On certain sale items, there is a limit on how many a customer can buy. For this particular item, it’s limited to one per customer.

Customer: “Excuse me, how much are these?”

Me: “Those are $6.99, but there is a limit of one per customer.”

Customer: “Oh.”

The customer puts two on the counter.

Me: “No, you can only get one.”

The customer just stares blankly. I repeat the above two lines about three times.

Me: *Giving up* “Okay, then, I’ll just ring these two up and your total is—”

Customer: “Oh, wait! $6.99? Can I get two more?”

Me: “No, these items are one per customer. You can only buy one. I’ll give you these two but you can’t buy any more. Because you’re only supposed to buy one. Because there’s a limit.”

The customer just stares blankly again.

Me: “You see this item? You can only buy one but I’m letting you buy two. You cannot buy more.” 

Customer: “Oh… Well, okay, then.”

She paid and walked off with a confused look on her face, still not quite understanding.

We’re managing flea markets. Our “customers” are people selling stuff they no longer need, and they have to pay a fee based on the length of their market stand, while children’s stands are free. This happens while we still have the DM rather than the Euro.

Collector: “All right, that will be forty marks.”

Customer: “What?! I was told it’s ten per meter and that children are free. This should just be thirty marks!”

Collector: “Yes, that is right, and your daughter can sell her toys for free. However, your own market stand is over four metres long, so thirty is not enough.”

Customer: “Fine, here’s your money; this is robbery!” *To the daughter* “Give me ten marks; you have to chip in if you want to sell.”

Collector: “Uh, sorry, but as I said, your daughter’s table is free.”

Customer: “Mind your own d*** business!”

I work at a small fish market inside of a much larger store. A lot of my customers are elderly people who bring their kids or spouses along to help with shopping. I am wrapping up a filet of catfish for an elderly woman on a motorcart.

Me: “Can I get anything else for you?”

The customer’s son butts in.

Customer’s Son: “No. It’s just for her. I don’t eat frozen fish.”

I am thinking he is worried about the quality.

Me: “The catfish is fresh, sir. It hasn’t been frozen yet.”

Customer’s Son: “No, all the fish in this store is previously frozen. How else do they get it to you?”

Me: “Sir, they overnight all of our fresh fish in thermal packages with ice packs. I could show you one, if you’d like.”

Customer’s Son: “No, lady, I’d rather catch my own fish.”

Me: “Oh, I understand.”

Customer’s Son: “In fact, I go fishing with that guy over there, the one that’s turned away from you.”

I turn to look with no idea who he’s talking about.

Customer’s Son: *Getting impatient* “You know, your boss! I fish with your boss!”

I turn away to change my gloves.

Me: “Okay, then. Have a nice day.”

The best part? My boss is a woman.

I am a British-born Filipino. I am visiting family in the rural part of the Philippines for the first time. They are quite poor but run a fruit stand in their local marketplace, which they are very proud of. Not wanting to be dead-weight, and wanting to improve my Bisaya — local dialect — I spend time manning the market stall.

I spot some tourists one day, which is uncommon enough in this area, and I recognise the twang of the American accent. I decide to have a little fun.

Tourist: “How much for the bananas?”

I suddenly explode into my most stereotypical East-London cockney rhyming slang. Imagine Dick Van Dyke from “Mary Poppins” coming out of a Filipino face.

Me: “Gawdon Bennett, if it ain’t some lovely Yanks! Forget the Gertie Gitanas, my love, come and ‘ave a butchers at my Ungle Reg!”

The tourist just looks at me blankly, and I can’t help but smile. I return to my normal accent: neutral British.

Me: “Sorry, just having a laugh. The bananas are a hundred pesos for a bunch.”

The tourist is still just staring at me, as if I had two heads. Going on a hunch, I break down into a probably-offensive stereotype of the Filipino accent, like swapping Ps and Fs, the whole works.

Me: “Yes, ma’am. Saging por one-hundred.”

Tourist: “Oh, a hundred, cool! You should stick to English; I couldn’t understand your Filipino before.”

And that was when I learned never to joke with customers ever again.

(I run a fresh produce stall every Sunday at a local market. Everything is homegrown by either my dad or my grandpa. I’ve had people try to haggle on prices but as it’s extremely popular and we usually run out by the end of the day, I refuse.

I’m serving a customer when I see a guy in his fifties pick up a bunch of grapes and walk off, eating them. There’s not much I can do. Fifteen minutes later, I’m just finishing serving a customer when the guy comes back and starts picking through the cherries, eating the ones he likes, and spitting the seeds back into the box.)

Me: “Excuse me. Please don’t do that.”

Guy: “What? Don’t tell me what to do.”

(As I can no longer sell the cherries, I grab the box, roughly five kilos.)

Me: “Look, you already took a bunch of grapes and now I can’t sell these. You need to either pay for the grapes and the cherries or leave and not come back.”

(The guy turns red with anger.)

Guy: “Listen here, b****. I can do what I want. Since you’re not going to sell them, just give them to me.”

(The guy goes to grab the box.)

Me: “Leave now. And don’t come back; you’re no longer welcome here.”

(He goes to grab me when my previous customer grabs him by the arm.)

Customer: “Mate, I’d leave her alone if I were you, unless you want me to kick you from one end of the carpark to the other.”

(The guy goes to take a swing at him but realises that he’s at least 6’6” and almost all muscle.)

Guy: “It’s all s***, anyway. All you do is buy stuff at the supermarket and mark up the price.”

Me: “You seem to like it, considering you’ve eaten at least $10 worth. Now leave.”

(The muscular customer is still holding the guy by one arm.)

Customer: “Pay the nice lady for what you’ve eaten and made unsellable, and if I ever see you harassing her or anyone else here again, I’ll be using you for footy practice.”

(The guy reached into his pocket, pulled out $20, and threw it at me. The customer let him go and he ran off. I thanked the customer and offered him a refund and extra fruit but he declined. It turned out that his girlfriend was another stall holder, and from then on we always got stalls next to each other. I’m going to be a bridesmaid at their wedding in a few months!)