A customer comes up to the register, and I go over to help.

Customer: “Can I get a plain scone?”

Me: “We only have blueberry and orange.”

Customer: “I really wanted a plain scone.”

Me: “I have blueberry scones and orange scones.”

This time, I also point out each scone as I say the flavor. The customer walks to the other side of the (small-ish) case and points at the croissants.

Customer: “That’s the one I want.”

Me: “So, the croissant?”

Customer: “What? What’s that?”

Me: “That is a croissant.”

Customer: “Yes, the plain one! It’s right there!”

I start to ring her up so I can bag up the croissant while she pays, and as she’s walking back to the register, she says to me:

Customer: “I think you were getting confused!”

Not my fault you don’t know a croissant from a scone!

It’s the very last shift of my two-week notice from a pizza shop. The owner of the shop is a family friend whom I’ve known my entire life. He’s often called me “the son he never had”, so you could say I could get away with a lot. However, I’ve been nothing but an exemplary employee since day one.

We have a customer who is best described as difficult. He loves to call at the last minute to place an order for delivery. Due to being understaffed, for the last two hours, we only have one employee, so we stop doing deliveries and have pick-up only.

He’ll say his order and address and then hang up. When we don’t show up within five minutes (he’s a twenty-minute drive from us), he’ll call back and shout through the phone. He’ll demand a free pizza to be delivered the next morning. The owner is, sadly, a bit of a pushover and always caves in.

I’ve just finished cleaning and closing everything up a bit early. It’s my last thirty minutes, and I have zero f***s left to give. Then, the phone rings…

Me: “Hello, this is [Pizza Place]. How can I help you?”

Caller: “I’d like a large Hawaiian, stuffed crust, delivered to [address].”

Me: “Sir, as we have told you many times, we do not deliver after—”

Caller: *Click*

I hang up the phone slowly and stare at it with eyes full of fire. I feel like I don’t even blink. I only count the seconds leading up to five minutes. Of course, at five minutes on the f****** dot, the burdening chime of the ringtone starts up. I pick it up slowly. My hands shake as my soul prepares to check out. I don’t even say my opening greeting.

Caller: “I ordered a pizza from you half an hour ago! You people are always late! I don’t know why I even waste my time with you! I demand a free pizza delivered to me tomorrow at 8:00 am!”

Something snaps in my brain. I can feel a personality that I buried deep down finally claw its way out. A psychotic grin forms on my face as I hold the phone to my ear.

Me: “Nope.” *Click*

I hang up and continue my evil grin, staring at nothing. The phone rings not even thirty seconds later.

Caller: “Did you just f****** hang up on me?!”

Me: “Yep.” *Click*

I lean against the counter and light up a mental cigarette, so to speak. I start to eat a pizza I made myself for dinner. The phone rings again on cue after my first bite. 

Me: *Chewing food loudly* “Whatchu want?”

Caller: “Are you f****** kidding me?! How dare you?! I’m going to file a complaint and have your dumb a*** fired!”

I channel Walter White with a crotch grab.

Me: “How about you go ahead and file my BALLS, TOO!” *Click*

I start shadowboxing in place. The phone rings again, which I ignore. I sit down and enjoy my pizza for the remainder of my shift. His calls are coming in nonstop. Naturally, I ignore them all. Finally, at the very last minute, as I’m walking out, I answer.

Me: “Eat a d**k, [Customer].” *Click*

The next day, I get a call from the owner.

Owner: “So, I received a troubling complaint this morning. Did you by chance take a call from [Customer]?”

Me: “Nope.”

Owner: *Short pause* “Well, good enough for me! I wish you all the best in the future, and there’s always a job here waiting for you if you need it!” *Click*

I do not condone my behavior as an employee — unless you are absolutely sure you will one hundred percent get away with it!

A cat showed up on my front porch one day and invited itself in, going right for the sunny spot on the top of my couch. I set it up in my bathroom with what I had on hand and reached out to my township through Facebook. 

Me: “Hi, neighbors. Does anyone recognize this cat? I think it’s a fixed male, but I didn’t get a long look. He invited himself into my house today and is currently in my bathroom. I will take him for a microchip scan when the vet opens on Monday and go from there if no one can provide proof of ownership.”

The comments are the same replies people seem to put on every post. “Prayers it finds its way home!” “So sad!” “I hope the family sees this!” But there’s nothing that gives me any real answers. Then, this neighbor chimes in, sending me a private message. 

Neighbor: “Why are you trying to rehome that cat?”

Me: “Oh, sorry, I’m not trying to rehome him. He actually showed up today. Someone may be missing him, and I would hate to be the person standing in the way of reuniting a pet with their family.”

Neighbor: “Okay, no need to get an attitude about it. I’m just asking a question.”

Me: “I wasn’t.”

Neighbor: “Yeah, you were. All I did was ask why you’re trying to rehome your cat, and you act like this.”

Me: “It’s not my cat. It showed up today, and I am trying to find out where it came from.”

Neighbor: “You can stop being rude to me.”

Me: “I wasn’t, but I can stop talking to you.”

I put my phone down and walked away. He kept going in this vein for several more messages before blocking me. I could have blocked him, but I decided to just let him talk to himself and burn out whatever was bothering him. I never did find the cat’s family, so he now lives with me.

A woman had me use her photo as part of her new ad. She paid for some touch-ups with Photoshop, so I sent her the new picture.

Client: “I look great! Is there any way you can make my breasts a little larger, though?”

I thought it an odd request but proceeded anyway. However, she still wasn’t satisfied with the second, or even the third copy. However, once I sent the fourth, I got an angry email.

Client: “Why did you make my breasts so big?! I look like a bimbo!”

I then showed her the numerous requests she had sent me. I got another email shortly after.

Client: “Sorry for the confusion. The first draft is fine. My husband decided to answer my emails for me.”

I work in a library. I was out on medical leave for a few months and was massively anxious about returning to work without having fully healed and how it would affect my ability to help patrons. I made it back to work and had my first desk shift in months.

A man needed help downloading and printing something. I gave him several suggestions about how to proceed when he interrupted me.

Patron: “The other girl who helped me did something different.”

He would reference this “other girl” several times.

Me: “I’m sorry, I’m confused. No children work in the building, so I’m not sure who could have been helping you in the past.”

Patron: *Stammering* “Well, you know, like a bigger, older girl.”

Me: “Do you mean a woman?”

Patron: “Well, yeah, that’s just what I call ’em…”

He trailed off with what I hoped was shame while I continued to troubleshoot his download. When I finished helping the gentleman, I took a victory lap in the workroom proclaiming that I was back, bay-BEE!