repeat:

Me: “I think she’s open over there on register two.”

She slams down her items in the cart.

Lady: “You’re not going to check me out?!”

Me: “Ma’am, I don’t work here.”

Lady: “Well, why would you be standing at a checkout lane if you weren’t running a cash register?!”

I wasn’t even standing at a cash register. I just kind of look at her and think, “What the actual f***, lady?” She fumes for a minute.

Lady: “So, am I supposed to get these groceries back in my cart by myself?!”

Me: “It’s not my responsibility to help you, I’m sorry. I’m waiting on someone.”

And I walked off to look for my mom. When we returned to the checkout to pay for our items, the lady was there, holding up the line, giving the cashier grief about how the employees “just let anyone run a register these days” and how they “need a manager who keeps a better eye on the store.” The poor cashier just stood there looking confused.

At least my evening wasn’t boring.

I am filling my ute (pickup truck) at the service station. I have been out working my bees, so I am dirty, sweaty, and tired. I’m wearing an old, stained T-shirt, shorts, and thongs (flip flops). I in no way look like I worked here.

A young woman in her twenties pulls up to the other side of my fuel pump. She is dressed in sharp business style, complete with high heels and false nails. As she starts to walk inside the store, she says to me:

Woman: “Fill my tank when you are done there.”

Me: “Uh… I don’t work here, lady.”

Woman: “Ugh! I don’t care! Just fill the d*** car!”

And then she storms off inside with a clatter of high heels.

I just shrug, finish filling my tank, and head inside to pay. I have no f***s left to give these days. It might have been different if there had been some common courtesy used, a “please” or “thank you” or “a could you possibly help me,” but brusque orders are the absolute best way to piss this old guy off.

I head to the counter and see that the woman is already waiting there to one side.

Me: “Number four pump.”

Woman: “And I am on number five.”

The guy behind the register looks surprised.

Cashier: “There is only one sale, for the number four pump.”

Me: “Yep.”

I hand him my card.

Woman: “He filled my car, too.”

Me: “Nope.”

The woman instantly goes from zero to Uzi, red-faced and shouting, because apparently, I have defied her command.

Woman: “I told you to fill the f****** tank! Jesus Christ, are you f****** stupid.”

And so on.

Me: “Look, b****, I don’t work here, I don’t work for you, and I most certainly don’t take orders from arrogant c***s, so get out there and pump your own f****** fuel.”

She ranted some more. I left, too tired, don’t care.