(Boston is recovering from an intense storm around April. Now that snow from the blizzard is finally gone, the city starts working on the roads. Among the work is sewer assessment, which means fixing anything that’s damaged and giving what’s not a cleaning. The city distributes flyers through the mail to notify us of times when work will be done in our area over the next month or so, asking that we minimize water, and that any strange smell emanating from our faucets and toilets is normal and not hazardous. On the day my neighborhood is scheduled for this work, I’m up at six am, making myself breakfast as usual when I hear the sound of an idle truck and workers yelling. Since local legislation states work can’t begin until nine am, this is already unusual. What follows doubles down on that.)

Worker #1: “We’re all set up? When’s [Person] getting here?”

Worker #2: “Should be here around seven.”

Worker #1: “What’ll we do until then?”

(Rather than a verbal answer, the sound of the idle engine is now mixed with the sound of chain links rattling. I look out the window and confirm my suspicions: these workers, two black men that are easily twice as jolly as Santa, are pulling on my fence to help them as they limber up for the job ahead. I step outside.)

Me: “Get off the fence!”

Worker #1: “Relax! It’s a fence!”

Me: “Fences aren’t meant to hold your weight! Now, get off it and turn your truck off!”

Worker #2: “Fine! Jeez!”

(They both step back and release the fence, and then, they proceed to stand there waiting.)

Me: “The truck?”

Worker #1: “It’s fine!”

Me: “You’re burning gas right now. Turn it off!”

Worker #2: “It’s no problem. It’s got one of those engines that doesn’t use much fuel.”

Me: “It’s not about fuel. It’s about air quality and the law. To help reduce pollution, Massachusetts passed an Anti-Idling Law which prohibits vehicles from sitting idle for more than five minutes without just cause.”

(Both of their hands launch above their heads while grinning.)

Worker #1: “DON’T SHOOT! DON’T SHOOT! OUR HANDS ARE UP! DON’T SHOOT!”

Me: “What the f*** are you talking about?”

Worker #2: “You’re a white guy talking like a cop! We don’t want to get shot!”

(I have no response. I do, however, report the idle engine — which miraculously turns off just before the police drive up — and file a complaint with the city about the workers showing up incredibly early, attacking my fence, leaving their engines idle, and harassing me when I try to protect my property. I’m also sure to mention, “If my fence had broken and they’d gotten hurt, they’d have sued me for their medical bills.” The following week, the crew is back, but they park next to my neighbor’s house, instead. My neighbor is not only a friend but also very old and very gossipy. When I come back from work at around 3:30, he emerges from his backyard, where his wife is also sitting, and I hear a distinct chirping.)

Me: “Is your alarm going off?”

Neighbor: *nodding* “They parked their truck next to my vent. The exhaust fumes are leaking into my house and setting off the monoxide alarm, and they won’t move the truck.”

(I once again go out front and talk to these workers, and I find a different crew member with a monitor connected to a large pipe leading down into the sewer.)

Me: “So, why is your truck idle?”

Worker #3: “We’ve got a camera down in the sewer taking magnified pictures to see if there’s anything we can’t see. We need the truck to power it.”

Me: “Oh. So, where’s the cord connecting it to the truck?”

Worker #3: “What?”

Me: “The cord. If it’s getting power from the truck, they have to be connected.”

Worker #3: “…”

Me: “Turn the truck off and apologize before I get inside, or I’m calling the police again to report an idle engine and reckless endangerment.”

Worker #3: “‘Reckless endangerment’?”

Me: “You filled the home of two senior citizens with carbon monoxide — endangering their lives — and you refused to turn off your engine or move your truck when he confronted you about it. And even with your equipment running, the alarm is still audible from here.”

(Thankfully, that works. Even so, I invite my neighbor over to help file another complaint with the company. The following week, the team is back on the job. At this point, I am just curious to know when the work will be over.)

Me: “So, what’s the…”

Worker #4: “Shut up!”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Worker #4: “Our union rep told us you’re a troublemaker and we’re not supposed to talk to you! So shut up!”

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(My mother-in-law wants a party for a milestone birthday. My husband and I are in charge of getting sandwiches, so we decide to order from the deli counter at our local grocery store to save some time and money, rather than buying ingredients and making them ourselves. The store offers two types of meat: ham and turkey, or you can order a mix of the two. My mother-in-law’s family has ham for every family get together, but some of my husband’s generation doesn’t eat it. It’s not a strict dietary requirement or religious thing; they just don’t like it. I order two batches — one ham and one turkey. When I go to pick it up, the deli worker brings two boxes, one almost comically huge, and one regular-sized donut box.)

Me: “These were supposed to be the same size orders.”

Deli Worker: “All of the sandwiches are there. They didn’t all fit in the big box, so the extras went in the little box.”

Me: “They were supposed to be separate. There were two orders: one turkey, one ham.”

Deli Worker: “Oh, we always mix them together unless you add a note that you don’t want that.”

Me: “Why would I add a note when I ordered them separate? There’s an option to have them mixed, and I didn’t order that; I ordered them separate.”

Deli Worker: “No, you ordered them together.” *pulls out my order* “See? One ham and one turkey, on the same order.”

Me: “That’s one order, so I only have to pay once. That’s not ordering them mixed together. I have people who won’t eat the ham; I didn’t want them to have to dig through to find the sandwich they want.”

Deli Worker: “You know, I’m having a really hard day, and you’re making it worse. Do you just want a manager?”

Me: “I do now.”

(The manager comes, and I try to explain. At this point, I’m more upset that the deli worker blamed me for not being specific enough, and then for making her day harder, and I’m near tears from frustration.)

Me: “I don’t have time for you to fix the sandwiches here; I have to go. I’ll deal with it. I just want to make sure that in the future they don’t just get mixed unless they’re actually ordered that way. And I definitely don’t think it’s okay to blame me for making her day harder.”

(I left and went to the front to pay, where the manager caught up to me and gave a discount while apologizing.)

(I’m in the cash office and answer the phone.)

Me: “[Store], how may I help you?”

Customer: “Do you do home delivery?”

Me: “We personally don’t, but I have a business card for someone who does.” *gives info*

Customer: “Oh, I don’t want her. She charges.”

Me: “Well, yes. I mean, it is her job, so she probably charges for the service.”

Customer: *growing irate* “Well, what am I supposed to do, then? My legs hurt and I’m out of toilet paper!”

Me: “I really don’t know what to tell you, sir.”

Customer: “Well, I guess I’ll just wipe my a** with my hand, then!”

Me: *hangs up*

(I work at a popular candle and fragrance store. I am helping a customer and her daughter with their products. Everything is going fine, and the mother is really polite, until it comes to checking out.)

Customer: “Oh! Do you have any coupons?”

Me: “You can always check your email or [Specific Website]. That’s the only one we accept.”

(We say this because other websites steal our coupons and change the sku for the customer’s transaction to come out as $0. I see that she starts Googling for coupons. She shows me one that I can’t accept.)

Me: “I’m sorry; I can’t take that one. We only accept your email, or [Specific Website].”

(She starts Googling again a few more times, and then gets frustrated at me for not taking other coupons I can’t accept, despite me repeating the only ones we do accept. She throws her bag of products onto the cash-wrap.)

Customer: *angrily* “Then never mind! Just ring my stuff up.”

(I just smile at her and ring all her things. I see that she is getting two large candles, but they’re not the ones for sale. I tell her her total. She looks on the screen to make sure everything is correct. Then she looks up at me.)

Customer: “Why am I paying $22.50 for each candle?!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but it’s the smaller candles for sale.”

(She pushes the candle towards me.)

Customer: “Take it off! I don’t want it!”

(I smiled at her and told her I would happily do that for her. Her daughter looked at me, embarrassed, and I just smiled at her. Her mom swiped her card and tried walking away. I told her that she had to answer a few questions. After she was done, she walked away angrily, leaving her receipt, her daughter, and her bag of products. She yelled for her daughter to grab her things as she walked out the door. A few weeks later, she came in again and didn’t make eye contact with me.)

(I work in a university cafe, so we often get large takeaway orders for an office of people. One woman comes straight to the counter in a hurry while I’m just drying my hands at the sink.)

Customer: “I need one mocha trim, long black, decaf soy latte…”

(She lists about 10 or 12 coffees, ordered at triple speed. I run over to the counter at about the fourth coffee and start frantically trying to log into the till and input the coffees.)

Me: “I’m sorry, can you please slow down a little and repeat those orders?”

Customer: “I just told you what I wanted; I can’t remember them all!”

Me: “Okay… I picked up on a long black, two mochas, three lattes… What sizes and what milk were for these?”

Customer: “Well, how should I know? They’re not all for me!”

Me: “Um… Well, do you have the orders written down? We wouldn’t want anyone to miss out.”

Customer: “God! Of course I don’t! And I’m not going all the way back to the office to get the orders again! Can you just make what I already told you?!”

Me: “I’m really sorry, but I didn’t catch everything you ordered. If you could please get the order again, written down, I can give you a free coffee card for your trouble.”

(The woman rolled her eyes in a huff and snatched the free coffee card from my hand as she went to walk up one flight of stairs to the office to retake everyone’s orders. Unfortunately, this is a recurring issue and nobody ever seems to learn from the first time.)