(I work in a store that is predominantly staffed by foreigners, but I am Caucasian. A customer approaches my till.)

Customer: “Hi, there.”

Me: “Good evening.”

(I start scanning the woman’s sizable cartload of groceries.)

Customer: “I’m so glad to see a white person behind the till for once!”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Customer: “Well, I am so sick of dealing with all these foreigners every time I want to buy some groceries! I’ll be sure to come back here when you are working in future!”

Me: “Uh, ma’am? You may leave now. I will not serve someone as incredibly rude and racist as you.”

Customer: “What do you mean, you won’t serve me?!”

Me: “Exactly what I said. Leave now. You will not receive service here, from me or anyone else.”

Customer: “How dare you?! I demand to speak to your manager at once!”

Me: “Certainly, ma’am. Let me call him over for you.”

(I call the manager on duty over to my register. The manager in question is a Chinese immigrant.)

Manager: *in a thick Chinese accent* “What’s the problem?”

(The customer’s face turned paper white, and she virtually ran from the store, leaving all her groceries behind. My manager turned to look at me, but it took ten minutes for him to get an explanation because I was laughing so hard.)

(I run sideshow games at an amusement park, and because of all the negative stereotypes of carnival games portrayed in movies and such, many people often wrongly believe that the games are rigged. One of the games uses a fishing rod to pick up a duck with a hook in it. Each duck has a different colour dot underneath it to identify the type of prize the player could win. The best prize is a stuffed bulldog and there are two ducks out of fifty that have the proper colour needed to win one.)

Customer: “How do I win one of those bulldogs there?”

Me: “You need to pay for a turn to play the game. Then, if you manage to pick up a duck with that rod that has a certain colour underneath it, you can choose that prize.”

Customer: “Pfft, probably rigged, anyway.”

(He then leaves for a few minutes and comes back when I’m serving two other customers who are playing the game.)

Customer: “Oi, give me one of those bulldogs!”

Me: “You have to play the game to win one, sir. I can’t just give it to you.”

Customer: “How the f*** am I supposed to win it when all the games are rigged?”

Me: “The games aren’t rigged, sir, but if you feel that strongly about it, you don’t have to play.”

Customer: “Give me the toy, then.”

Me: “Sir, I have already said that you need to play the game first to win the toy. If you don’t think you can do it, then you can probably buy a toy just like this in a store somewhere.”

(The customer then goes on a rant about how he’s already paid to get into the amusement park and how I am trying to scam him with a rigged game.)

Customer: “Give me the toy or I’ll jump over there and f****** smash you.”

(I get a bit nervous at this point as he is much bigger than I am and looks like he could really hurt me.)

Me: “I wouldn’t do that, sir; there are children around and a security guard just over there.”

(I signal my coworker to call the security guard over.)

Customer: “I swear to God I’m gonna smash your f****** head in.”

(The security guard was almost there at that point. The customer realised this and, after a few more curses, he left. I was still shaking with nerves an hour later.)

In New Zealand, we have “pay it forward” initiatives where you can ask for help with pretty much anything except asking for straight money. The idea is that for every instance you accept a gift, you try to gift something or several somethings yourself, even if it’s just time cleaning a yard up or cleaning a house.

A friend of mine and her partner have had it really rough recently but refused to ask for help; for three weeks they were homeless, and she’s eight months pregnant. When they got a house, they found out that the only heating available was a fireplace — we’re heading into winter in New Zealand. So, when firewood was on offer on the pay-it-forward page, I asked to be considered on their behalf. My ask was accepted and we went to pick up the wood.

The lovely lady who was gifting the wood floored us all with her generosity, telling us to take as much as we wanted because it all had to go. We filled my van twice and still have to go back tomorrow to do more. But before we called it a night, this wonderful woman also gifted both my friend and me a package each of vegan, cruelty-free baby soap!

If you’re reading this, know that your generosity and genuine care for others has stunned us and that you have made the prospect of winter for two wonderful people who fell on hard times not only bearable but pleasant.

This story is part of our Pay It Forward roundup!

Read the next Pay It Forward story!

Read the Pay It Forward roundup!

(I create the ads for a small weekly magazine, and I have a pretty strict time frame to have them completed and signed off before the layout of the publication can commence. The advertising sales manager, however, will take new bookings with no regard to deadlines in an effort to make herself look good. From my point of view, this just means working through lunch or staying late, with no extra pay, to get them done in time.)

Sales Manager: “We have a new ad to make for [Customer].”

Me: *worried* “We’re getting really close to print deadline. I’m not sure I can get it done and signed off in time.”

Sales Manager: “It’s okay. I typed up all the ad copy for you.”

(It’s the layout, design, and sign-off of the ad that tends to take a lot more time than simple copy typing. Still, we’re really short of time, so I’ll take anything I can get that will shorten the process.)

Me: “Thanks. Where did you save the document?”

Sales Manager: *blank look*

Me: “Is it on the shared folder on the server or will you email it to me?”

Sales Manager: “Oh, I didn’t save it.” *hands me a typed piece of paper* “But I typed it up for you.”

Me: *baffled* “But… why would you type it up, and then not save it?”

Sales Manager: “So it’s easier for you to read than handwriting.” *looks very pleased with herself, as if she thinks she’s done me a huge favour*

Me: “…”

(I have had platinum blonde hair for all of my childhood and right into my mid-late 20s. In this story, I am sixteen and my friend is fourteen. We are travelling to school on the bus one morning.)

Friend: *randomly* “You know, your hair isn’t blonde. It’s too pale.”

Me: “Okay, if you say so. What colour is it, then?”

Friend: “I don’t know, but it isn’t blonde.”

Me: “Well, if it isn’t blonde, what is it? Is it black?”

Friend: “No.”

Me: “Is it red?

Friend: “No.”

Me: “Is it brunette?”

Friend: “No.”

Me: “Are you saying you think my hair is white?”

Friend: “No, it’s not that pale.”

Me: “So, it must be blonde.”

Friend: “No! I told you! It’s too pale!”

Me: “Soooo, what colour is it, then?”

Friend: “I. Don’t. Know. It’s just too pale to be blonde.”

Me: *smirking* “Okay, whatever.”

(I didn’t bother arguing with her anymore since I was familiar with her intransigent nature. However, being only a mere teenager, I did have a giggle with mutual friends about her claim later on.)