My husband was the general manager of a homestyle resort in Las Vegas: rooms with living rooms and full kitchens. As such, he frequently had people who would have extended stays of a week or more. It was not your typical extended-stay hotel; it was very upscale. At one point, his night auditor had a minor health scare, and my husband asked me if I didn’t mind filling in two nights a week to give the auditor some time to take care of himself. Well, his minor health scare turned into a major health scare, and I ended up working seven nights a week for nearly three months while he recovered. That was a nightmare in itself, but I adored the auditor, and by me filling in, it ensured he would have a job to come back to.

We had one guest who had booked for five nights, and then she extended her stay an additional two nights. She came to check out early in the morning, when I was still the only one at the desk. She was irate about the amount she was being charged for her room.

Guest: “I was given a special rate, and my special rate is all that I should be charged!”

I don’t remember the actual total, but to keep it simple it was something like this. She was paying $500 for a five-night stay. She extended her stay two extra nights, and instead of charging her the current rate, we extended her at the lower rate. Her seven-night stay meant she owed $700.00.

She was adamant that her special rate was $500 and that was all she should pay, no matter how many nights she actually stayed. She simply could not grasp the math that if you stay extra nights you do, in fact, owe for those nights.

I was trying to explain it to her as best I could, despite my internal monolog of “This woman is a twit,” when she stuck her finger in my face.

Guest: “You don’t understand! I know your general manager, and I am going to tell him how you are treating me and trying to scam me of money! I’m going to have your job for this! You don’t know who you are talking to!”

I smiled as sweetly as I could at her.

Me: “Well, ma’am, when I go home and crawl into bed next to him, I will be sure to relay that message to him. Have a fantastic day.”

She sputtered and left — without signing the credit card receipt. When I told my husband, he laughed and knew exactly who the woman was. Apparently, she had been harassing the day staff all week long with stupid requests.

Related:
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 19
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 18
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 17
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 16
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 15

I answer the phone at my butcher shop. It’s a customer who was in about an hour ago. 

Customer: “Hi. I was there before and I bought a piece of garlic, but it didn’t make it into the bag.”

Me: “Oh, I’m so sorry. We can either refund it or, if it’s convenient for you to come back, we can just replace it.”

Customer: “No, I don’t want either of those things. I’m cooking right now, and I don’t have it.”

Me: *Unsure where this is going* “Well, like I said, we can replace it or refund it—”

Customer: “I would prefer if one of your employees drove it over to me right now. I’m right in town.”

I blink as I try to process this, looking around at my already extremely short-staffed store and my coworkers running around like chickens with their heads cut off, trying to keep on top of everything.  

Me: “Right… Well, as I said, we can refund it or replace it. None of our employees are going to be able to deliver it to your home.”

Customer: “Well, that’s ridiculous.”

Not as ridiculous as your request that we hand-deliver $1 garlic to your house, lady!

I’m planning to move from South Carolina to North Carolina and have reached the point where I need to look at houses in person. My brother already lives near my destination, so I’m going to stay with him while looking at houses with my realtor, whom I’ve only spoken to on the phone so far.

I’m looking for something fairly remote — as I put it, “Far enough from the neighbors that nobody will mind if I sing at the top of my voice in the middle of the night, and far enough from the road that my cat can play outside without any danger of getting run over.”

Two days before I leave for my brother’s, I call my realtor to plan our itinerary.

Me: “I’d like to start with [list of addresses]. They’re fairly close together and all looked good online.”

Realtor: “Okay, I can schedule those for [Day I plan to drive to North Carolina].”

Me: “That works, but I’ll be pretty drained from four hours on the road. Rather than both of us driving to each house, can I meet you at your office and both go in your car? I have a terrible sense of direction and I just don’t think I’ll be up to driving to three unfamiliar locations that afternoon.”

I have GPS on my phone, but I get very nervous if I don’t know the way to a destination ahead of time, and I have trouble following spoken directions, so I only ever use it as an emergency backup.

Realtor: “People don’t ask me that very often, but yes, we can do that.”

We talk a bit longer, and I hang up. I have a feeling that I’ve messed up somehow, but can’t put my finger on it at first. Then, I ask my mom:

Me: “Hang on. Did I just ask a man I barely know to drive me to three of the most isolated houses I could find in an unfamiliar state, specifically because I’ll be tired, out-of-it, and incapable of finding my way to or home from them on my own?”

It honestly hadn’t occurred to me until I hung up that that might be dangerous, especially since I’m a woman. My brother ended up taking me to view the houses, and the realtor was a perfectly nice guy, but I don’t think that conversation did me any favors in the “convincing Mom I’ll be okay living on my own” area.

We get a new manager in our little section of a certain magical kingdom. He has been with the company for several years and has previously worked at table service restaurants at some of the swankier hotels.

There’s an unruly guest at one of the registers next to mine. The guest came up and told [Coworker] that our custodians had thrown away three trays of her food, and she wanted it replaced. That, to both me and her, immediately sent up a red flag. At a park as busy as ours, NO ONE would leave a table full of food unattended for any amount of time.

Coworker: “Do you have the receipt for your order?”

Guest: “My sister took it on a ride with her.”

Again, red flag.

Coworker: “Okay, how was the meal paid for?”

Guest: “I don’t know; my dad paid for it.”

Coworker: “Then I’m afraid we can’t replace the food.”

The guest throws an absolute fit and [Coworker] has to go get the manager. The manager steps forward to address the situation.

Manager: “Yes, I’m the manager here. How may I help you?”

Guest: “Yes, I was here, and the cleaners threw away three trays worth of food, and the girl that was here earlier was giving me a hard time about getting it replaced.” 

Manager: “Okay, do you have a receipt?”

Guest: “No, my sister has it on a ride.”

Manager: *Looking a little doubtful* “Okay, do you know which register your ordered from?”

Guest: “No, my dad did it.”

Manager: “Okay, well, I need some information so we can replace your order properly, so, which ride is your sister on? Or, perhaps you can go get your dad?”

Guest: “Really? Can I speak to the real manager?”

Manager: “I am the manager, and I’d be happy to help you.”

Guest: “But it’s just food. Our food got thrown away and we need it replaced, and we’ve already had a long wait and a hard time with the other girl, so will you just replace it?”

Manager: “At this point, without a receipt, no, I cannot.”

Guest: “My brothers and sisters are starving! I thought this was [Theme Park], where dreams come true and magic happens!”

Manager: “So starving they went back on the rides, to wait in line for at least another hour before eating? Please come back with the receipt and your father, because at this point, the magic can’t happen.”

The guest sputtered for a few seconds and then stormed off in a huff. She never returned.

I have been working at a local Chinese takeout for the past year. If we had a manager, I would be a manager, but our chain of command is: boss man, then top cashier, and then cashiers, drivers, and cooks. This means I’m regularly tasked with things a manager would handle, such as training, supply orders such as utensils and sauces, and most notably, handling all refunds.

It’s a pretty slow evening on my 5:00 to 11:30 pm shift when a customer calls to place a delivery order. All is going well until I inform him of our standard delivery time: forty-five minutes to an hour. Well, he will not have this!

Customer: “Cancel my order! Too long!”

Me: “Sure thing! Just to clarify, since you had us charge you for your delivery ahead of time, it will be a couple of business days before it actually reflects on your account.”

This is where all h*** breaks loose.

The customer does not simply demand his money back.

Customer: *Screaming* “I will be down immediately, and you will be handing me money from the register.”

He hangs up as I mentally prepare for his assumed arrival.

He arrives fifteen to thirty minutes after our “friendly chat” and is still just as “friendly”! He again demands his money, so I attempt one last time to explain that his money is indeed on its way to his account, but to no avail.

In earshot of all our waiting customers, the customer dials 911.

Customer: “I’d like to report a theft at [Restaurant].”

Of course, the cops speed over — we sit very close to the local police station — and the customer gets to them first, so I let them chat. A cop then comes to me, explaining that he knows the issue now and doesn’t need further assistance! I see him go over to the customer once more, some words are exchanged, and out the door the customer goes, no register money in tow, thankfully.

Not too dramatic of an ending, but the kicker? The cop comes back to me one last time.

Cop: “You wouldn’t believe how many grown adults don’t understand how refunds work.”

Actually, Officer, I BELIEVE YOU!

That customer has yet to be seen or heard from again, and this was approximately six months ago. Victory!