(At our theater, the concession stand is a round structure in the lobby with several registers on either side and a food pick-up area in the back for special orders. Depending on the volume of traffic, we usually only have one side of the stand open, and leave the other side closed with signs directing guests to go to the other side. One night, I’m on the right side of stand, when I hear someone repeatedly clearing their throat loudly trying to get attention. I cannot see them anywhere on my side of stand, so I ignore it, assuming it is a guest somewhere else trying to signal someone. Several minutes later…)

Guest: *very annoyed tone; but I cannot see them* “This is insane! Where is the staff?!”

(I walk around to the closed side of stand and see a guest and his family waiting at one of the closed registers, standing literally right in front of a sign that reads “This side of concession is CLOSED. Please proceed to the other side for assistance.”)

Me: “Um, sir… That side of concession is closed. We can help you over on the other side, if you’d like.”

Guest: “But I’ve been waiting here for almost five minutes!”

Me: “I understand, sir. We can help you on the other side.”

Guest: “How in the flying f*** is this side of concession supposedly ‘closed’? That doesn’t make any sense!”

Me: “Well, sir, we have that side clearly marked as closed.”

Guest: “No, you don’t!”

Me: “Sir, you’re waiting at a closed register with no staff nearby, standing in front of a sign that says that side of concession is closed and to proceed to the other side of stand. I am unable to assist you on that side, as the registers are not open or operational, and all of our inventory on that side is locked. We can assist you on the other side, if you’d like.”

Guest: “I didn’t realize this sign was for this side of concession! How was I supposed to know that the sign was for this side of concession!”

Me: “I really don’t know how to answer that question, sir, as nobody is on that side, and the signs clearly state that that side is closed.”

Guest: “But I didn’t think the sign was right!”

Me: “Why would the sign not be right?”

Guest: *clearly straining* “Because… because… I should get free popcorn! This is too confusing! How was I supposed to know the sign here was for these registers?! You’re just trying to confuse me!”

(It took almost another full two minutes to convince the guest to come around to the right side of stand.)

(I work in a deli. I can’t go a day without needing to point out to customers that we don’t have pepperoni in the counter. One day, this old man takes it to a whole new level.)

Me: “Hi, what can I get you?”

Customer: *looks at the precut meats in the counter* “I want sliced pepperoni.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but we don’t have any in the counter. We do have some pre-packaged—”

Customer: *cuts me off before I can finish* “This is not pepperoni.” *as he points at the black forest ham*

Me: “No, that’s black forest ham. We have no pepperoni here; you have to buy the bags.”

Customer: *points at the cooked ham* “What about this? This is not pepperoni?”

Me: “No, sir, that’s cooked ham… and the one beside it is pastrami, and the next one is smoked chicken.”

Customer: *points at another meat* “This is not pepperoni?”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but as I said there is absolutely nothing in here that is pepperoni. That’s turkey.”

(This goes on until the customer has pointed at all the meat-shaved bins and our stack of mock chicken, asking if it is all pepperoni.)

Customer: “Oh… What was this one, again?” *pointing at the cooked ham for the third time*

Me: “That’s the cooked ham.”

Customer: “I’ll have 30 cents of that, then.”

(I put one slice on the scale and it comes out to about 50 cents.)

Me: “Is this okay?”

Customer: *yelling at this point* “No! I said 30 cents’ worth! Make the piece smaller!”

(I cut the piece smaller and it comes up to 35 cents; about 10 grams of meat are on the scale at this point.)

Me: “Is this better?”

Customer: *huffs* “Fine. You people here never do things right. I should just shop at [Other Store about a 15-minute walk away].”

(I later told my supervisor, and since I’d only been there a couple of months so far, I wanted to know if stuff like this happened often. He started laughing and saying that this had never happened to him in the past three years he’s worked there.)

All the employees wear earpiece walkie-talkies, keeping us in contact at all times. Chatter on the main channel is kept to a minimum, as it’s the default channel everyone is required to use unless requested on another channel.

Our regional manager comes for a week-long visit. Normally, he doesn’t participate in store operations, so it’s the first time he uses one of the walkie-talkies. For some reason, he switches it from push-to-talk to always-on. This means we can hear everything on his end, plus it drowns out everyone else from being able to use the channel. I head off to try to find him to fix the issue.

Before I locate him, he heads into the managers’ bathroom, and chooses to ignore my polite knocks on the door. For the next 20 minutes, all two dozen staff members are treated to a disgusting chorus of a series of grunts, shuffles, curses, farts, and plops, followed by a loud flush.

When he comes out, he angrily looks into my office to ask me what was so d*** important that I tried to interrupt him. I explain the walkie-talkie to him, hearing the echo of my voice in my earpiece, then show him how to properly set it.

None of the employees can keep a straight face when they see him the rest of the day.

(This happens when I am training a new computer programmer. I’ve asked him to make a very easy change to one of our simpler programs.)

Newbie: “Where’s the documentation for this program?”

Me: “Sorry, there isn’t any.”

Newbie: “What do you mean, ‘There isn’t any’?”

Me: “There just isn’t. Our documentation is a bit lacking in some areas, and because this is a really simple program, someone must have decided that documentation wasn’t necessary.”

Newbie: “But… how am I supposed to understand what the program does?”

Me: *pause* “I suggest reading the code. It’s really not that difficult, and I can answer any questions you might have.”

Newbie: “We should have documentation, though.”

Me: “Sure. And in a perfect world, we would. But we don’t.”

Newbie: *stands and stares at me*

Me: “Did you have anything else to ask me?”

Newbie: *doesn’t say anything, keeps staring*

Me: “I need to get back to work, so if you don’t have anything else—”

Newbie: “We should have documentation.”

Me: *losing patience* “YES. I KNOW. BUT WE DON’T.” *goes back to work*

(He wandered off, continuing to mutter about the lack of documentation. I’m not sure if he expected me to pull it out of my a**, or what.)

(I work in an Irish pub that is located in a great location, barring one thing: we’re right down the street from an oyster bar. We have the name of our pub — strikingly dissimilar to the name of the oyster bar — plastered in giant letters across the front door, on either side of the door, and above the door. At least four times an hour, we get people who walk in, sit down, and order oysters, at which point I have to inform them that, indeed, their kindergarten teachers have failed them. A woman and her several preteen children come in and insist that they have a reservation.)

Me: “Hi. Welcome to [Pub]! How many?”

Customer: “We have a reservation.”

Me: “Ma’am, we don’t take reservations here at [Pub].”

Customer: “Oh? Then why did your manager inform me otherwise?”

Me: “I’m so sorry, ma’am. He didn’t tell me know you were coming. Let me grab him.”

(Knowing full well she isn’t looking for our pub, considering she’s dressed in her “finery,” I find my manager.)

Manager: “Hi! Welcome to [Pub]. How can I help you?”

Customer: “Your—” *sniffs condescendingly* “—underling here told me that you don’t take reservations.”

Manager: “That’s correct, ma’am. Did you read the sign on the door?”

(The woman is flabbergasted.)

Customer: “How dare you? Of course I read it.”

Manager: “Right. Would you mind taking a look at it again, to humor me?”

(The woman scoffs and saunters towards the door muttering about oysters. She stops dead in her tracks.)

Customer: “This isn’t the oyster bar?

Manager: “No, ma’am. This is a pub.”

(The woman muttered something about fools and ingrates, and some kind of insult to my intelligence, and then proceeded to trip on her way out of our pub. Karma. Sucks, doesn’t it?)