(I have recently been promoted to manager at a popular theater chain. It’s the opening weekend of “The Hunger Games: Catching Fire,” and we’ve been slammed all day. I’m folding kid’s meal trays at the concessions counter with only ten minutes left of my shift when I’m approached by a guest.)

Me: “Hey, did you need some help?”

Guest: *very stern* “Theater one is stiflingly hot!”

(Our auditoriums’ heat and AC units are set on a timer that we adjust. Most of the time, the last shows of the night are less occupied, so we pump the heat to make up for the lack of body heat. This showing is sold out and we have forgotten to adjust the heat, which is our fault.)

Me: “Oh, I’m sor—”

Guest: *pointing finger in my face* “WHY DIDN’T YOU DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT?!”

Me: “I’m really sorry about that; that’s an oversight on our part. Just out of curiosity, did you see the usher enter the theater at any point?”

Guest: “Yeah.”

Me: “If anything’s ever disrupting the film in any way, feel free to flag him down and let him know. That way, you don’t have to miss the feature t—”

Guest: “I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING BECAUSE I FIGURED SOMEONE ELSE WOULD, BECAUSE IT WAS SO HOT!”

(As soon as he says that, I no longer have any sympathy for him.)

Me: “Again, I’m really sorry about that. I’ll adjust the heat right now.”

Guest: “Oh, never mind. The movie’s already over!” *walks away*

(Five minutes later, I’m approached by two other guests.)

Other Guests: “Excuse me, sir. The heat in theater one was really high.”

Me: “I apolo—”

Guest: *walks up from behind the guests, splits them aside, and points a finger at me* “I TOLD HIM ABOUT IT AND HE SAID HE COULDN’T DO ANYTHING!”

Me: *patience all but gone* “Do you want a readmission ticket? Is that what you want?!”

Guest: “Well, yes! I think I deserve one! And so do these people! Everyone in auditorium one should get one!”

(Luckily, all 160 people from theater one weren’t standing in the lobby, or I would’ve had to give them all one. So, I left and grabbed three readmission tickets. I handed the man one and he headed for the door, still complaining loudly as he left. A couple minutes later, I was approached by yet another group of guests, who were also upset about the heat, but voiced their concerns in a calm, rational manner. I gave them three readmission tickets a piece just for being human beings about it.)

(I’m very easy-going; I avoid confrontation. My coworker is a very outspoken country girl who’s not afraid to say what’s on her mind. I work in a warehouse for an organic soap company. During November and December it gets very cold — double-layers cold. My coworkers and I bring in a small space heater to have around so we’re not freezing our a**es off. One day, the owner comes in to check how things are going. Nothing seems unusual, until she sees the space heater.)

Owner: “You can’t have that here”

Coworker: “Why? It’s freezing!”

Owner: “It’s wasting electricity! Unplug it!

(We’re all upset by this, but what can we do? Later on in the day, my coworker and I go into the main office to ask for some order forms. We walk in, and I almost have to start shedding layers. They have THREE heaters going. My coworker and I share a look; we can’t believe it. Finally, we get to the owner’s office, and what do we see under her desk? A space heater, bigger than the one we were using!)

Coworker: “[Owner], we need the order forms.”

Owner: “Oh, I have those here. Hang on.”

(She’s digging around in drawers.)

Me: “It’s warm in here.”

Owner: “Oh, I know! I just bought this lovely heater, because my feet get cold no matter how high I turn the thermostat.”

Me: “Yeah, it does get pretty cold, especially in the warehouse.”

Owner: “Oh, I know. I try to avoid going down there because it’s so cold. I don’t know how you all handle it so well.”

Coworker: *eye twitches*

Owner: “I wish I could get everyone a personal space heater, but sadly we just don’t have the budget this month. I just can’t figure out why the energy bill is so high. Oh, here’s the order sheet.)

(I had to drag my coworker out of the office before she got herself fired.)

(I work as a cashier at a hardware store, and where I work, we sell the big jugs of water that you would put in a water dispenser. People can bring in their empty bottles and get new ones in order to not have to pay a bottle deposit. One night, a lady brings in four empty water jugs and proceeds to start carrying out the new bottles before paying for them.)

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you have to pay for those before you can load them in your car.”

Customer: *looks quite appalled* “Well, are you going to remember that those are mine?”

(I look around; she is the only customer in the store.)

Me: “Yes, ma’am, I can remember that.”

(The customer goes to pick out a few more items and returns to the cash moments later.)

Me: “How are you doing today?”

Customer: “Honestly, I am quite offended.”

Me: “Oh…” *finishes ringing through her transaction* “Have a great evening.”

Customer: *scoffs*

(She literally got mad because I asked her not to shoplift?)

(When you come to pick up a prescription, I have to make sure it’s going to the right person or I get written up and, if I get written up enough times, lose my job. This particular pharmacy asks that we verify the address on file, but if they don’t know it, I’ll usually take some other manner of verification if necessary. It’s late, and there’s an hour and a half left to go of a seven-hour day, and all I want to do is go home, so I admit I’m a bit tired. A guy comes up who couldn’t be more than 22, I’d guess, and I smile and go to the register, asking him who he’s picking up for.)

Guy: “My girlfriend.”

Me: “Okay. What’s her name?”

Guy: “[First Name].”

(I need a last name in particular to search, and unfortunately most of the younger crowd usually never give their last name unless prompted. I have no idea why.)

Me: “What’s her last name?”

Guy: “[Last Name].”

(I go over to get it, which doesn’t take long, and return.)

Me: “And what’s her address, please?”

(He gives me this look like I’ve told him that the sky is green or that he’s standing on his head.)

Guy: “I’ve picked up before and they’ve never, ever asked me for her address before.”

(Then he clearly hasn’t picked up for her before at this pharmacy, because we always ask for the address. I say it so often that even when I’m doing things that don’t require it, I sometimes end up saying the words. Sometimes I end up asking them their address before I ask their name, before I can stop myself.)

Me: “Um… We always ask for the address.”

Guy: “No one has ever asked me before!”

Me: “Well, sometimes if you don’t know it, we’ll try another way to verify. Do you know it?”

Guy: “No!”

Me: “Okay, what’s her date of birth?”

(That, he knows. He tells that to me and I’m assured that I have the right person. A new law was passed in July that on certain types and classes of medicines, I now have to ask for a form of ID and enter it into the computer. What he’s picking up falls into that class.)

Me: “I need to see your ID, please.”

Guy: “Why?”

Me: “It’s the law as of the first of July. I have to have an ID.”

Guy: “Does that mean I have to get hers from the car?”

Me: “No, I need yours, since you’re picking it up.”

Guy: “But… does that mean I have to get hers?”

Me: “Um… No. I need yours.”

Guy: “I don’t have mine.”

Me: “Then she has to come in and pick it up.”

Guy: “Why can’t I just go get hers and give it to you?”

(Now I can understand his hesitancy. There’s a big storm that has been going on all day, but neither weather nor annoying teenagers are going to make me break the law.)

Me: “Because it’s her license. Whatever license I have has to be for the person picking up. It’s the law.”

(We go back and forth about this for another minute, to the point that my pharmacist has to come over and back me up, telling him that we have to follow all rules and regulations, and if it’s her license, it has be her. He finally goes out to get her and comes back in. I think this is a wonderful opportunity to do my job right now that she’s here.)

Me: “What’s your address?”

Girl: *throws her ID on the counter* “On file.”

Me: *blink*

(I’ve never had a customer refuse to give their address. Sometimes they’ll pretend to give me a hard time or forget some of the numbers, but I’ve never had someone give me a smart a** remark about it being “on file,” because most have the intelligence to realize that there’s a reason I’m asking for it and it’s most certainly not to hear myself talk. I want to keep my job.)

Me: “I’m sorry; we ask that for verification. If you don’t know yo—”

Girl: *interrupts snottily* “I know my address. It’s [address].”

(She picked up her license from the counter and proceeded to throw it again. I decided I’d had enough of dealing with the twat that was clearly just too lazy to come in and sent her boyfriend in for her, since I could see no legitimate reason for her not to come in besides the rain. And part of me wanted a little bit of revenge for these people half my age giving me a hard time, so I took my time, every bit of it that I could, prolonging the transaction just because they were antsy. As they left, she shot me a glare, snatched up her prescription, and then went to the industrial scale nearby that people use to measure weight and proceeded to jump up and down on it once or twice before leaving.)

(I am out grocery shopping with my father. As we get in line at the deli counter, we briefly talk about what to make for dinner that night. I then go to grab a few things from a nearby aisle while my father waits for our order. A woman who has presumably been standing within earshot follows me. Two important things to note here: one, my mother — who passed away when I was a teenager — was white, but my father is Native American; two, because my father has fairly dark skin, people sometimes assume he’s African-American, instead. It seems to be random whether or not people can tell that I’m of mixed heritage, so occasionally I’ve gotten surprised reactions from pointing out my father in a crowd, but THIS is definitely a first.)

Woman: *approaches me, leans in, says in a hushed tone* “You really shouldn’t be dating older Black men.”

(There are about a dozen things I want to say in response, but unfortunately, I suffer from social anxiety and am very, very bad with face-to-face confrontations, so all I can do is stare at her with my mouth slightly open in shock before managing to respond.)

Me: “That’s my father.”

Woman: *long pause* “Oh.” *quickly walks away*

(I didn’t tell my father because of the awkwardness of having someone assume we were dating, although I later recounted the story to my brothers, who found it to be hilarious. But seriously, on top of everything else wrong with what she said, why did she immediately think that an almost sixty-year-old man and a college student MUST be romantically involved just because they talked about what to make for dinner?)

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