It is early morning and I am dozing off in my seat on the bus. I have slumped over on top of my bookbag and no one can see me since I stand under five feet tall. This woman sees the seat I’m napping in and doesn’t bother to look before sitting down. I jerk awake in time to stop her by placing my boots up, so she has her a** on them instead of me.

The woman turns around and sees me.

Woman: “You shouldn’t be sleeping on the bus.”

I’m aggravated by the stupidity.

Me: “Well, maybe you should watch where you sit your fat a** next.”

The woman stormed off with the dirty prints of my boots on her cheeks for everyone to see.

A woman, a young man, and a boy come into our restaurant and sit down. I greet them, bring their drinks, and start taking their order. The woman points to the young man that I assume is an older son.

Woman: “He’s gonna have two slices of cheese.” *Points to the boy* “He’s gonna have one slice of cheese, and I’m gonna have a slice of pepperoni. How much is that gonna be?”

Me: “Each slice of cheese is about $2.50, and the pepperoni is about $3. With your drinks, we’re looking at about $15, give or take for tax.”

She approves and I send the order in. Just before their slices come out, the woman calls me back over.

Woman: “So, my boyfriend is at home, and he wants me to bring him two slices of cheese. Would it just be better to get a medium pizza? How many slices is that?”

Me: “A medium pizza is six slices. It’s a little smaller, and I can ask the kitchen if they can do just one slice as pepperoni for you. If we stuck with the 5 slices of cheese and one pepperoni, it’d be about $20. If we went for a medium, we’re looking at about $16. It’s a smaller pizza than our slice pies, so the slices would be a tad smaller, but it’s a better deal if we only want six. A large pizza would still be about $20, but we’d have eight slices, and it’d be more like the size of our slice pies.”

Woman: “Well, we don’t need eight slices, so let’s just do a medium.”

Me: “No problem, I’ll let the kitchen know. It’ll probably be about seven to ten minutes.”

I step up to the kitchen. I see the cook putting this table’s first order in the window. I let him know she’s changed her mind, and he quickly starts on her new pizza. Fortunately, we are busy enough that the slices don’t go to waste.

About ten minutes later, as the cook is pulling her pizza out of the oven, she calls me back over. She asks for her food in a box and the check, as they need to be somewhere. I quickly box it up and bring her the check. I set her pizza on the table and open it to show her. She scrunches up her face.

Woman: “What is this? I asked for individual slices!”

Me: “I thought we discussed a medium pie instead, as it was better priced?”

Woman: “Yes! There are six slices in a medium. I ordered six slices. And you were just going to charge me for a medium. Because it’s a better price.”

Me: “I’m sorry, I can’t exactly charge you for one thing and bring you something else. I can get in trouble for that. I apologize for the misunderstanding, and I can ask the kitchen to remake your first order. But I will have to charge for each individual slice, and it will be closer to $20.”

Woman: *Sighing, pulls out a card* “I guess this will have to do. We don’t have time to wait. Here.”

She hands me her card, and I walk back to the register. As I return with the slip for her to sign, she is pulling out her slice of pepperoni, holding it in the air by the corner of the crust. She makes another face and looks at me.

Woman: “Okay, but why are these so small? They’re like school lunch pieces.”

I look at the table. The box will hold a 12″ pizza, and the edges are practically bulging with the somewhat oversized pizza inside.

Me: “Again, I apologize for the confusion. But it is a smaller pie, so the slices will be a bit smaller than our individual slices. If you’d like, we can still order some bigger slices, but it will be about five to ten minutes before they come out.”

Woman: *Flatly* “You gonna charge me for ’em?”

Me: “I don’t have the authority to give away food, but I can ask my manager to step over if you’d like.”

Woman: *Sighing again* “Ugh. Whatever. Just bring me a to-go cup.”

I look at the boys that came in with her. Aside from ordering drinks, they have been completely silent the entire time. I ask them if they need to-go cups also, but the woman interrupts, saying that they don’t need anything.

Within minutes, they were out the door. She didn’t tip. I wish I could say she was the only person that day that wanted me to give them something but charge them for something different that’s cheaper.

Related:
A Hot Slice Of Justice, Part 5
A Hot Slice Of Justice, Part 4
A Hot Slice Of Justice, Part 3
A Hot Slice Of Justice, Part 2
A Hot Slice Of Justice

I work at a public pool in a very conservative Bible Belt town. As such, most of our customers are religious. They’re also mostly very kind, small-town folk. On this day, a customer in his forties or fifties has just finished paying for his family when he notices a small tattoo I have on my wrist: “2:22” in black font, taken from the pages of a Harry Potter book.

It’s worth noting that I am a Christian myself, but I don’t really go to church anymore and I am not as religious as I used to be, mostly due to my more liberal views on the world.

A customer is staring at my wrist with visible distaste.

Customer: “What does ‘2:22’ mean?”

I am assuming he’s confused about the very recognizable font.

Me: “Oh, it’s a reference to 2 Timothy 2:22. I just chose the page numbers from my favorite book series as the font.”

He immediately changes his posture to a very rigid stance.

Customer: “Hmph, really? And what is that verse?”

I’m sighing internally, but I quote the verse, which essentially boils down to, “Surround yourself with good people and be careful what you chase.” I got this particular verse because of some very personal things I struggled with. It’s obvious the man did not expect me to have the verse memorized, so he changes tactics.

Customer: “And what does that mean? It obviously must be important for you to tattoo God’s word on your body.”

Me: “Actually, the meaning is pretty personal.” *Awkward silence* “So… have a nice day.”

Customer: *Sneers* “Right. As usual, you kids don’t even know what the Bible means anymore! Well, for your information, that verse refers to purity of heart and mind—”

Me: “Sir? With all due respect, I’m not interested in your opinions about my tattoos, and there is a line forming behind you. Please keep moving, and have a great time at our pool.”

I get that a lot of older people have a problem with tattoos, but who in their right mind thinks it’s okay to interrogate a total stranger and then preach at them about their OWN body?

I’d worked in this job at a popular sandwich shop for four years and I’ve been contemplating moving on. I don’t find the motivation to do so until the day this story occurs.

We tend to run short-staffed because the general manager is forced to conserve labor, and if a single person calls off, the whole day is thrown off and everyone runs around in a panic trying to get everything done. It’s very stressful and a bad environment for anyone with anxiety, like me.

One day, one of the drivers calls in sick several hours before his shift. This driver is one of the most responsible people I know. In two years working there, he has put in a single time-off request for getting his wisdom teeth taken out, and he put it in months in advance. He never calls in sick, and on the day in question, he is actively throwing up and literally cannot safely come in. I overhear the general manager explaining to the area manager what’s going on.

General Manager: “We’re short-staffed; [Driver] called in sick.”

Area Manager: “What, did his mangina explode?!”

I stopped in my tracks and fixed him with my most ferocious glare. He didn’t notice, so I quickly looked “mangina” up, and basically, he was calling the driver a wimp by comparing him to a woman.

I was furious because one, being a woman is not an insult, and two, how can you say that about someone who has such a track record of responsibility? While fuming, I recalled every sexist, racist, and downright rude thing the area manager had ever said, and I decided that was it.

I walked into the back, pulled out a piece of blank printer paper, drew a little doodle of a fox on it, and wrote, “This is a picture of a fox. This is also my two weeks notice. Love, [My Nickname].” And I left it on the desk for the general manager to find.

True to my word, I finished out my two weeks and found a much better job, with better pay and a healthier work environment. I’m still friends with lots of my former coworkers, including the driver, and they’ve told me that the area manager is still confused about why what he said made me quit. I’m sure someone will have the patience to explain it to him eventually.

I work parking for a small seasonal theme park. We have a long dirt road with a few access points into the parking lot and one exit that all the lots lead to. We also have an employee-only backroad that’s paved. It is small and we are only allowed to let people go through it if they have an employee shirt.

I am working and a woman and her kids drive up and try to skip the line by going in the employee line. I hold out my hand and go to the window.

Me: “Do you have an employee shirt?”

She rolls down her window.

Customer: “Don’t worry. My nephew works here. He told me to go here and tell you it was okay.”

I immediately get suspicious because, as employees, we aren’t allowed to give special treatment to family.

Me: “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to let you through here. You’re going to have to pull through to the dirt road.”

Customer: “No! He said it was fine! Don’t be a d**k!”

When I asked who “he” was, she just got annoyed and drove off.