At our small petrol station and convenience store, we have many types of fuel — not just unleaded and diesel but also home heating oil and red diesel. Red diesel is the fuel for tractors and general heavy equipment used on farms or construction, woodchippers, etc.

It is ordinary diesel dyed red as it is sold tax-free at the pump for farm and construction use. It is highly illegal to use this diesel in your car, and the red colour makes it easier for customs to dip car tanks and detect it. Our red diesel tanks are always kept locked, and the key is given ONLY to customers with the relevant paperwork to show they are allowed to buy it. Our home heating oil pump stands separate from the other pumps and is clearly marked on the pump itself, and there’s a sign on the wall right next to it. This pump isn’t locked.

From the tills through the window, I see a rather big, scruffy man take plastic barrels from his car parked next to the home heating oil and proceed to pump the oil into his drums once I authorise the sale, as is normal for anyone wanting to top up their home heating tank at home. He fills the drums, puts them in his car, and then comes in to pay.

Me: “Pump six, sir? That’s £67, please.”

The customer puts his debit card into the machine. He pays and I hand him his receipt. He turns to leave and then glances at his receipt.

Customer: “Hang on! This says heating oil! I didn’t want heating oil! I wanted the red!”

Me: “I am sorry, sir, but you pumped the heating oil. The red is totally a different pump.” *Points through the window.* “The red is there, sir, clearly marked on the red pump, and it is locked.”

Customer: “That’s what I wanted! I am a farmer! I have my paperwork!”

He takes out the paperwork that does entitle him to the red diesel. He throws it at me.

Customer: “Fix this! Give me back my money and let me get red!”

Me: “I am sorry, but I can’t. You pumped the heating oil pump.”

Customer: *Condescendingly* “Then open the tank and pour the oil back in. I WANT THE RED!”

Me: “Sorry, but I cannot do that. The oil is now possibly contaminated by your drums and can’t be returned.”

The customer pitches a fit and I call a manager. I explain the customer’s mistake to him. He reiterates what I have told the customer.

Manager: “…and you should have known that the red is always kept locked and that you needed to come in to get the key. The home heating oil is not locked, sir, and is clearly marked. Sorry, but we can’t do anything for you. I suggest you use the oil in your home heating tank and come back with clean drums. AND THEN GET THE KEY FOR THE RED AT THE TILL. Good day, sir.”

The manager leaves and the customer looks rather forlornly at me. He looks like he’s about to cry.

Customer: “My house uses gas. I don’t know anyone who would buy this stuff off me! I was even wondering to myself why the pump wasn’t locked.”

I can only shrug and watch him shuffle out, get into his car (still parked beside the clearly marked home heating oil pump), and drive off. 

Customer #2: “Hi. Can I get the key for the red, please? Here is my certificate.”

And that is how it is done.

I work in a pizza shop. One time, the fryer needed the oil changed, so the dishwasher volunteered to do it.

He drained the oil and proceeded to pour the new five-gallon oil in… but he forgot to close the valve.

Even after cleaning up the spill, the floor was slippery for weeks.

This happened maybe two or three years ago. Where I used to work, we had a set of double doors at the back of the store that was used for unloading trucks. About three feet from the doors was our store’s AC/Heater unit.

One of our trucks was running late, and when it arrived, we all stood anxiously at the back, waiting for him to back in so we could start unloading. I remember watching him out the back door as he made fifteen different attempts to line up his trailer. I gave up watching him because it was winter, and I was letting cold air in.

Suddenly, we all heard this loud crash from both outside and in the vents. I ran out the back door and looked to see that the driver had driven right into the heater unit, crushing the air intake and buckling the area around it. It basically made the unit useless, and it was the middle of winter, so we were without heat now.

The driver came out and inspected the damage.

Driver: *To my boss, angrily* “There should be bumpers!”

Boss: “In the thirty years that this store and heater have been here, not one driver has ever hit them.”

The driver was quiet after that.

I started a new medication after my blood pressure was persistently high, and on the first day, I unexpectedly became dizzy and nauseous while out and about town. I bought a small cup of fountain pop from a street vendor and then sat down against a building to get myself back together.

After about fifteen minutes, an older woman walked up to me, dropped some coins into my soda, and then gave me a package of muffins.

Woman: “Be strong. You can make it.”

Then, she walked away, while the only thing going through my head was, “Huh?!”

It took me several seconds to figure out what the h*** that was about, and then it hit me.

I’m really trying not to come off as bragging, but, lady… I am wearing an almost brand-new pair of Air Jordans that I spent $125 on, I have a $200 pair of wireless Beats headphones resting around my neck, I have a $600 iPhone in my hand and a laptop bag resting against me with the logo from MSI gaming laptops (hint: they aren’t the cheapest laptops on the market), and I’m wearing a polo shirt with my employer’s name and logo embroidered on it — a company that produces software.

Bless your heart and your generosity, lady, but you aren’t the most observant person, are you? Thanks for the muffins, anyway. They were actually pretty good and I felt much better!

Back when I was in university, my friends and I would frequent the local outlet grocery store for cheap snacks between classes. I had gone there a million times without much trouble.

One day, I was picking up a small snack, as usual. The cashier told me my total, and I reached out to her with my debit card in hand. Then, she did nothing. She didn’t react. She didn’t acknowledge the card. Eventually, I told her I’d like to pay by card. I don’t think I was in any way rude or disrespectful, but she completely went off on me.

Cashier: “How was I supposed to know you wanted to pay by card?”

Me: “I was trying to hand my card over to you.”

Cashier: “Oh, so just because of that, I should know how you wanted to pay?”

Me: *Pauses* “Yes?”

She then proceeded to call me every name in the book, claiming I was stupid and rude and entitled, saying she couldn’t read my mind, and going on and on about “how was I supposed to know that?” and what a horrible person I was. I was so shocked and honestly so furious I couldn’t think straight, and I remember just staring at her like she was insane. To be fair, so were all the other customers in line and even the other cashier on duty. I left a couple of minutes later after my friend also paid, and she was still loudly complaining about me.

I ended up just avoiding her from then on. I even made a point of letting people ahead of me if her till was open when I was next in line. I do wish I had reported her to the store supervisor, but I’m not even sure that would have accomplished anything.