I am a bouncer checking IDs at a club entrance. I am also Asian.

Customer: “I forgot mine, but I’m obviously over twenty-one.”

Me: “Sorry, but I can’t let you in without ID.”

Customer: “Ni-hao?”

Me: “What?”

Customer: “Konnichiwa?”

Me: “I can’t—”

Customer: “Annyeonghaseyo?”

Me: “Sir, you need to—”

Customer: “Selamat.”

Me: “Oh, no. You have used the secret password. Now I have to let you in.”

Customer: *Eyes wide* “Really?”

Me: “No! Sayonara!”

I work in a bank. I am Latina; I don’t look it, but my last name gives it away every time. A woman on her cell phone sweeps into the branch and plants herself at my desk.

Me: “Hi! What can I—”

The woman gives me the “hold on” finger and continues talking on her phone for several minutes. I take this time to finish up some paperwork. The woman finally hangs up.

Me: “What can I help—”

Customer: “Finally! Okay, here’s what I want. I want an account that I can access with a debit card, but I don’t want a checking account. No one else can do it for me, so I don’t expect you to do it, either.”

Me: “Well, ma’am, our debit cards are for checking accounts. I could get you a savings account with an ATM card. Additionally, I’d recommend one of our reloadable cards. It’s not a debit card, but you can transfer money from the savings account to the card through online banking, so it acts like one.”

The customer’s phone rings. She waves me off and picks it up again. I go back to my paperwork as she chats for several more minutes. She finally hangs up again.

Customer: “Did you open that account for me yet?”

Me: “Ma’am, I—”

Customer: “I knew you couldn’t help me. I’ll go somewhere else.”

She gets up and grabs her things. She glances over at my nameplate.

Customer: “[Last Name]? Is that you?”

Me: “Yes, that’s me.”

Customer: “Let me guess, you’re married to a Spanish man and you think—”

I stare her down.

Me: “I may not look it, but I assure you that I am Spanish. My grandparents came from [Country], to be more specific. Now, I’m sorry we couldn’t help you. Have a nice day.”

The customer sits back down and puts her phone away. She smiles at me.

Customer: “[Country]? Really?”

I am now very annoyed, and my face definitely shows it.

Me: “Yes.”

Customer: “I’ve never met anyone with roots in [Country] before. I love it when more diversity comes to town!”

Me: “…what?”

Customer: “Tell me more about that account. I think I want it.”

I raise an eyebrow, as her demeanor has completely changed. I repeat my account recommendation word for word, only this time…

Customer: “That’s brilliant. I’ll take everything you suggested.”

I am extremely confused, but I do need the sales points, so I open the account and the cards. The customer continues to lay on the compliments, saying how smart I am for thinking of that solution, how great my customer service is, etc. She signs the paperwork, thanks me profusely, and exits.

Me: “What the…”

The supervisor on duty comes over.

Supervisor: “What on earth just happened?”

Me: “I don’t even know.”

This story takes place pre-[health crisis]. I’m doing a wire transfer for one of our regulars. He’s an older, fairly cranky lawyer who likes to pace back and forth rather than sit down and wait for a transaction to be completed. I called out sick yesterday and am back at work due to my boss giving me a guilt trip, but I am slowly realizing that I should’ve taken a second day off. I have a horrible cough and body aches.

I’m filling out the paperwork when I feel the urge to cough. I turn away from the customer, grab a tissue, cough into it, toss the tissue, pop a cough drop in my mouth, sanitize my hands, and get back to work.

Me: “Just another minute, [Regular], and I’ll have your wire ready to call in.”

I look up and notice that he’s stopped pacing. He’s looking at me with actual concern.

Regular: “I heard you cough. Are you okay?”

Me: “Oh, I’m fine. Just a little cold.”

Regular: “Why are you working?!”

Me: “Well, sometimes you gotta go to work even if you don’t feel all that great.”

Regular: “No, no. This won’t do. You should be at home with a cup of tea and a good movie. Is [Manager] here? She can do my wire. I’m going to tell her to send you home.”

Before I can respond, he marches over to my manager’s desk, says something that I can’t quite hear, points at me, and waves his arms around. My boss gestures at him to sit down. He shakes his head, says something else, and starts pacing again. My boss comes over to my desk with a ferocious scowl.

Boss: “Why are you telling people you’re sick?”

Me: “I coughed; he asked.”

Boss: “And now he’s over at my desk throwing a fit because he thinks I made you come in sick!”

Me: “I didn’t tell him that. But, I mean, technically, you did—”

Boss: “Don’t start with me!”

I start coughing again.

Boss: “I give up! Go home!”

Me: “And you won’t guilt-trip me if I’m still sick tomorrow?”

Boss: “Not if you go home right now.”

Me: “You’ve got a deal.”

I grabbed my purse and walked out the door. The regular shouted, “Atta girl!” as I was exiting.

I felt worse the next day, so I went to my doctor. I had the flu and bronchitis. I was out for a full week.

I’ve been hunting for a job in my field, having posted my resume on job search websites.

I get a call from someone who has a job for me in a city over an hour’s drive away. I’m very confused, and something seems off, so I ask the lady to confirm who I am talking to.

Lady: “I’m calling from [Placement Agency].”

Me: “I think there’s been some sort of mistake. I’m not signed up with any placement agency, much less [Placement Agency].”

Lady: “Oh, no mistake. We found your resume on [Job Site]. So, we’d like to set up an interview with [Non-Medical Company]’s corporate site, and we’ll only take a cut of your paycheck for—”

Me: “Whoa, hold on a second. First of all, I don’t have a contract with you to help me find a job. Second of all, I have no idea who your company even is, so I have no idea why I would take your advice or let you have any of my money. Thirdly, as my resume clearly states, I’m applying for Medical Administrative jobs.”

“Medical Administrative” is just big words for the person at the front desk who checks you in or creates your healthcare files when you sign up with the doctor’s office for care, among other tasks.

The lady is silent for a beat and then turns up the snobbery.

Lady: “Oh. We don’t handle jobs in the medical field. We place clients in corporate positions.”

Me: “Then why did you even call me? You didn’t even read my resume, clearly.”

She is silent for another beat and then says in a snotty tone:

Lady: “I see you’re wasting our time. I’ll be ending this call and removing your resume from our potential candidates.”

Click.

I just sat there in silent frustration and disgust.

I am working the cash register at a pharmacy with a corner store attached. This elderly customer approaches the register. As it’s early morning on a Monday, the store is dead.

Me: “Find everything you’re looking for?”

He stops dead in his tracks and looks at me like a French bulldog looks at a steak.

Customer: “As a matter of fact, no. I want to get a bottle of multi-vitamins, and they’re locked up.”

Now, normally, I would leap at a chance to leave the penalty box that is the front register. However, the vitamin lockbox is the one lockbox that only the manager has a key for — the exactly one key, so that’s never a point of failure.

I put on my apologetic face.

Me: “Oh, I am sorry, sir. If you go back to the case, there is a Customer Service button. Hit that and the person with the keys will come to help.”

Instead of smiling and going to do as I suggested, he chooses to get indignant.

Customer: *Grumpily* “What? Why can’t you help me?”

I do my best to repress a heavy sigh.

Me: “Because, sir, I do not have the key for that box.”

So he grumbles the whole way, something like, “Razza-fragga, I’m a veteran. Grumble-mumble, I’m no thief.”

I ignore him and head back to the register to wait for his return.

Eventually, the sound of the service button being pressed is heard overhead. Good. All is right in the world. Right?

Right?

Well, it takes my manager three cycles of the alarm going off before he arrives at the lockbox. I can hear the old man from clear across the store.

Customer: “What took you so d*** long?”

Eventually, the old man makes his way back to my register. This time, having learned my lesson, I do not ask if he found everything. I just go through the normal questions. “Do you want a bag?” “Are you a member of our rewards program?” All those time sinks.

Once he is finished, he snatches the bag off the counter. He again looks me in the face and grumbles:

Customer: “Ya shoulda asked if I found everything.”

I’ve had just about enough of this guy, so I break out… Mr. Nice Guy.

Me: “Oh! Oh, I am so, so sorry, sir! Please excuse me!”

I start to flail my hands around as if I am partially trying to fan off my face.

Me: “I had already asked and I had helped you. I thought you had found everything. Please forgive me, sir.”

The old guy was so unprepared for such a response that he just stood there, blinked, and then slowly walked out of the store.

The power of groveling.