(I work in an auto repair shop. Just after we open at seven am, I get a call from a sweet-sounding, older lady.)

Me: “Thank you for calling [Shop]. How may I help you?”

Caller: “Parts department.”

(It’s about an hour earlier than that department arrives in the office. Additionally, as we do not sell parts themselves, only order them as needed for repair jobs, our parts department only takes incoming calls from vendors.)

Me: “I’m sorry, but they’re not available. Is there something I can do for you?”

Caller: “I need a price on a part.”

Me: “Okay, no problem; however, for us to quote you a price, we would need you to come—”

Caller: *interrupting* “I can’t come in. I just want a price on a rear window.”

Me: “I apologize for the inconvenience, but—”

Caller: “It’s the rear window. You know, the glass part that goes up and down?”

(Yes, she actually explains car windows to me.)

Me: “I understand, ma’am, but as we are a repair shop, not a parts shop, we don’t just sell parts. We would need to give you a quote on the full repair work. If you’d like—”

Caller: “Let me speak to [Person].”

Me: “I’m sorry; we don’t have anyone here by that name.”

Caller: “What? Let me speak to [Person]. He works there.”

Me: “Ma’am, are you maybe trying to reach another shop or a dealership? We’re [Shop].”

Caller: “Oh. Yeah, I need a dealership.”

Me: “Ah, okay. Then—”

Caller: “Transfer me.”

(We are associated with two different dealerships dealing with two different car makes, so I can send her to one of them if needed, but only if I know what type of car she has.)

Me: “Sure thing. Which dealership are you trying to reach? Do you have a—”

Caller: “F*** you!” *hangs up*

Me: *stares at phone in shock*

(I am a customer in a store known for selling not only music-related items but pop culture merchandise. I’m in line behind two older women, roughly 60-something in age each, and they’ve just finished finding some merchandise for one lady’s granddaughter who is a fan of a popular television show and specifically one of the main characters. The cashier has rung up her purchase, and asks if she would like to have a “member” card, which is not necessary to purchase anything in the store, but can earn you discounts and coupons based on points you rack up. The woman agrees and they begin filling in the form.)

Cashier: “Name?”

Woman: *provides full name, spelling both first and last out*

Cashier: “Phone number?”

Woman: *instantly irate* “Why would you need that?”

Cashier: “Um… Okay, we’ll skip that for the moment. Mailing address?”

Woman: *loudly and angrily* “Why do you need that? I’m not giving you that!”

Cashier: “It’s to mail you coupons.”

Woman: “I don’t want coupons!”

(Even though there’s loud rock music playing in the store, everyone by now can hear this woman shrieking at the young cashier. People are staring.)

Cashier: “Well, what about an email address?”

Woman: “I don’t have an email!”

Cashier: “Last question… birth date?”

Woman: *finally blowing her top and literally screaming at the cashier* “WHY WOULD YOU NEED TO KNOW THAT?! That’s personal!”

Cashier: “Ma’am, it’s so we can send you a birthday coupon.”

Woman: “Well, I don’t want a birthday coupon! Honestly, this card sounds like a scam with all these questions. You know what? I won’t ever buy anything from here again!”

(She takes the items from the counter and throws them up in the air like confetti, and she and her friend both storm out in a huff. Another employee gathers the fallen items and silently goes to put them back. I step forward with my lone purchase — a small Captain America toy — and place my membership card on the counter with the toy.)

Cashier: *giving me a thankful smile* “I see you already have our card, so I don’t need to ask you.”

Me: *tapping the toy* “Cap says, ‘Watch your temper!’”

(I mean, honestly, it wasn’t mandatory. I’m sorry to that woman’s granddaughter who was not going to get her merchandise!)

(I work the fitting room at my store. I stand in a small foyer between the two fitting rooms, with the bathroom next to me, as well. I am not allowed to keep anyone’s buggy in the foyer, for security and safety reasons, and because frankly, it’s obnoxious, so I have customers park their buggies in a line in the wide aisle in front of me. I get many customers who don’t want to park their buggies there because they’re afraid someone will take their things. Usually they’ll more or less relax when I let them know I’ll keep an eye on their things. But apparently some people are paranoid. This particular woman comes to me, DANCING because she needs to use the bathroom, and tries to pull her buggy into my foyer.)

Customer: “Can you watch this while I go to the bathroom?”

Me: “Yeah, just park it in the line there.”

Customer: “Oh, uh-uh. Nope. I can hold this peepee in.”

(She walked away before I had time to respond.)

A man comes into the store with his two children, a girl of about five and a boy around two. As he’s paying for their candy, the boy comes around the register so that he can see me (since he can’t see over the counter).

Boy: “I stinky!”
He pronounces it “sting”-y, but I can smell his diaper from where I’m standing, so it’s not hard to figure out what he means.
Me: *laughing* “You’re stinky?”
Boy: *proudly* “I pooing!”

(A group of three teens — a boy and two girls — come into the store. The girls are singing, much to the boy’s annoyance.)

Girls: *singing* “Hiiighway to the danger zone!”

Boy: “No! Stop it!”

Girls & Me: *singing* “Riiide into the danger zooone!”

Girl #1: “See?! She gets it!”

(The boy makes frustrated noises as they browse the store.)

Me: *stage whisper* “Lana! Lanaaa… Danger zone!”

Girl #2: *pointing at me* “I like this one. This one’s cool.”