I’m female. When I was a teenager, I joined a non-profit organization that my dad belonged to. We were having our regular meeting at a house. After the meeting, we had food. Our hosts had laid out a nice salad bar on the kitchen table. Next to the table, two older male members of the group were deep in conversation. I grabbed a paper plate and leaned close to the men to get to some of the salad fixings. 

Still talking, without even looking at me, [Man] grabbed my plate and started loading ingredients onto it. He never once addressed me or asked me what I wanted on my salad. 

I was about eighteen at the time and not very confrontational, so I just got another plate and fixed the salad I wanted. As I left the kitchen, I saw that he’d launched back into his conversation, seemingly oblivious that I was leaving or that he was still holding a plate of salad. The other man, who was a bit more aware of things, looked as bewildered as I felt. 

Half an hour later, [Man] came looking for me. 

Man: “Hey, isn’t this your salad?”

Me: “Um, no. It was, but then you took it and started putting your own toppings on it. I just started over and got the toppings I wanted. Go ahead and eat it, if you want.”

He looked so confused.

Fast forward to another meeting at the same house. Again, [Man] was in deep conversation with someone else, this time near the kitchen sink. I stepped up next to them to pour myself some tap water. Without pausing for breath or even looking at me, he grabbed the cup out of my hands and kept on talking.

Me: “Um, excuse me? That’s my cup there. If you need one yourself, you can get it over on the table.”

[Man] looked blankly at me, but at least he was actually looking. I took the cup out of his hand.

Fast forward again to another meeting. This one ended with cake. I was asked to cut slices, so I picked up the knife to start. Here came [Man] sidling up to me, talking to someone else over his shoulder while reaching out to grab the knife out of my hands. This time, I held on tightly. There were kids (whom I often babysat) running around, and I was not about to let him wrench a knife out of my grip — possibly injuring me and others in the process.

Me: “[Man]! What are you doing?”

He stopped talking and looked at me, surprised.

Me: “You do not take knives out of people’s hands like that! That is dangerous! If you want something, you ask for it! You don’t just grab it!”

He again looked blank. 

Me: “Do you want a piece of cake?”

Man: “Yes?”

I spoke sternly, as if he was one of the kids.

Me: “Then go sit down and wait.”

He sat down and waited. He got his piece last. And he never gave me trouble again.

It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’ve walked into a sandwich shop. The chain restaurant is apparently not expecting any customers at this time of day; my biggest clue is the music blasting at rock-concert levels out of the restaurant speakers. I’m the only customer, and the only employee is sitting on the back counter next to the drive-thru window. He hasn’t noticed me enter. He is intently focused on the phone in his hands, pulling it apart and closely inspecting each part. Perhaps it has water damage; I don’t know.

I wait for him to notice me. He doesn’t look up. The song blaring on the speakers ends, and another begins right after it. I yell to get his attention, but the music drowns me out. I wave. I walk along the counter, hoping the movement will draw his eye. I try to shift into his sight line to no avail. It is hilarious to me that the only thing standing between me and a tasty sandwich is an inattentive employee taking a long moment to chill. I could leave, but I’m invested now in seeing how much longer this can go.

I’m not sure why he looks up. When he does, his eyes bulge comically. I giggle as he rushes over to take my order. The poor guy is embarrassed.

I think I spent seven or eight minutes waiting for him to notice me. Finally, I get my sandwich, and the free entertainment makes it all the more delicious.

I’m positioned out in the garden center. I have a bit of a line, and all of the customers have a decent number of items. A man with no cart or items walks up and stands a short distance away from the line. I give my current customer her total, and the man interrupts, pulling out a store return-funds card.

Man: “I got it. I’ll pay for it.” *Gestures to the next people in line* “You, too. I’ll pay for you.”

We all thank him profusely, but he just shrugs and rolls his eyes.

Man: “Well, it’s not like I can use it.”

That explained his generosity, then; he didn’t shop at my store often enough for the card to actually be of any value to him. He continued instructing me to use the card, finally saying that I could just use it until it ran out, and then he huffed out, grumbling to himself.

It’s the most generous thing I’ve ever seen a p*ssed-off person do.

I sometimes find myself stuttering or forgetting words, much to my embarrassment (especially at work!), but I can also laugh it off almost every time. I have one such moment with a customer, recover, and finish the transaction to their satisfaction. I then greet the next customer, who has no cart and is instead tightly carrying an armful of flowers and trying not to drop any.

Customer: “I think I have eight?”

She counts as she puts them down and then chuckles.

Customer: “Six. Looks like I can’t do math!”

Me: *Grinning broadly* “That’s okay. I can’t speak English, and it’s the only language I know!”

Customer: *Abruptly stern* “Everybody speaks English.”

Me: *Chuckling* “Oh, yeah, I know. I was just—”

Customer: “If you work here, you speak English. If you want to live here, learn English.”

I put on my best and brightest Retail Smile, nodded along with her rant, and provided a few “uh-huh”s and “yep!”s while hoping she didn’t notice that my expression didn’t change AT ALL through the “conversation”.

She had almost definitely heard me stumbling over my own tongue with the previous customer, but apparently, the moment I said, “…can’t speak English,” it was time to slip into Racism Mode.

Lady, get a life. Yeah, speaking FLUENT English is a big boost in a country that predominantly speaks English, but have some f****** sympathy for the ones who just haven’t learned how yet, or do know but have strong accents.

I’m female and rather well-endowed in the chest area. This is about to become relevant. 

A customer comes in, and as we are discussing products, he gets a little confused by the image on my shirt, which is almost completely obscured by my work vest. I explain what it actually is and then decide to show him the full thing which, of course, requires unzipping my vest and pulling it open.

Customer: “Oh! You didn’t have to; you could have just told me. But… uh… sorry if this sounds rude or creepy, but… those are glorious.”

I find myself facing three options:

• Tell him off.
• Threaten to call a manager.
• Roll with it, because they ARE some pretty bodacious bazongas.

I’m in a good mood at the time, and I’m able to joke about myself, so I decide to roll with it, and the customer and I spend a couple of minutes passing jokes back and forth. I come out from behind the register (I forget why), and he gets a little too close into my personal space, but there are points at work where this is pretty much necessary — such as when the self-checkout area gets crowded — so even that doesn’t bother me too much. 

The customer walks off after a while, and I think that’s pretty much the end of it. I don’t have any other customers to worry about right now, and I have a coworker behind the second register, so I stay out in the open trying to figure out if there’s any actual work to be done and how to creatively avoid said possible work.

A couple of minutes later, the customer comes back.

Customer: “Hey, do you have a tape measure in there?”

He then PULLED THE POCKET OF MY VEST OPEN and pretended to look inside, slid something in, and then left the store entirely.

Boob jokes are one thing, but he had just physically yanked at my clothes, and I was so shocked and furious that he was gone by the time I recovered. The thing he’d put in my vest was a $20 bill, and I laughed with my coworker about being paid for having great boobs, but if that guy ever shows up again, I’m telling him off and refusing him service.

Thankfully, the pockets are at my waist, not chest height, or I’d have lost my job for punching him.