We Decline Your Solution

, , , , | Right | May 15, 2018

A customer comes to the counter, bottles in hand, and gives me his card to run. It is declined. I give it another shot. Declined again.

He snatches the card back from me, looks at it, licks it with gusto, and attempts to hand it back to me.

I decline, and he cannot figure out why I won’t touch it again.

Can You Hear What I Hear?

, , , | Right | May 12, 2018

(I work at a luxury car dealership as an advisor, but I’m also often stuck doing diagnostics on vehicles, trying to figure out what is wrong. An old lady, probably in her mid to late 80s, comes in with her car, and her small, shaky dog. I have seen this customer before, and she’s always really nice to us, never rude. She complains about a buzzing in her car.)

Me: “Hello, ma’am, what seems to be the problem?”

Customer: “Well, there is an odd buzzing sound coming from the car, on and off, that started… oh… twenty minutes ago?”

Me: “All right, ma’am, may I check out the vehicle to see what the issue is?”

Customer: “Sure thing.”

(I get in the car and start it up. I hear no buzzing noise, but that may be because her dog is panting loudly in my ear.)

Me: “I don’t hear anything. When does this sound occur?”

Customer: “It just does. Try taking it out on the highway?”

Me: “All right.”

(We get on the highway, and almost as soon as we get on, she says she hears it.)

Me: “I can’t hear anything; are you sure?”

Customer: “Oh, absolutely. It’s lou—”

(She pauses with a puzzled look on her face.)

Customer: “I wonder if it’s my hearing aid?!”

(It was her hearing aid.)

Addressing The Addressing Issue

, , , , | Right | May 11, 2018

(In order to donate at the plasma center where I work, you have to have a permanent address within a certain number of miles of our center. Every donor that comes in is required to provide proof of address. The most common way to do this is with a piece of mail addressed to the donor. In order for a piece of mail to be acceptable, all of the information on the mail has to EXACTLY match the information provided by the donor, and it HAS TO be postmarked in the last thirty days. A donor can’t donate plasma until we get acceptable mail, NO MATTER WHAT. Since I work the from desk most of the time, it usually falls to me to take approve people’s mail. It’s not uncommon for people to have a hard time bringing in acceptable mail, but this lady takes the cake. Monday:)

Me: *handing donor her payment card after her first donation* “Okay, [Donor], here’s your card. Your payment should be on there within about twenty minutes. You can come back as soon as Wednesday. Don’t forget, you’ll need your proof of address next time. Do you need me to go over the requirements again?

(The donor ignores me, puts in headphones, and leaves. Wednesday:)

Me: “Hey, [Donor], welcome back. Do you have your proof of address?”

Donor: “Oh, I forgot.”

Me: “Oh, dang. I’m really sorry, but we need that before you can donate.”

(The donor stares at me for a while and then leaves. On Thursday, the donor comes in, walks up to counter, and hands me a dirty letter.)

Me: “Sorry, [Donor], we can’t take this. This is from January.”

(It’s June.)

Donor: “I thought it just had to be mail. That’s my address.”

(I go over the requirements again, and the donor says she understands. On Friday, the donor comes in and gives me another letter.)

Me: “No can do. Your name and the street name are spelled wrong in this one”

(On Saturday, the donor comes back with yet another letter.)

Me: “Ma’am, this has a man’s name on it. I don’t see your name anywhere.”

Donor: “That’s my ex-boyfriend; he lives with me.”

Me: *getting annoyed at this point* “That won’t work. The requirements are…”

(On Monday, according to my manager, she comes in again with another unacceptable letter. My manager makes triple sure she knows the requirements. She says she understands. She also goes on a rant about how, “It’s so stupid that we’re making this so hard,” and, “I live really far away,” and, “I have KIDS,” before she finally leaves. Tuesday, the donor comes in with an older man.)

Me: “Morning, [Donor], did you bring your mail?”

Donor: “No, I brought my dad.”

Me: “Cool, does he want to donate with us, as well?”

Dad: “No, but she lives with me.”

Me: *confused* “Okay.”

Donor: “There. I live with him and he verified it. Can I donate now?”

Me: “What?”

Donor: “He said I live with him. That counts, right?”

Me: *beyond done with this lady at this point* “No, ma’am, it doesn’t. My manager and I have both been over the requirements with you, and bringing in a witness doesn’t count.”

Dad: “But she lives with me! I don’t understand this! WHY NOT?!”

Me: “Hey, [Nearest Coworker]!”

Coworker: “Yeah?”

Me: “Do I live at the White House?”

Coworker: “Yeah, of course.”

Me: “That’s why.”

(The donor and her dad just stared at me for a solid thirty seconds. Then, they walked away, never to be seen or heard from again.)

Their Brain Is Offline

, , , , | Right | May 9, 2018

(I work in a home improvement store.)

Customer: “Excuse me. Where are your pools?”

Me: “I don’t think we carry pools in the store.”

Customer: “Yes, you do. I saw them online.”

Me: “Yes, we have several, but they are indeed online.”

Customer: “So, where are they?”

Me: “They are online only.”

Customer: “But where are they in the store? I know you have them because I saw them online.”

Me: “I’m sorry; we only carry a few pool accessories in the store, like pool salt.”

Customer: “Oh, then would the pools be by the salt, then?”

Me: “No, all of our pools are online only.”

Customer: *to a different employee walking by* “Excuse me. Where are your pools?”

A Positive Sign

, , , , | Hopeless | May 7, 2018

(Minneapolis has an annual zombie pub crawl. There’s 10,000 people in attendance and there’s drunken chaos everywhere. It’s late in the night and I’m quite drunk myself. I am trying to get some water from a very tired bartender.)

Me: *yelling* “Can I get a water, please?”

Bartender: “What?!”

(I try several more times, and the combination of my current state and the noise makes her unable to hear me, so I do the only thing that makes sense at the time.)

Me: *in sign language* “Can I have a water, please?”

Bartender: *jumps excitedly, nods and grabs me a water*

Me: *signing and matching her excitement* “You know sign language?”

Bartender: *signing* “Yeah, my grandma is deaf. Have a good night!”

Me: *signing and giving her my last $5* “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

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