It’s five minutes past closing, and a regular customer is still wandering around with a cart piled high.

Coworker: “Sir, we’re closed now.”

Customer: “I’m almost done.”

Ten minutes later, he’s still shopping. This time it’s the manager who ‘politely’ reminds him:

Manager: “Sir, we closed ten minutes ago.”

Customer: “I’m spending a lot of money here! You really want to lose a sale like this?”

Manager: “Hmm, I’m thinking there’s a couple hundred bucks in that cart.”

Customer: “Exactly!”

The manager pulls out his phone.

Manager: “Let’s see. We’ve got a cashier, one supervisor, two security guards, and me waiting for you. That’s five employees.”

Customer: “So?”

Manager: “Company policy says if we keep people past their scheduled shift, they get paid for a minimum of one extra hour.”

Customer: “Okay?”

Manager: “So from fifteen dollars an hour for [cashier]…”

He calculates the cost of staying an extra hour based on the average of all the salaries:

Manager: “…that’s two hundred and thirty-five dollars. And that’s before payroll taxes, benefits, utilities, and all the other costs involved in keeping a store open. Let’s call it about four hundred, conservatively.”

Customer: “Well… I’m still almost done!”

Manager: “So… are we making money from your sale?”

Customer: “That doesn’t matter!”

Manager: “Considering that was the entirety of the basis of your argument to be allowed to shop after close, it matters a lot. Are you paying now and leaving, or just leaving now?”

The customer pushes his full cart at the manager and storms out. The hour of overtime was welcome, but the frequency at which this happened finally allowed corporate to let us be more “aggressive” and less polite with encouraging our customers to leave on time…

It’s the morning rush at a very popular chain coffee place. The line is long, but there are multiple baristas, so they’re getting through us fast.

A customer walks into the place, straight past twenty people in the queue, and starts barking her order at the barista.

Customer: “I’ll get a venti—”

Barista: “—Ma’am, there’s a line.” *Points to all of us.*

Customer: “I’m just grabbing one coffee.”

Next Person In Line: “What the f*** do you think the rest of us are here for?!”

She turned red and got to the back of the line.

Our superstore sells more frozen food than the average retailer, and keeps a lot of meat in giant walk-in freezers in the back. A lot of us are running around the store all day, pulling heavy pallets of stock around, so while we operate in a cold environment, we don’t feel it due to how active we are while on duty. In fact, the cool air feels good.

Customer: “It’s so cold in here!”

Manager: “We operate a lot of freezers, and it’s warm outside today, so we have to—”

Customer: “—When a customer tells you it’s cold, that means you go wherever you need to go to turn the temperature up!”

Manager: “Apologies.”

My manager walks into the back, next to another freezer. He stands there for a moment and takes a deep breath.

Me: “Taking a breather?”

Manager: “Literally.”

Me: “Not going to turn up the thermostat?”

Manager: “I’m not turning up the heat in a place where we have to wear long pants and sleeves while running our butts off all day. That customer will be out of here in half an hour.”

He counts to ten and then walks out to tell the customer he turned up the thermostat. The customer, all smiles, takes off their jacket and says they feel warmer already.

Related:
Placebo Me, Part 9
Placebo Me, Part 8
Placebo Me, Part 7
Placebo Me, Part 6
Placebo Me, Part 5

I’m bringing my mother-in-law for exams at the hospital. We are directed to phlebotomy. I must say she’s a very kind person, but she doesn’t believe queues apply to her, ever.

We get to the door, and there’s a ticket machine and no less than three signs saying “take a number. Your number will be called. Please take a seat.”

She doesn’t even look at her number, and as soon as someone is done at the counter, she gets up from her seat.

Mother-In-Law: “I’ll just go up, I’m sure the number is for other things.”

Me: “No, the number is for checking in for bloods. See, there’s a sign.”

Mother-In-Law: “Which sign?”

I point out the sign at eye level in front of the machine, and the two others present in this very, very, tiny room.

Mother-In-Law: “But it could be for something else, or maybe they forgot to call other numbers.”

I check her number, it’s 81. The electronic board is at 79.

Me: “It’ll be your turn soon. Just sit down and wait.”

Mother-In-Law: “If you’re sure.”

It took only five minutes, and she still tried to go up to the counter two more times before she was finally called and her agony was over.

I joked with her that she’s the reason why the signs are there, but she still thinks they should be clearer!

The fire alarm has started blaring in our superstore. The speakers are screaming that we need to evacuate everyone.

I am standing near the entrance/exit, trying to explain to a lady who didn’t speak a lick of English that we needed to leave. One customer, whom I’ve already told about the evacuation and speaks perfect English, comes BACK INTO the store.

Customer: “Since you’re still here, I just wanted to ask about—”

I admittedly dismiss her quickly, saying:

Me: “—No, we need to leave.”

I return to guiding the other poor lady out of the store, who has equated the loud noise with evacuating and is now following me toward the exit.

Customer: “Clearly, you have time to answer a question! The place isn’t burning down right this second!”

Me: “Clearly, you can see I am helping this customer to evacuate, whose first language I don’t know. Your first language seems to be pure idiocy, but I can’t speak that either.”

Yes, she was ‘aghast’ and ‘offended’. Yes, I guided the other lady out to safety. No, I didn’t let the dumb-a** entitled idiot go into the store to burn regardless of how tempted I was…

Related:
An Alarming Lack Of Alarm, Part 6
An Alarming Lack Of Alarm, Part 5
An Alarming Lack Of Alarm, Part 4
An Alarming Lack Of Alarm, Part 3
An Alarming Lack Of Alarm, Part 2