Some years ago I worked as a bookkeeper and accountant in a supermarket. We had the usual amount of “shrinkage” of our inventory, occasionally catching someone in the act but otherwise accepting the 1-2% loss.

In January 2005, we upgraded our inventory system, adding in self-checkout lanes. Things went along without a hitch for the first few months but then our shrinkage rate jumped. In terms of a gross percentage it was still low, but we operated on such a small margin that it pushed us closer to the red than we’d like. My boss asked me to figure it out.

Because of the new system, I could do data pulls any way I wanted. It took me a day to find that the principal loss came from the butcher shop. Prime cuts of meat were entered into the system with UPC barcodes on them but never showed up as being purchased or discarded. These were $20 to $40 (or more) items mysteriously vanishing.

At first, management suspected the butcher staff, but increased security and stern warnings did not slow the pilferage and it was clear that they were not the problem. We upgraded security near the checkouts, but no one was walking out with meat under their shirts.

Although it wasn’t my job, I put some time in on the problem. When I did more comparisons of inventory in and out I discovered that dried pinto beans were selling at a rate greater than we bought them. I thought about it and realized the problem was likely the self-checkout. I went to my boss and we added security camera and real-time monitoring of the system.

It turned out to be a family that ran a small BBQ place in town. Their trick was to use the pay station furthest from the observing cashier and cover the barcode, entering the item as weighed produce using the code for beans. They’d bag the meat and a few other small items and walk out with a valid receipt paid in cash.

We confronted them and ended up with a settlement to avoid court. Now that they had to buy their product at normal wholesale prices, they couldn’t make a go of it and went out of business a few months later. And I got a nice bonus.

(My wife is on the phone with her 65-year-old father. He’s normally very intelligent, and not losing his mental faculty at all, but he is notoriously gullible. He’s telling her about a call he had earlier that day with Tech Support. It’s clear to us immediately that he was scammed.)

Wife: *to her father* “But you barely use your computer. Why would it have a bunch of viruses?” *listens to him speak* “But your computer was working fine.” *listens to him speak* “[Software Company] called you?” *listens to him speak* “It was a fake website, Dad. It’s just made to trick people by showing error messages and warnings about viruses.” *listens to him speak* “Please tell me you didn’t give him your credit card number!”

Me: “Give me the phone; I’ll explain it to him.” *takes phone*

Father-In-Law: “It wasn’t a scam. He said they found viruses, but he fixed the computer. He was really nice; his name was Mike.”

(My father-in-law used to work as a car mechanic until his recent retirement.)

Me: “Let me ask you one thing. Did your boss ever send you out to check the tire pressure for your clients at their own homes?”

Father-In-Law: “No.”

Me: “Did you ever drive around to your clients to check their oil without even asking them?”

Father-In-Law: “No, that’s silly.”

Me: “Right. It’s their car. They’re responsible for it, not you. And your boss couldn’t afford to pay you to check on everyone else’s cars for free. Right?”

Father-In-Law: “Of course.”

Me: “So, why would [Software Company] pay someone to check your computer for viruses when you never even asked them to? How many people would they need to employ to check on everyone with a computer?”

Father-In-Law: *in total surprise* “I think I’ve been scammed.”

(He called his bank, and they had already taken $1200. I seriously hate scammers.)

(My brother and I own a small bake shop. We give a discount to students, but people are always trying to scam us to get the discount when they don’t deserve it.)

Me: “Okay, your total is [amount].”

Customer: “But what about the discount?”

Me: “Are you a student?”

Customer: “No.”

Me: “Then you don’t get one.”

Customer: “What about the family discount?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Customer: “The owner’s my kid brother. Family gets a discount here. Didn’t they tell you when they hired your stupid a**?”

Me: “One sec.” *turns towards the kitchen* “Yo! [Brother]! Come out here for a sec.”

(My brother, who is 6’5″ and built like a train, comes out and towers over my “brother” and me.)

Brother: “What?”

Me: “Apparently, I’m not the eldest. Meet our older brother.”

(The customer is starting to look pretty nervous now.)

Me: “Now, he’s our brother, and we should treat him with respect, but apparently, I didn’t do a good enough job explaining the discount. Could you assist?”

(My brother has a slight language disorder, so he doesn’t mince his words, and he does not suffer fools gladly. Now very grumpy, he turns towards our would-be brother.)

Brother: “Is he a student?”

Me: “Nope!”

([Brother] crouches down and looks the customer dead in the eye.)

Brother: “No. Discount.”

(I’m working in a small, high-end swimwear store. For reasons that I hope are obvious, we have a very strict “all sales final” policy on swimwear. Naturally, this policy doesn’t always go over well with our clientele, who are mostly middle-aged women with a lot of money and even more free time. On this particular day, the owner of the store is working in the office while I’m assisting customers. A woman in her 50s comes in with a plastic bag and makes a beeline for the register.)

Me: “Hello, how can I help you today?”

Customer: “I need to return this!”

(I cringe hearing the word “return,” but I take the bag from her and open it anyway. Sure enough, it’s a swimsuit, and one that we definitely have not sold in the six months that I’ve been with the company. The wrinkled tags and a crumpled, faded receipt are stapled to one of the straps.)

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t take this return.”

Customer: *instantly angry* “Why not?!”

Me: “We have a no-return policy on swimsuits; it says so right here on the receipt, and on signs throughout the store.”

Customer: “Well, surely you can make an exception. I never wore it so it’s as good as new, right?”

(I take the suit out of the bag and examine it more closely. Not only has it clearly been put through a washing machine at least once, but the leg holes and straps are badly stretched out.)

Me: “Ma’am, this has obviously been worn; see how the leg holes have been stretched?”

Customer: “Fine, I wore it, but only once for no more than an hour, and that’s how it looked after! You should give me my money back because it was badly made, definitely not worth the $200 I spent on it! It’s ugly, too. It looked nothing like it did in the advertisement here in the store!”

Me: “Again, ma’am, there’s really nothing I can do. We can’t accept returns on swimwear for sanitary reasons.”

Customer: “Well, how about this? I know the owner of this place, and I’m sure she wouldn’t be too happy to hear how you’re treating one of her oldest friends! I could have you fired, b****. What do you think of that?”

(At that moment, the owner leans out of the office behind me.)

Owner: “I think I’m not going to fire one of my most reliable employees for enforcing my policies. I also think that if you bought that suit expecting to look like the 20-something model in the advertisement in it, you’re a d*** fool and you deserve to be out $200; you didn’t even look like that when you were in your 20s!”

(The woman gapes at her for a moment before storming out, leaving the swimsuit behind. The owner picks it up, puts it back in the bag, and drops it in the trash before turning to me.)

Owner: “I’m sorry about her. I’ve known her since college and we’re still in the same social circles but we have never been friends. She was a stuck-up b**** then, and she’s a stuck-up b**** now.”

Me: “I can’t even begin to imagine how she thought that she was going to pass that off as new!”

Owner: “No doubt she was counting on you being as dumb as she is.”

(My husband and I are walking down a street of bars and restaurants popular with local university students. It’s fairly unusual to see panhandlers in this part of town. We are approached by a middle-aged woman who looks like she’s been crying.)

Woman: “Excuse me. I’m so sorry, but my car broke down and I can’t get home. Someone called me a taxi but I can’t pay them. Can you help me?”

(My husband and I are always uncomfortable in these situations because we have a lot of sympathy for people who are down on their luck, but there are also a lot of scammers out there, and it can be difficult to tell the two apart.)

Me: “Um, I’m sorry, but neither of us really carry cash, so…”

(We go back and forth with the woman for a few minutes — “Don’t you have a little change?” “Can you go to an ATM?” — because unfortunately, neither my husband nor I have the blunt social skills to be good at exiting these types of situations. I see a taxi pull up. The driver and I make eye contact. He looks at me, looks at the woman, and slowly shakes his head. The woman also sees this.)

Woman: *now screaming* “You won’t help me because I’m [race]! That taxi driver is [same race] and he won’t even help me! I just need a way home! Help me, help me, help!”

(She is now full-on sobbing and screaming in the middle of a busy sidewalk. Extremely uncomfortable but not wanting to be confrontational, I finally mumble, “Sorry,” and pull my husband away. We had plans to meet friends in a bar on that street, but I’m fairly shaken up so we just end up going home. Fast forward a few months. We’re walking down that same street, and I spot the same woman on a cell phone. The closer we get, the louder she begins to talk, something about a broken down vehicle and calling a taxi. She hangs up just we are passing by because our car is parked on the street right next to her.)

Woman: *calling out to us cheerfully and clearly not recognizing us* “Hello, lovely couple!”

Both Of Us: “No, thank you!” *jumps in car and leaves*

(If you’re going to scam people, at least change your story often enough that the taxi driver won’t call you out in front of the same exact people you try to scam a few months later.)