A nice (or so I thought) little old Russian woman who didn’t speak English very well came in one slow evening and ordered a foot-long tuna sandwich. I scooped the four scoops of tuna onto the bread, and that just set her off.

Customer: “More tuna! More!”

I knew this was going to be an ordeal, so I put a couple more scoops on. She still wasn’t happy. Before we got to the veggies, there were eight heaping scoops of tuna on that thing. Of course, she LOADED it with veggies.

Then, we got to the cash register.

Me: “That’s $6.70.”

I thought she was going to faint.

Customer: “I not pay that!”

I gave her the senior discount: 5%. Still not happy.

I gave her another discount: 10%. Still not happy.

I pushed for a related coupon discount just to get her out of the store: 25%

She straightened up, started swearing at me in Russian, told me what she thought of me and my place of business, and stormed out the door. 

Guess who had a hefty tuna sub on their lunch break?

Many years ago, I worked for an organization providing front-line customer service. It was a decent place to work, but our manager had lots of rules. One of the rules was that we could not do any personal printing with the printers at work. If we did, we were expected to pay $0.50 per page for black-and-white printing and $1.00 per page for color. I’m not sure who made this rule, but the manager was constantly reminding us.

Our desks were not assigned, meaning that any day you could be sitting at any desk, depending on your assigned tasks for the day.

One day, I was interviewing for another job within the organization but at another location. Prior to the interview, the manager of the other location asked me if I’d mind printing a copy of my resume and bringing it with me as their printers were down for the day. I said no problem and figured I’d print it at work since it was work-related.

I was sitting at a desk that did not have a printer. The closest printer was located between my manager’s desk and an employee desk, so I printed my resume and stood up to go get it.

Before I got to the printer, my manager got there first. My print job went ahead of hers, and she saw what I had printed.

Manager: “[My Name], this looks like a personal print job.”

I explained that it wasn’t, but she disagreed and said since it had nothing to do with our day-to-day work, I had to pay $2.00 for four black-and-white pages. I begrudgingly paid up. I asked her what happened to the money, and she said she always put it in the Christmas party fund. All right.

A few weeks later, I was sitting at the desk with the printer. It was lunchtime, and everyone except [Manager] agreed to go to a nearby restaurant for lunch. I walked out of our building and realized I had forgotten my wallet, so I quickly ran back in to get it. When I got to my desk, I could hear the printer going. I was curious about what was being printed as it was spitting out page after page. I quickly glanced at the pile and saw at least 100 pages printed in color, announcing a sweet sixteen birthday party for [Manager]’s daughter. It very obviously belonged to [Manager]. She came out of the bathroom a moment later and seemed shocked to see me standing there. I picked up the pile and passed it to her.

Me: “Our Christmas party fund is going to be getting a big boost!”

She said nothing but looked really uncomfortable.

A few weeks later, our district manager made his quarterly visit. He talked about the upcoming Christmas party and how excited he was for it. I decided it was time for some petty revenge. I raised my hand and said:

Me: “I’m just wondering how much we’ve accumulated this year for the Christmas party from print jobs?”

District Manager: *Looking confused* “What do you mean?”

I told him our manager’s rule. He got really quiet and said he’d have to review this.

The next day, [Manager] sent an email saying the printing rule was something she was misinformed about and would be abolished immediately. Being the little s***-disturber I am, I hit “Reply All” and asked what would happen to the already accumulated funds. Someone else said we should have a nice healthy fund for a pizza lunch, and everyone agreed.

The next day, I heard [Manager] ordering ten pizzas for lunch. She used her own personal credit card to pay for it all. Do I think she was pocketing the printing money all along? Absolutely. But it was fun making her sweat and then having to spend nearly $300 the next day to make up for it!

I’m a cashier at a retail furniture store, and I am bored out of my absolute mind since it is a weekday morning and the store is about as dead as I’ve ever seen it. Regardless, I’m at the counter probably trying to think of words that rhyme with “bucket” or some other absurdity, when this younger couple comes up with a couple of pillows and whatever else. I scan their items and start getting them in bags, and their total comes out to some odd dollars and six cents.

The guy pulls out his wallet and gets a $50 bill. They both go through their pockets and can’t find any change, so he just gives me the fifty.

Guy: “Man, this is why I hate stores. They always make you break stuff for no reason.”

I say something about how it’s a pain and make some joke about sales tax that I’ve used every day for a year. I start getting the guy his change — whatever dollars and 94 cents — and I count out loud as I’m getting the coins — 25, 50, 75, 85, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94 — and as I’m about to give it to him, he says:

Guy: “See what I mean, man? Look at all that change.”

And that’s where things get bizarre.

I give him his change and the receipt and tell him to have a good day.

Guy: “You realize you would’ve been better off giving me a dollar?”

I sort of give him a look and just explain.

Me: “I know carrying the coins around can be annoying, but the computers will tell the managers at the end of the night exactly how much is supposed to be in the drawer, and they throw a fit if it’s off at all, above or below what it’s supposed to be.”

Guy: “No, you just gave me more than a dollar in change for no reason.”

He balls his hand into a fist around the coins and starts shaking them like a maraca.

Me: *Confused* “Sir, I’m pretty certain I gave you the 94 cents I was supposed to.”

Guy: “Yeah, man, that’s more than a dollar.”

And he walked off.

I am befuddled.

I work at a car wash at a gas station. We have some of those vacuums that you put quarters in. A customer comes up to me and complains.

Customer: “The vacuum isn’t working! I put a dollar in, and it won’t start.”

I go to check out the problem.

Me: “Oh, it looks like someone has blocked the coin slot with something.”

Customer: “You mean the money slot? That was me! It won’t take my money!”

She had tried putting a dollar bill in the coin slot; she had folded it up a bunch of times to try and get it in.

In Texas, to be sales tax-exempt, you have to be a farmer, a church, work for the government, etc. For everyone else, you pay sales tax on most non-food-related items in my state; it doesn’t matter if you’re the governor or a tourist.

In order for a tax-exempt purchase to go through we (the cashiers) have to have the right paperwork filled out, signed, and submitted. Each. And. Every. Time. Someone wants to buy something. It is a long process that takes far longer than it should, holds up the line, and makes cranky customers more cranky.

All that being explained, throw it out the window when it comes to this guy. This older man comes up to my register where I scan and bag his items. I tell him his total, and this is where the confusion starts.

Me: “Your total will be $50.83, sir.”

Customer: “I don’t pay tax.”

Me: “Oh, do you have your tax-exempt paperwork ready with your exemption number?”

Customer: “No, I don’t have paperwork, and I don’t pay tax.”

I’m really confused at this point.

Me: “I’m sorry, but if you don’t have your paperwork, I can’t process the sale without tax. You’ll have to pay the tax and then go through the tax office to try to get a refund.”

This man just looks at me like I’m the dumbest creature on this planet and he doesn’t know why he has to talk to me.

Customer: “I’m from Oregon! I don’t pay sales tax there, and I’m not going to pay your tax! Now take it off or I’m leaving!”

I have a vague understanding (and I could be wrong) that if you visit a sales-tax state, like Texas, and you live in a non-sales-tax state like Oregon, you can get a refund on the sales tax when you get home. But at the time of this purchase (2013), you have to pay the sales tax. Also, it’s not like I would’ve known this guy was from a different state just by looking at him.

Me: “Sir, this is Texas, and everyone pays sales tax. Everyone. I can’t exempt you just because you’re from another state; I don’t even have a way to input that into my computer. Sorry.” 

He, of course, got mad and started walking out of the store yelling about how he didn’t pay sales tax and he was not going to. My coworkers just looked at him like he was a nut, and I explained what had happened when he left.

My manager just rolled his eyes, muttered about what a “f****** dumba**” the guy was, and went back to building a display case.