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They’re On A Roll

, , , | Right | June 26, 2017

(I work at a store where there is a single men’s and a single women’s restroom. I’m waiting outside of the women’s as there’s someone using it. After a minute or two, she comes out, red in the face.)

Customer: “You!” *pointing at me* “There’s no toilet paper in there!”

Me: “I’m so sorry, ma’am; I’ll change it out immediately.”

(I walk into the restroom and she follows me. The toilet paper container holds four rolls, one of which is empty. I turn to the woman.)

Me: “Ma’am, there are three more rolls in here. All you have to do is turn the dial.” *I demonstrate and a fresh roll comes down*

Customer: *snippy tone* “Well, I shouldn’t have to do that.”

Me: “I’m sorry; I would’ve done it if I noticed sooner.”

Customer: *clicks tongue* “You should’ve done it for me.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: *sighs* “I said, you should’ve done it for me! You’re the employee!”

Me: “…so you’re saying I should’ve come in there, while you were using the restroom, to change the toilet paper?”

Customer: “No! I… ugh never mind! So incompetent!” *storms off*

Their Demands Are Just Hot Air

, , , , | Right | June 25, 2017

(I work as an admin. assistant at a local fire department. One of my duties is to issue burning permits for anybody wanting to burn brush. This happens over the phone.)

Caller: “Burning permit. Now.”

Me: “Due to the high winds we are not issuing burning permits at this time. You can call to check tomorrow and then come in to the station.”

Caller: “I can’t tomorrow. You need to make the wind stop. I pay your salary so you have to.” *slams down phone*

Me: “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”


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Needs An Express Delivery Of Compassion

, , , , , | Right | June 25, 2017

I was injured on my postal job, and have a broken foot. I’m on crutches, an important point. Since I can’t do my regular job, the postmaster puts me on the customer service window where people pick up their hold mail and things like that.

It’s late, things are slow, like they usually are at that time, and a guy hands me two slips to pick up certified mail. Our station covers six ZIP codes, so we have a LOT of mail. And I mean a LOT.

I take the slips and go look for them. He has one letter that came in the previous day, and another that came in a couple of days before that. We have one area where the previous day’s mail (usually) goes, and then another place where we keep the older mail. They’re in a rough order, by a number in the street address. I find the first one quickly. The other, I have to go through over 400 letters to find, and then I have to go through them again, because his letter has a forwarded mail sticker that got stuck to the letter ahead of it while leaving the old address exposed. I finally see the sticker and realized what had happened.

I go to the window, and the guy sneers, “You took four minutes to get my mail. That’s unacceptable. I want to talk to your postmaster.”

I don’t get mad. I don’t even drop my jaw at a guy getting upset about someone ON CRUTCHES being a little slow. I smile. Because I STILL HAVE HIS MAIL IN MY HAND. I tell him I’ll be glad to get the postmaster, shut the dutch door, and hobble away. Our station is pretty big, as a station with six zip codes would be. It takes me a while to find the postmaster.

I find him on the dock, and he says, almost in one breath, you look tired, what’s up, are you okay, you shouldn’t have come back to work the day after an injury like that, and I know you’re dying for a cigarette (this was back when I smoked), so have one and tell me what’s up.

So I tell him while I smoke the cigarette. Then we go back.

The postmaster opens the dutch door while I handle scanning the mail and getting the signature, off to the side, not saying anything. The guy is FUMING by this point. The postmaster lets him have it for timing someone who had broken her foot only the day before — I could have taken time off, but I am there, serving petty jerks like him, while I am in pain.

And then the guy makes the fatal mistake. He tells the postmaster that he has a bad attitude for a taxpayer paying his salary.

Hint to all of you Americans out there: NEVER — EVER — throw the scum taxpayer argument in a postal worker’s face. Don’t even hint at it, because your tax dollars DO NOT PAY for one fricking cent of a postal worker’s salary. That stamp or postage on the front pays our salaries. NOTHING ELSE. Bring it up, and you deserve to get your head torn off.

When that jerk resorted to the taxpayer argument, that’s when the postmaster went after the guy with both guns, informing him that he was all wrong, why, and finally that he had his mail. He could leave now.

The guy couldn’t believe the postmaster wasn’t firing me on the spot. “You’re not doing anything about how slow she is?”

“Why would I? I’m proud of her for needing so little time to find your mail, when she has a broken foot.” Then my boss turned to me with a grin, and said, “He’s all yours.”

This is his code: You can get your dig in; just don’t swear at him. I am kinda notorious for not taking crap off customers, and he wants to see what I’ll say. That’s probably why he stands in a place where the customers can’t see him. The window clerks take a few seconds from doing their end of day wrapping up to listen in, too.

I finally hand the guy his mail, smile, and say, “Isn’t it great that we live in America where we’re civilized and expect all workers to be treated with dignity and respect? Have a nice day!”

And I shut the door.

Allergic To Metal And Bad Customers

, , , , | Right | June 23, 2017

(I work for a large retailer. I have a metal allergy, and a necklace I wore the day before has given me a small red mark on the side of my neck. I didn’t think to cover it with make-up because of it’s size. A middle-aged woman comes to pay just as my supervisor is bringing me the change I have ordered. He waves me to ring her up first.)

Me: “Your total will be 9.72.”

Customer: *rather loudly* “Oh, my God.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: *to my supervisor, loudly enough for everyone in line to hear* “This GIRL has a hickey on her neck! How could you even let her ring me up?! She should be fired immediately!”

(She gives me a smug, snarky look before turning expectantly to my supervisor, who looks a little lost.)

Me: *finally realizing what she is talking about* “Actually, ma’am, what you are referring to is a reaction to my metal allergy. I wore a necklace yesterday made of nickel by mistake.”

(She stares at me for a good ten seconds, then huffs.)

Customer: “Well, you ought to cover it. It’s disgusting.”

(I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just finished her transaction as quickly as I could. After she left, my supervisor turned to me and smiled.)

Supervisor: “I’m glad you handled that. The things I would have said could have cost me my job!”

Can’t Put This Deli-cately

, , , , , | Working | June 23, 2017

(I work in the deli department in a retail chain. For months now, our staffing has been slowly getting less and less, making each of our individual workloads heavier while management puts pressure on us to get even more done, even scolding us in front of customers. What few and far between new hires we do see are out the door very quickly due to the intense workload and lack of respect from management and all requests to transfer to other departments are ignored. Eventually, we’re down to just four people total per day in our department as the business picks up due to warmer weather. As a result, the morale of the department is pretty much non-existent. Finally, after months of everyone not getting everything management is asking done each day, two managers get behind the counter themselves to “show us how easy our department is.” This is the conversation that followed.)

Manager: “So, after working deli today, I absolutely hate it. Even we couldn’t get everything you need to do done with who we have. Honestly, I’d never work this job for what we’re paying you.”

Me: *feeling so relieved* “Thank you! So, you’ll put a higher priority on hiring and show more understanding for when we can’t get it all done, right?”

Manager: “Well, we’ll see what we can do about hiring, but the fact is, not many people are applying to be in deli, so you’ll just have to make do. As for getting it done, we get emails from corporate about our numbers and when that happens, we have to hold people accountable.”

Me: “Wait, what?! You and [Other Manager] just said you couldn’t figure out how to get it all done, and with you both there, that was with two more people that we’re used to having. If you two, whose job it is to ensure the place runs properly, cannot make it run properly yourselves, why are the employees being held accountable?”

Manager: “You gotta understand; when we walk over and see empty shelves because nobody stocked it, that’s sales we’re losing!”

Me: “Did you and [Other Manager] manage to stock all the shelves yesterday?”

Manager: “Well, no, but you just gotta communicate with your coworkers and figure it out. While we’re at it, everyone in the deli seems miserable!”

Me: “Because we all are. The work conditions you just dealt with are the conditions we’ve been dealing with every day for months! We all tried our best to stay hopeful, but we’ve been warning you about the decreasing conditions this whole time, you’ve done little to nothing about it and now, as human beings, we’ve just reached our limit!”

Manager: “Well, if you’re going to be here, you’re going to act happier. The customers can’t see you all so miserable. If you don’t like that, then nobody is being forced to keep the job. The door’s always open for you all to leave.”

(On that note, I realized I wasn’t getting through to her. After going home that night, I thought long and hard on it and decided to accept her generous offer to leave. I gave my two week’s notice very shortly after and am currently much happier and less stressed. Unfortunately, most of my coworkers did not follow me out the door.)