(Due to all of the on-street parking, the plows around here never clear out the whole street. The portion where cars would park or sit idle is left to the duty of the people who wish to park their cars there. There are exactly two exceptions to this. One is when a resident hires a private plowing service. The second is when there’s so much snow the plows run out of places to push the snow. In the latter case, typically they’ll instead use a truck and a backhoe to cart the snow off, whereas the former case is simply more pushing. I live on a street corner, so I have about double the shoveling just for the sidewalk alone. One particularly bad winter, just as I round the corner to tackle the second half of the sidewalk, I see a plow pushing the snow off the street, and right into the fence around my backyard. The fence is visibly leaning as he’s pushing, and he is still going back to push more in. Phone in hand, I snap a picture of his whole plow and then his license plate before tapping his door with my shovel. He rolls down his window just as I snap a photo of his face.)

Me: “What do you think you’re doing?”

Plow Driver: “I have to get the snow off the street.”

Me: “By pushing it into my fence?”

Plow Driver: “I have to put it somewhere.”

Me: “So, Mr. [License Plate Number], have you noticed my once-upright fence is now leaning?

Plow Driver: *speechless*

Me: “If my fence breaks under the weight of all that snow and your plow, are you going to pay for it, or will I have to sue the city and show them this photo of you behind the wheel of your plow to see that money?”

Plow Driver: *drives off rapidly*

(I continue my shoveling, starting with the mess he left me. The good news is I get everything cleared in that morning. That afternoon, I see a different plow clearing another neighbor’s driveway, again pushing the snow into my driveway. Phone in hand again, I snap the same the same two photos as before, but this time I notice something interesting. Unlike the first plow, this plow has a New Hampshire license plate. I then tap the door, and the driver — someone completely different — rolls down his window as I snap the third photo.)

Me: “What do you think you’re doing?”

Plow Driver #2: *pointing to a house* “My sister lives right over there. She asked me to clear out her driveway.”

Me: “So you’re pushing it into my driveway, after I cleared out all the snow?”

Plow Driver #2: “Uh… Sorry.”

Me: “By the way, I noticed you have New Hampshire plates.”

Plow Driver #2: “Yeah, I live up there. I just came down to help my sister.”

Me: “Oh, okay. So if I called the police and reported you, Mr. [License Plate Number] whose sister lives at [Address], would they find you have a license to operate a plow in the state of Massachusetts?”

Plow Driver #2: *pause* “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll clear out the snow I pushed in front of your house, and anytime you want, I’ll plow it again for free.”

Me: “No.”

Plow Driver #2: “‘No’?”

Me: “You’re an a**hole! All you’d do is push the snow into someone else’s driveway! Now get lost!”

(He drove off. After breaking my back all day, I spent the closing hours of the day in front of my television to goof off. Around eight at night, however, I heard the distinctive beeping of a large vehicle backing up, and a sound akin to rolling rocks and metal clanging. Curious, I poked my head out the window. Rather than taking the deliberate approach of carefully chipping away at the ice-walls my neighbors, the plows, and myself had made during the day, they believed the most efficient way to get the snow was to knock all the walls over and the scoop it up slowly; the clanging was the avalanche hitting my fence. It probably wouldn’t have been a big deal, if their schedule didn’t say they had to clock out at nine exactly, and the next shift actually started where they left off. As a result, all of our sidewalks were buried again, our driveways had become obstructed, and there were no clearings for the crosswalks or bus stop. So, in the middle of the night, I went back to work. Thanks a lot, plow drivers!)

(My sister is about three years old at the time of this story, and our mother has taken her out to play. It’s time to go home, and naturally, my sister doesn’t want to leave. She’s trying to get back to the playground.)

Mom: “[Sister], Mommy said no!”

Sister: “But Mommy, [Sister] said yes!“

(I’m ringing up a regular customer, an old-school hippie type. He’s very, very chatty and emphatic, so I’ve been making small talk with him. He’s in his late fifties or sixties, and I’m a twenty-year-old woman.)

Customer: “Oh, and do you have any free samples of the yerba mate tea?”

Me: “Yeah, we’ve still got a few left. Which flavor would you like?”

Customer: “Dark roast! Hey, can I take a couple? My friend is quitting coffee so I want her to try some!”

Me: “Sure, go ahead.”

Customer: “Yeah, these are great for if you’re quitting coffee, or even just cutting back! It’s still got caffeine, but it’s way less harsh on your body than coffee!”

Me: “Huh, maybe I should try it. I probably drink too much coffee.”

Customer: “Oh, yeah, you totally should! Coffee is just so hard on your body! You know, you should just think about your eggs, the babies you’re going to have! Right now they don’t exist; they’re floating around in some netherworld, waiting for you! They’re hoping you take care of your body, so you can carry them safely!”

Me: “…”

(The customer grins wildly and enthusiastically as he packs up his groceries, completely unaware that he might have broken some boundary.)

Me: *awkward pause* “I really like the taste of coffee, though! Have a great day!”

(Pro tip: unless you’re her gynecologist, her mother, or her long-term partner, maybe don’t start chatting to women about their wombs!)

(It is a somewhat quiet evening. A customer comes in, and I greet her. My manager is standing nearby, and once the customer is out of earshot, she informs me that the customer is well-known for being rude and to call her if I need help. Sure enough, once the customer finishes shopping, she starts.)

Customer: *slams the first of many items onto the counter* “You need to get the manager up here now, because I need a discount.”

Me: *surprised* “Yeah, sure, let me page her now.”

(I page her and ring out the rest of the customer’s items as quickly as I can. My manager walks up from the back.)

Manager: “Hi, what can I help you with?”

Customer: “I need a discount. I have a coupon on my card, but it doesn’t show up when I try to print it, and you need to do something about it.”

(When this happens, it is almost always customer error; either the wrong email is linked to their store card, or they never set one up at all. We will generally input the coupon as long as the customer can show us the email that contains the coupon. Even if the customer can’t get the email up, we will still put it in under special circumstances — if they are buying a decent amount of stuff, are a regular customer, etc.)

Manager: “Okay, that’s fine. Can you pull up the coupon on your phone? I need to see the coupon to be able to put it in.”

Customer: *raising her voice* “WELL, I can try but I don’t know if it’ll work. You need to give me a discount because I spend a lot of money here, and this is unacceptable!”

Manager: *I can tell she is getting agitated* “All right, well, just try to pull that up, because we cannot give discounts without actually seeing the coupon in some form.”

Customer: “Well, I spend a lot of money here!”

(She clicks around on her phone for a minute or two and is able to bring the coupon up, and my manager puts it in and the customer finally pays and leaves.)

Manager: “You know, it’s a good thing she had her coupon, because I wasn’t going to give her the discount if she didn’t. She could have flipped out all she wanted, but I’ll be d***ed if I’m going to reward her s***ty behavior. Oh, and as for spending a lot of money here, she comes in maybe once a month…”

(A customer comes into the store with some returns from an online purchase. No receipt, no order number, nothing. She says her mother ordered it online for Christmas and didn’t give her a receipt. My manager says she can do an exchange. We inspect the packaging, and it is packaging from the manufacturer, not our store.)

Me: “Ma’am, we cannot accept these returns. These weren’t purchased from our website; they were purchased from [Manufacturer].”

Customer: “No, they weren’t. My mother said that she ordered them from you guys.”

Me: “Well, ma’am, that just simply isn’t true. We can’t accept these because they were never in our system.”

Customer: “Are you saying that my mother is a liar?”

Me: “No, of course not. I was just stating that she was incorrect about where she purchased these.”

Customer: “My mother is a registered nurse! I think she has enough intelligence to know where she bought something from! I feel insulted!”

Me: “Well, you have the right to feel insulted, but that doesn’t change the fact that these were not purchased from us.”

Customer: “I demand to speak to your manager!”

(Our manager comes over and repeats everything I said. The customer then angrily grabs everything and storms out of the store.)

Me: “Have a nice day, ma’am! I hope you get a better nurse.”

Related:
Refunder Blunder, Part 35
Refunder Blunder, Part 34
Refunder Blunder, Part 33