Our hotel has a little store where you can buy a snack, a drink, or a beer, etc. The store itself no bigger than a closet. There are no limits, but the most items I’ve seen anyone buy is five.

Me: “Hello.”

Lady: “Hello, I’d like to buy these. And these. And these.”

The lady brings over twenty items and ten bottles of beer and piles all of it on top of my computer and me.

Me: “Er, okay.”

I start counting.

Lady: “Do you have some plastic bag or a cart to take these in?”

Me: “Uh, no, we don’t, sorry. The only carts we have are the luggage carts.”

Lady: “Hell-lo? The luggage carts are for d*** luggage! Well, how the f*** am I supposed to take all these?!”

Me: “With all due respect, ma’am, our little store isn’t a supermarket. Most people only buy a few things at a time.”

Lady: “Well, that’s just f****** stupid! Kids! Come help me with this stuff!”

Her five kids help her carry the stuff upstairs, each one throwing me a dirty look. The lady leaves some cash, but not enough, so I charge the rest to her room.

Next Customer: “Wow, some people think this is a grocery mart or something? Just these two items, please.”

Me: “Nooo problem.”

And yes, the lady complained about her room being charged even though she didn’t pay enough for the items!

I work in a pharmacy and I get a call from an older customer.

Me: “[Pharmacy], how can I help you?”

Customer: “You gave me the wrong pills!”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am; did the bag have your name on it?”

Customer: “It’s my name, but the wrong pills are in the bottle!”

Me: “It’s possible we refilled one of your other prescriptions on fi—”

Customer: “No! The wrong pills are in the bottle!”

Me: “All right, can I have the number on the bottle?”

Customer: “Oh, no, you don’t! I’m not giving that to you.”

Me: “All right, can I have your name, please?”

Customer: “No! I’m on to your tricks!”

Me: “Ma’am, I need to look up your file so I can figure out what the problem is.”

Customer: “No, you don’t! I know your sly ways. You’re just going to change my file so you can cover up your mistake!”

Me: “Ma’am, I don’t have that ability. I’d like to help give you the proper medication. Can you please tell me your name?”

Customer: “No! You’re going to change the names of the medications on my chart to hide your screwup!”

Me: “Well, ma’am, can you come back to the store so I can verify the wrong pills were given?”

Customer: “No! I’m holding onto this bottle! It’s evidence!”

Me: “Ma’am, I can’t change any ‘evidence,’ since you have a printed label on the bottle. Can you tell me the name of the medication?”

Customer: “No! Do you think I’m stupid? I’m not telling you anything!”

Me: *Sigh* “Okay, ma’am, if you won’t let me see your file or the pills, and you won’t bring it back, then what would you like me to do?”

Customer: “I want you to know that you’re a horrible pharmacy. And you are a terrible person!”

Me: “Excuse me? I’m trying to help—”

Customer: “No, you are an awful person! You don’t deserve to be in business, trying to poison me with the wrong pills!”

Me: “Well, can you describe them to me? Are they white? Oval?”

Customer: “I’m not telling! You are a bad person!”

Me: “Ma’am, I would really like to help you, if you could give me some informati—”

Customer: “No, you don’t! Shame on you for trying to kill me and then hiding the evidence!”

She hung up.

The water in our neighborhood suddenly shuts off without notice. After checking the city website to make sure there are no planned outages for maintenance, I decide to go buy some bottled water in case it is a while before the utility department figures out what is wrong.

On my way back home, I spot a small construction crew doing some work a couple of blocks down. I stop and roll down my window to talk to one of the workers. For reference, I am a white woman in my early thirties and the employee I speak to happens to be a middle-aged black man. I don’t realize how this will come into play until later.

Me: “Good morning. Are you guys doing any water line work today? The water in my neighborhood went out about half an hour ago.”

Worker #1: “Yes, ma’am. Unfortunately, a water line cap was cracked and we had to shut the supply off. Our supervisor is on the way with a replacement right now. We’re really sorry about that.”

Me: “Okay, thank you for telling me. I know these things happen. I just wanted to make sure.”

I prepare to drive away when a sixty-ish-year-old white man who’s been standing nearby — with a hunk of chaw in his mouth so large it looks like he is chewing on a baseball — cuts in front of [Worker #1] and sticks his head IN my car window.

Worker #2: *Around his mouthful of tobacco* “Fraternizing with the help, huh?”

Me: *Stunned* “Excuse me?”

[Worker #1] gets a look on his face that says this happens often.

Worker #1: “She wanted to know about the water outage.”

Worker #2: “Oh, yeah! The supervisor is on his way now. No need to call the city!” *Grins* “What street you on, honey?”

Me: *Ignoring the question* “This whole area is out. He’s already explained what happened.”

Seeing that I was holding up traffic, I thanked [Worker #1] again and drove away. It wasn’t until I pulled back into my driveway that I really processed what that second worker had done. Not only had he made me feel uncomfortable, but he’d stepped all over the first man I spoke to and repeated the same thing he’d clearly already heard him tell me. Plus, there was that comment about “the help”. Anyone who has grown up in the southeastern US knows the racist connotations that phrase can have.

I also remembered his comment about “no need to call the city” and had a feeling he might have been some kind of foreman or supervisor himself not wanting to get in trouble. I knew a few of my neighbors had called the city already, and I decided to make my own report, too.

I’m a head cashier at a home improvement store, and I’m closing up the outside garden registers for the night. Our cashiers know when the registers out there close, and they know to announce to all customers present that they will be closing soon. After confirming with my cashier that she’s informed all customers present of the closing, and seeing no one present in the vicinity, I lock the gates and begin to close out the registers. After I’ve closed out the very last till, about ten minutes after closing the gates, a customer who neither of us saw approaches the register.

Customer: “What’s going on? I need to check out!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but these registers are closed for tonight. The registers at the front of the store are still open for two more hours; you can check out inside.”

Customer: “NO! I have a heavy cart full of stones, and you want me to go inside?! I demand that you reopen the registers and let me pay here!  No one told me you were closing out here! Someone should have told me!”

The cashier looks at me, worried she’ll get in trouble.

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t see you out here; otherwise, we would have told you. However, I can’t reopen the registers. You’ll have to go inside to pay.”

Customer: “OPEN THE REGISTERS BACK UP! I PARKED OUT HERE SO I WOULDN’T HAVE TO WALK!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t reopen the registers. If you’d like, we can go inside, ring up your purchase, and then come back out here, and I’ll open the gates for you so you can wheel your cart to your car more easily, but you’ll still have to pay inside.”

Customer: “No! You have to reopen the registers! This cart is too heavy! I can’t just push it inside! OPEN THE REGISTERS! WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME?!”

I am a skinny, 4’11” female, but everyone in my store — and most of my regulars — knows that I am more than strong enough to perform most tasks on the job. The customer is a man at least 6’1″ and healthy-looking.

Seeing my cashier becoming visibly upset and concerned, I am getting annoyed.

Me: “I am sorry for that, sir, but if you’ll just wait one moment to let me finish my till, I’ll be glad to push your cart inside for you, and after you’ve paid, I’ll even push it out to your car and load it up.”

Customer: *Turns beet red* “That’s not the point! THAT’S NOT THE POINT!”

The customer turns and pushes his cart inside dramatically.

Cashier: “I told everyone I saw that we were closing, I swear! I never even saw him until he came up here. It had been dead for the last half-hour we were open.”

Me: “Don’t even worry about it, love. Enjoy the rest of your night off!”

I later told my manager about the exchange and the offers I made to the customer to try and rectify the situation. He said I did the best I could, and that no, I was NOT required to reopen the tills.

After being laid off from my job after nineteen years of working for the same company, I found myself bewildered, confused, and completely scared that my regular income was being cut off.

So, taking the time I would have spent working, I made sure to do all the steps you’re supposed to when you lose a job suddenly, including filing for unemployment.

In my state/country, unemployment tax is taken from your paycheck. I’m in my late forties and have never applied for unemployment, so in my eyes, I’m due some back, right?

I read all the rules and even did an online chat with the state’s unemployment department to make sure I was doing everything right. I filled out all their paperwork and soon began receiving my unemployment, which was maybe half of the pay I had been receiving but was better than nothing.

Everything was fine for two months while I got an updated resume and began searching for a new position. Then, I started getting letters in the mail threatening to cut off my unemployment benefit payments and perhaps make me pay back what they’d already given me because they had received information from somewhere — they wouldn’t tell me where — that I was receiving a pension.

Nope. I never signed up for one, so I didn’t have one. I told them.

Then, I received another letter saying they knew I had a pension, and unless I gave them the information about this pension, blah, blah, blah.

I told them again that nope, I didn’t have one.

Then, I got the letter saying my payments were being stopped because I couldn’t prove I didn’t have a pension — the old proving a negative argument.

If I disagreed, I could have a formal hearing. So, I said yes.

Six weeks later, I still haven’t received any payment and I am in the hearing.

The hearing officer is going over all the information they have, marking this page as an exhibit, that page as an exhibit, and so on and so forth.

I remain quiet as this is a legal hearing and, having seen their exhibits, I have a simple answer for her.

When it’s my turn to speak on my behalf, I say simply, “That exhibit you said you sent me? I never received it.”

It was a letter that, according to her, I would have simply check-marked that I never signed up for a pension and do not receive one, and they would have been satisfied.

She seems to be completely flummoxed and begins giving all sorts of excuses as to why and how every other communication reached me but this one crucial piece of paper, while I silently stew.

She wraps up the hearing with a good, old-fashioned, “Well, I’ll make my decision by the end of the week.”

You do that, sweetie, I think, but instead of giving vent to my months-long frustration, I shake her hand and leave. It still takes a few weeks for them to get my past-due benefits to me, which amounts to several thousand dollars.

Note that all this happened around the holidays, a time when people generally need every dollar they can get their hands on.