(I work in the dementia section of a senior living community. We have one resident who is known for her paranoid delusions and her visions of a religious nature. When dementia patients express beliefs that diverge from reality — e.g. that their long-dead spouse is waiting for them in the car, that they are the owner of the facility, etc. — it’s rarely helpful to correct their delusion, because it just makes them more agitated. We just try to keep them safe and calm, and redirect their attention if possible. Sometimes it’s not possible, though.)

Resident: “Did you see them?”

Me: “Did I see what, [Resident]?”

Resident: “The babies. They’re all dead. Satan killed them all, and they’re outside my window.”

Me: “No, I didn’t see them. But I wasn’t looking out the window. Say, [Resident], would you like to join the others in the rec room? We’re having a snack and a singalong.”

Resident: “Attack? Why would I attack you?”

Me: “No, a snack.”

Resident: “No snakes!”

Me: “Okay, how about the chapel? Should we go to the chapel? You could pray for the babies.”

Resident: “Yes, the chapel, that’s good. Let’s go to the chapel.”

(We go to the chapel, which has been known to have a calming effect on this resident in the past.)

Me: “Okay, let’s just have a seat and pray.”

Resident: “TOOL OF SATAN!”

(I turn, just in time to duck the three-foot-long, brass crucifix that is being swung towards my head. The resident, a small, frail lady, apparently snatched it from the altar, and is wielding it like a pick-axe, and her face is contorted in a red ball of rage.)

Resident: “Out! Out, you tool of Satan! You have no power here!”

Me: *knowing that saying, “I’m not a tool of Satan,” isn’t going to convince her of anything* “Oh, s***.”

(I turned and ran. My coworkers heard the commotion, and laughed heartily at the sight of a 6’2″, 250-pound man fleeing from a crucifix-wielding woman half my size. For the rest of my time there, one coworker refused to address me as anything but “Tool of Satan.”)

(I am working the box office at a small indie movie theater. Two girls with giant coffee drinks walk past three signs saying that we don’t allow outside food or drink and come up to the counter.)

Me: “How can I help you?”

Girl: “Can we get two student tickets to [Movie]?”

Me: “Sure! But just so you know, we don’t allow outside food or drinks in the theater, so you’ll have to finish those down here before you go up to the theater.”

Girl: “Ugh! But we just bought these!”

Me: “I’m so sorry, but we do have signs up saying we don’t allow outside food or drinks.”

(I point to the signs.)

Girl: “But… We’re from Ohio!”

Me: “Do they not read in Ohio?”

(The girls laughed nervously and left.)

(I work for a specialty clothing store that also has an outlet branch. We carry completely different inventory; the outlet carries items from two or three years prior. Returns and exchanges can’t be made between the main store and outlet items. Customers who don’t read their receipt often get upset by that policy, but usually accept it.)

Customer: “I’d like to return these; they’re the wrong size.”

Me: “I’d love to help, but your receipt shows that these came from the outlet. They’d have to be returned to an outlet location.” *proceeds to offer closest locations*

Customer: “That’s stupid; it’s the same place.”

Me: “I’m sorry. I know it’s a bit inconvenient. But our inventories are completely different; we aren’t able to return items we don’t carry in this store.”

Customer: “You’re just being stupid! Do the return; I want my money!”

Me: “Ma’am, the back of your receipt clearly says, ‘Can only be returned to outlet locations.'”

Customer: “WHERE DOES IT—”

(She suddenly saw the bold print saying exactly what I said. She snatched the receipt and stormed out.)

(I often run the fitting room at the store where I work. This happens pretty much every day.)

Me: “Hi! How are you doing today?”

Customer: *holding out handful of clothes* “I have five.”

(Every time.)

(I work at a pizza delivery place in town. Whenever a customer calls for a delivery, we have to confirm their phone number and address before taking their order.)

Me: *after confirming phone number* “And is this for eleven-sixteen [Street]?”

(There is a ten second pause between the question I asked him and his response.)

Customer: “Um… No. I have a new address now.”

Me: “Okay, do you mind giving me your new address for your order?”

Customer: “Yeah, it’s one… one… one… six, [Street].”

Me: “So, eleven-sixteen [Street].”

Customer: “Uh… Yeah.”

(I couldn’t tell if he was just messing around or if he was serious. Either way, I got a good laugh out of it that night.)