I manage a restaurant. I’m in the dining room when I see a guest berating a server. As I approach, I can see the guest holding a menu and yelling about how “this is overpriced” and “I could buy this at the supermarket for half the price,” etc. The kicker is when she says to the server:

Guest: “You should be ashamed for trying to gouge customers during [the health crisis]!”

I walk over, send the server away and, for the first, most exhilarating time in my life, order the guest to sit down and wait.

Me: “I’ll be right back.”

I went to the kitchen, grabbed my stack of invoices, and went back to the table. I’d love to say that I was able to go item for item with a dish and show how I arrived at the price but, sadly, the guest picked up her bag and left when I asked if she had a calculator. Her visibly embarrassed husband apologized, handed me ten bucks — they hadn’t even ordered yet — and followed her out the door.

Moral of the story: you servers might not be able to be a**holes, but there’s a room full of people in the back who would be happy to do it for you. Respect to you guys, who have the patience of mothers of twelve.

In 2008, I was a young, intrepid stock person at a big box all-purpose store. I had a working knowledge of where pretty much everything was in the store because I was all over the place, but the grocery department had its own stock team specifically, so I wasn’t as knowledgeable there.

I am of Lebanese descent, and I was working in south Florida at the time. For those that don’t know, south Florida has a significant Cuban population, but not so much Middle Eastern folks. I got confused for Cuban all the time because I had the darker skin tone similar to a lot of Cuban folks. I also speak fluent English, Arabic, and French, but I was born and raised in the Midwest, so my accent gives no indication that I might be of Middle Eastern heritage.

On this fine afternoon, I was wheeling an empty tub back to the stock room after having emptied out one department over. Walking through the main aisle next to grocery, I heard an “EXCUSE ME!” It was not rude but definitely not polite, either. I turned to find a woman in a really fancy hijab and jewelry standing there with her husband.

Me: “How can I help you, miss?”

Customer: “I’m looking for [specific item] but I can’t find it.”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not as familiar with the grocery section so I’m not sure where that is. Let me grab one of my colleagues for you. One moment.”

I could see one of the other customer service guys in the grocery section, so I radioed him to come over and help her out.

Me: “He’ll be with you shortly, miss.”

Customer: *Tersely* “Thank you, but I’m in a hurry. I thought you worked here and knew your store.”

Me: “I’m sorry, miss, I don’t really work in this section. [Colleague] is coming right down the aisle now.”

Customer: *To her husband, in Arabic* “They always get these stupid kids to work in these places, but they don’t know how to do their job. This fatso doesn’t know his head from his a**.”

The husband gave the woman a look, probably because he saw my expression turn from my customer service smile to a frown. I was having an internal debate about what to do next when her husband spoke.

Customer’s Husband: *In Arabic* “Stop talking. I think he understood what you said.”

Customer: *In Arabic* “Of course he didn’t. He’s an idiot. He doesn’t know his hands from his feet.”

It’s an Arabic idiom that doesn’t translate well.

Me: *In Arabic* “Actually, I understood every word you said. I don’t appreciate being called fat and stupid. An older lady like you should know better than to insult people trying to help you. Worse, you wear your hijab like a hypocrite, pretending to be devout, yet you abuse your perceived social lessers? You should have some respect for yourself.”

The woman looked like she had been hit by a truck. Her olive skin turned ghost white, and she sputtered at me.

Customer: “You… you speak Arabic?”

Me: *In Arabic* “Obviously, I do. Maybe next time you’ll think before you insult people who help you when you think they can’t understand.”

The woman grabbed her husband’s arm and dragged him out of the store, completely mortified. I could hear her husband yelling at her in Arabic that he’d warned her not to be a b**** all the time, especially when she doesn’t know who understands her. I wasn’t personally that offended, but I won’t deny that it was satisfying to scare some sense into her.

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To help pay the bills until I get called back to work, I got a job as a personal shopper. Our company has us wear black T-shirts with the company logo, but other than that, you can wear pretty much anything you want as long as you look professional.

Yesterday, I got an order at a certain store that requires its employees to wear a red shirt. Luckily, I had been to this particular store many times — both for orders and for myself — and am friendly with most of the staff, including the managers.

This order required me to go through self-checkout. Once I got the all-clear from the employee running the self-checkout lane, I went to one of the closed checkout lanes to bag up the order so I could get it to my car. Again, nothing too unusual.

I was wearing my black company shirt, a nice pair of jeans, a comfortable pair of sneakers, and a thin jacket — not a scrap of red on me — and the light for the checkout lane was turned off.

As I was packing up, I heard an oncoming cart and then the sound of plastic and cardboard. I looked up to see our Friendly Neighborhood Entitled Jerk unloading her three overloaded carts in the closed checkout lane where I was packing things away. I groaned. I knew my friends at this store were going to have a major headache; she wasn’t really paying attention to me and couldn’t see that I was not an employee of this store.

I finished bagging my things and waited for her to make eye contact with me. And when she did, I swear I heard the theme for The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly playing.

She pointed at the register and nodded as if I was a dumb person who didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing. I just picked up my bags, waved at her with a smile, and walked off, leaving her stuck there and me with a new way to get back at the entitled jerks of the world.

But that wasn’t the end. This morning, I decided to go to the store to get my own groceries and bumped into one of the managers. This manager is good at saying, “You’ve pushed my last button; now get the h*** out of here before I go Hulk on you’re a**,” in the most polite way possible. He’s also protective of his employees.

[Manager] happened to see me and came over with a teasing smile. He said, “You know, you caused us a lot of trouble yesterday, [My Name].”

I asked what he meant… and I hope you have the popcorn ready.

[Manager] was on duty yesterday. After I made my dramatic exit, she tried to bully some of the store workers into opening up the register. Unlucky for her, there weren’t enough employees around to open extra registers. Her “squawking” — [Manager]’s words, not mine — soon attracted [Manager]’s attention and he came over.

He hadn’t had the chance to begin his “How may I help you?” spiel when the customer began her tirade about me and how employees really need to deliver, especially in these tough times, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Through her and the worker at the checkout lane, [Manager] figured out what had happened, along with who had offended the customer’s delicate sensitivities. He explained, “Ma’am, that was a personal shopper who is not employed with our company. We leave this register closed so they can pack up their orders. If you want, I’ll help you over to the next register and check you out.”

[Manager] doesn’t like rewarding bad behavior, but some battles just aren’t worth picking.

Now, most normal people would realize their error, apologize profusely to everyone, repack their cart, and go to an open register with meekness and humility. And if she had done that, [Manager] tells me, he would’ve helped her.

Entitled jerks like this one, unfortunately, aren’t most normal people.

The customer decided to puff out her chest and play the weakest card in her hand. “Well, since you’re here and I’m not going to call corporate… do you mind opening up this register and checking me out since I’m already here?” She tried saying this in a sticky-sweet voice, which is one of [Manager]’s pet peeves.

[Manager] looked at her and said in a professional but firm voice, “Ma’am, you’re asking me to check you out of a register dedicated just to personal shoppers, after harassing several employees, after I volunteered to help you move?”

The customer, realizing that she had probably pissed off the one person who had been most willing to help her, slowly reloaded her carts and slunk to an open register. [Manager] watched her to make sure she wouldn’t cause a problem.

She meekly paid for her groceries and left.

I have submitted a few stories about my father-in-law, including this one. My father-in-law is a pretty smart man, especially when it comes to anything construction, and the company he has worked with for several decades really values him.

This story happened back in the early 1970s when he was much younger and my father-in-law would never dream about doing this now.

He was on a job site near a swamp where an alligator was hanging out. My father-in-law always had pets of all kinds and loved to feed anything that came near him. He would bring extra lunch and raw chicken for this almost two-foot-long alligator. This alligator was the darling of the crew and everyone really loved seeing him.

Also on this job site was a thief. My father-in-law would gladly lend out his expensive tools or even give them away to those who really needed them. Apparently, someone on the job site decided to just break into his truck and take the tools without asking and never returned them. My father-in-law bought a new lock and later came back to the truck to find it broken off and another expensive tool gone. This really ticked him off, so he decided to make sure that thief never did it again.

First, my father-in-law backed his truck up in front of a briar patch — very prickly thorny bushes that you don’t want to get into. Next, he went and found the alligator, put him in the back of his truck along with some chicken, and then closed the door.

It took but two hours before the crew heard yelling and screaming from the parking area. They came running and found a very scared and scratched-up man in the bushes and an angry alligator coming out of the back of the truck. The alligator walked back to the swamp, hissing at the thief along the way. The thief, knowing he got caught and looking quite ashamed of himself, went off to get some bandaids for his scratches. There was never any talk about it, but nothing was ever stolen again from anyone on the site.

The alligator still came up to my father-in-law every day at lunchtime waiting to be fed and eventually brought along some friends. My father-in-law said the hardest part about finishing that job was saying goodbye to his “friends.” Every time he was in the area, even decades later, he would stop by that part of the swamp and feed the alligators there. He would actually sit on the bank next to them and they didn’t react at all. There was one that he swore was his old friend that was eight feet long the last time he saw it.

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This Lesson Really Stings, Part 3
This Lesson Really Stings, Part 2
This Lesson Really Stings

I own my own little corner shop. A grumpy old customer comes in to buy cigarettes, and when it’s time to pay, he flings his coins at me instead of handing them to me. I am forced to pick some coins up off the floor.

Customer: “That’s it, [South Asian slur]. On the ground where you belong.”

Me: “Don’t worry, sir. Considering how many of these you’re smoking and how terribly old you look, you’ll be in the ground while I’ll be on it for a long while yet. I’ll even do a little Bollywood dance on your grave.”

Customer: “How dare you!”

Me: “Goodbye, die soon!”

He stormed out as I turned up the Indian music on my radio.

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