Customer: “Yeah, so… do you know what kind of wine Jesus turned the water into? I want to try some of that.” 

I wait, wondering if this is a joke.

Me: “Uh… that’s a new one. I don’t think the Bible was specific.”

Customer: “But you must have some idea. I mean, you’re a wine expert, right?”

Me: “I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but I know about what we have in stock.”

Customer: “Okay, so… you got anything close to ‘Jesus wine’?”

Me: “Well, if you’re looking for something with biblical vibes, a nice red from the Galilee region might be your best bet. Our kosher wine section has some.”

Customer: “Yeah, but… will it, you know…” *Makes a vague hand gesture*

Me: “Sir, I don’t know what that means.”

Customer: “Will it bring me closer to God?”

Me: “I think if you drink enough of anything here, it’ll bring you closer to God.”

He settled on a nice red, and he hasn’t been back since.

I’m behind the counter when a man strolls over to the wine section. He waves me over.

Customer: “Which of these Pinot Noirs has the strongest notes of black cherry?”

Me: “Uh… I’m not entirely sure.”

Customer: “Well, which pairs best with truffle flavors?”

Me: “I’m not a wine expert, sir.”

Customer: “You work here. You’re supposed to know these things!”

Me: “I know our inventory and where they are.”

Customer: “No, no, you’re supposed to know all the flavor profiles, the vintages, which years were the best, which grapes were grown where—”

Me: “Sir, I make minimum wage and I’m just paying for college. If I could answer all your questions…” *I gesture toward the wine.* “…I’d be a sommelier in a fancy restaurant, not standing here next to a stack of boxed Merlot.”

Customer: “So what CAN you tell me?!”

Me: “I can tell you the alcohol percentage, the name of the grape, and where it’s from, and the price… everything else is just expensive gossip.”

It’s a Friday evening rush, and a guy in his late thirties strolls up to my register with a six-pack.

Me: “Can I see your ID, please?”

Customer #1: *Rolling his eyes.* “Seriously? I’m obviously over twenty-one. This is ridiculous.”

Me: “It’s store policy, sir, as well as the law.” 

Customer #1: “Yeah, and that’s the problem. The whole country’s turning into a police state. Common sense is dead, and now I’ve got to prove I’m not some underage kid every time I want a beer.”

Before I can say anything, the man behind him in line, an older guy easily in his mid-sixties, leans forward. 

Customer #2: “Hey, kid. I’m obviously over twenty-one too, but I have my ID ready to go because I’m not a f****** idiot who walks into a liquor store without it, holds up the line, and whines about it. I also know how the world works, which includes knowing the minimum-wage cashier at a national liquor store chain isn’t the one who decides federal alcohol consumption policy… you moron.”

Customer #1: “But—” 

Customer #2: “—But nothing. The only whining I want in this store is the wine I promised to get my wife, not the kind coming out of your entitled mouth. Now show the helpless guy behind the counter the little card you’re legally required to carry when driving in this country, or get the f*** out of my way.”

There’s a pause. [Customer #1] silently fishes out his wallet and hands me his ID without another word. I check it, hand it back, and finish ringing him up. He leaves quickly.

[Customer #2] steps forward, already holding his ID out.

Me: *Grinning.* “Can you live here?”

Customer #2: “Depends, do you pay in wine?”

We both laugh as I ring up his order, and the line moves along in blissful silence.

I live in a medium-sized Southern town, and this happened a few years ago. I’d been out running errands for work and realized, on the way home, that I had no wine. I was having guests over for dinner that night, so I made a quick stop at the liquor store. I go there often, so I know most of the staff. On this day, Tom was working the counter, and since the place was empty, we chatted briefly before he said:

Tom: “I’m gonna head to the back and pull some boxes. I know you can spend hours reading wine labels, so if someone comes in, give me a holler.”

Accurate.

So, I’m kneeling by one of the wine shelves, completely absorbed in label-reading, when I suddenly hear a very aggressive throat clear behind me. I assume someone wants to get to the same shelf, so without looking up:

Me: “Sorry!”

I shuffle to the side a bit.

Then I hear another, louder “AHEM!”

Now, an important detail: there’s no strict dress code for employees here, just “look neat.” That day, I happened to be wearing a full black suit with a white clerical collar. I had come straight from visiting someone in the hospital and hadn’t changed.

Customer: “I swear, I have nothing but problems with you people who work here. You never want to help!”

Me: “Tom’s in the back. I can call him real quick—”

Customer: “—No, you are right here, you can help me. Or are you just too lazy?”

Me: *Rising to my feet.* “Ma’am, I don’t work he—”

And then she sees it. The collar.

Her face drains of color. She drops the bottle she’s holding. She stares. And then she absolutely loses her mind.

I’m not sure what happened in her brain, but apparently, the concept of a “preacher” (anyone in black clothing, in her mind) being in a liquor store sent her into a full meltdown. Screaming, flailing, incomprehensible nonsense. I caught snippets like “GOING TO HELL!” and “HOW DARE YOU?!”

Tom must have heard the shrieking and sprinted out from the back just as she started throwing things: bottles, her purse, wild arms.

Rather than intervene directly, Tom smartly bolted to the front to call 911. Then he came back to try and get between me and the customer. Unfortunately, he caught a wine bottle full in the forehead. It sent him flying into an entire display rack.

Just as the customer wound up for round two, the police arrived. One officer tackled her mid-screech and took her to the floor while calling for backup. She refused to cooperate and had to be physically dragged out, kicking, screaming, and spitting the entire time.

Paramedics arrived next. They knew me from hospital visits and tended to both me and Tom (who had taken the brunt of the damage and ended up needing stitches). I gave my statement on-site while Tom gave his at the hospital. 

Turns out she was the wife of some big-shot lawyer. He managed to get her off with community service, and no one ever really found out what set her off.

Maybe it was just the soul-crushing realization that clergy are… still human.

Tom loved telling this story for years after. Frankly, I can’t blame him.

At the liquor store I worked at for FAR too long, we would always check IDs, as is required, and I’d seen my fair share of fakes before. Most of them were laughable, with the little key holograms or for states that looked nothing like what the state IDs looked like, pictures that don’t match, etc.

This one I will always remember, though.

It was 5:55 PM on a Sunday, and we were closing in five minutes. It was my game night, and I wanted nothing more than to hop in my car and speed up to meet my friends. So, I was slightly annoyed when a car pulled in, but I figured this should be quick. Most people this close to closing on a Sunday just want to grab a six-pack and go.

This customer comes in, and I clock him as a ‘definitely will card,’ your typical young teenage-looking male, backwards hat, walking with that swagger of someone who is putting a LOT of work into looking confident.

He grabs a twelve-pack and puts it on the counter.

Me: “Can I see your ID, please?”

He hands me his ID, and my friends, this fake ID did literally every single thing wrong. Unlaminated, no hologram, no state name, color bleed everywhere, the text was wildly different print quality all over the place, the back had a smudged barcode. It looked like this kid had gotten his hands on a college ID card printer and tried to jury-rig it to produce something almost like an ID.

I literally started laughing. He stared at me stone-faced.

Me: “Yeah, no.”

I dropped the card on the counter.

Kid: “So… it’s okay?”

Me: “No. Just… wow, no. Go home and read a book.”

The kid slumped out the door, taking the fake ID.

Later, I was telling my boss about this story.

Boss: “You gave him the fake ID back? You’re supposed to confiscate them.”

Me: “Man, anyone who serves him with that ID deserves the fine, the penalty, and to lose their liquor license. Besides, I literally laughed him out the door. He won’t be showing that ID to anyone, anywhere, ever again. There’s no better deterrent to teenagers than humiliation.”

My boss thought this over for a moment, then handed me a beer out of the singles cooler and we went back to work.

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What An ID-iot