(I work in a loan office. My guests are generally very easy going, but occasionally they have fits like this one. Also, while requiring an ID for every loan has been a policy at my company for a while, I am the new manager and apparently the first one to adhere to this policy.)

Me: “How can I help you?”

Guest: “I need to pay off my loan and renew it.”

Me: “No problem. It’ll be $565.56 to pay off, and I’ll need a check and your ID.”

(The guest pays their loan and signs their check, and I begin to fill out the information on it — a service we offer because it’s 2018 and no one really knows how to fill out checks anymore.)

Me: “Awesome, [Guest], and I’ll need your ID, as well.”

Guest: “You need my ID? When did that start? I’m in here all the time and I’m never late. I’ve been coming here for 20 years!”

(He continues about how it’s all but unconstitutional that I ask him for his ID when I’m about to give him $500 and ask him to sign a contract.)

Me: “Sir, have you ever seen me before? Do you know me?”

Guest: “No?”

Me: “And I don’t know you. Besides that, it’s our policy to scan an ID when we issue a loan, every time. It’s been the policy for a while; everyone else should have been asking you, as well.”

Guest: *finally providing ID* “Fine, but why don’t you take ID for payments, as well?”

Me: “A lot of people send in relatives or friends to pay their bills because they’re at work; it would be silly to not let a guest’s husband pay their bill if the guest were at work.”

Guest: “That’s ridiculous. I would never ask anyone to come to pay my bill for me! I’m not even married!”

Me: *ignoring him and trying to process the loan*

Guest: “Don’t let anyone pay my bill!”

Me: “That’s fine. I’ll put a note in your account saying we need ID for every transaction.”

Guest: “Yeah, put a note in my account!”

(Two weeks later:)

Guest: “I need to pay off my loan and renew it.”

(He places the money on the counter, but I don’t make a grab for it.)

Me: “Awesome. I will need your ID, please!”

Guest: “What? I thought you only needed my ID for new loans!” *cue almost verbatim the same rant*

Me: *cutting him off* “Yes, sir, but I have a note in your account, per our last discussion, that you don’t want anyone else paying on your account and you’d like us to ask for ID for every payment!”

Guest: “Oh… That’s stupid; take that out.”

(I laughed after he left; from insanity or hysteria, I don’t really know.)

(I live a couple minutes away from a locally-owned fast food joint. They’re somewhat renowned for subpar service, but the food is pretty good, so my husband and I put up with it. Since we’re both picky eaters, I’m obsessive about double-checking our order. I pull up to the drive-thru and order our usual.)

Me: “Hi. I’d like a number one, plain, with cheese, and a chocolate malt. And another number one, pickles only, no cheese, and a [soda].”

(The employee reads the order back perfectly, mirroring the correct order I see on the screen. I pull up to the window, pay, and check the order on the receipt. Everything is definitely correct. I get our food and drive home. We open our burgers, and neither is correct. His has cheese but tons of veggies — easy enough to fix. Mine, however, is dripping with even more mayo and ketchup than they typically use on burgers. I take mine back and run inside the restaurant, since the drive-thru is now packed.)

Me: *presents the burger and receipt* “Hi! I just went through the drive-thru, and when I got home I realized neither burger matched the receipt. One was salvageable, but I need this one replaced. Can I get a plain number one burger with pickles only?”

Employee: *starts punching buttons on register* “Okay, so just one burger with pickles…”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not going to pay for a new burger. I just need you to give me the burger I paid for in the first place.”

(The employee looks panicked, then runs over and whispers to a manager, who I recognize as the one who handed me my order at the drive-thru.)

Manager: “So, you want us to give you a free burger? You couldn’t eat this one?” *opens burger wrapper and waves the soggy burger at me*

Me: “I’m really sorry; I just can’t eat a burger dripping with sauces I hate. Can I just get the burger that’s listed here on the receipt?”

(The manager snatches the receipt out of my hand, and stomps back to kitchen. She returns a couple minutes later, and smirks at me as she hands me a bag.)

Manager: “There, one plain burger with pickles.”

(She literally ran back into the kitchen as I tried to thank her. I was really worried that someone had spit on my burger, but being pregnant, starving, and grateful that my burger was indeed completely covered in pickles, I decided it was a risk worth taking!)

A few years ago my husband I traveled from Ireland to the USA to complete a coast-to-coast road trip. One day we stopped for lunch in a restaurant that sold every variety of soda you can think of.

At the time, I had seen a lot of talk online about the Mexican version of a popular soda; people were going crazy over it because it apparently tasted so much better than the American version. The restaurant had the Mexican version in stock — at an inflated price of course — and I decided to order one to see what the fuss was about.

My drinks arrived and I took a sip, only to find it tasted exactly like the soda at home. I asked my husband to try it, too, and he said the same thing. That’s when I realised that the Mexican version of the soda is made with real cane sugar, just like in Ireland, and the American version is made with fructose corn syrup. I basically traveled all the way to America to pay through the nose for the same drink we can get at home! My husband still hasn’t let me live it down.

(I work for a local non-profit that includes a thrift store that funds our work. We have a box truck that we use to pick up donations from people. We will pick almost anything with a few exceptions. The other day I answered the phone:)

Lady: “I would like to schedule a pickup time. I have a washing machine to donate.”

Me: “Great! Let me get some information from you. First, is the machine in working order?”

Lady: “No, but I figure that you could part it out or recycle it or something.”

Me: “I’m very sorry, but we cannot schedule our truck to pick up broken items. If you want us to have it you will have to find a neighbor or a friend to help you get it here.”

Lady: “No one will help me and I really wanted to give it to you guys.”

Me: “Ma’am, I am sorry but it costs more to send the truck to your house than we could get by recycling the metal in the washer.”

Lady: “But I really wanted to give it to you. I guess it will just have to send it to the landfill if you don’t come get it.”

Me: “I am sorry, but we cannot pick up non-working items because it costs too much.”

Lady: “Well, I will just have to send the machine to the landfill. The new machine is being delivered tomorrow and the old washer has to be gone and I really wanted to give it to you guys.”

Me: “I understand that it is important to keep it out of the landfill. Who are you buying your new washer from?”

Lady: “[Big Box Store].”

Me: “That is great news because I know that they will take your old washer away and recycle it for you. That way it won’t go to the landfill.”

Lady: “But I really wanted to give it to you guys.”

Me: “Ma’am, with fuel costs and labor costs it would cost us about $50 to pick up your washer and we might get $5 for recycling it. We simply cannot pick up broken items. But [Big Box Store] will take it to recycle it for you when they bring your new one.”

Lady: “But I really wanted to give it to you guys.”

(I tried a few more times to explain the logic of why it did not make sense for us to lose money when it is hard enough as a charity to raise the necessary funds to perform our work. I just kept getting the response. “But I really wanted to give it to you guys.”)

Me: *at this point starting to lose my patience* “Surely you see that it doesn’t make sense for us to spend $50 to send our truck to you when we will only get $5 for your broken washer.”

(Recycling is not our charity work; alleviating poverty is.)

Lady: “But I really wanted to give it to you guys.”

(At this point I did not know what else to say that would get my message across to her so I just told her one more time that we would not pick up her broken washer and hung up quickly. I am still puzzled as to why she wanted to gift us her broken washer that would cost more money than we could make from it.)

(What was supposed to be a slow, peaceful night shift has turned hellish. A woman is assaulted in our elevator, and as the police are wrapping that up, two women run in frantically because their friend who is staying with us is trying to commit suicide in her room. By the end of the night I’m exhausted from dealing with police and EMS, and I just want to go home. This is the first call I get when people start waking up in the morning:)

Me: “Guest Services. [My Name] speaking; how can I help you?”

Guest: “What are your breakfast hours?”

Me: “[Times].”

Guest: “Okay… also, I have just, um… a ‘comment.'”

Me: *already knowing she really means “complaint”* “Oh?”

Guest: “Yes, well, when I got to my room last night, there was only one washcloth, and we needed two.”

(I can’t even respond for a second, as I would have been so beyond caring about even a legitimate complaint, never mind one this inane.)

Me: “Well, I’m sorry about that. Do you want me to have someone bring you another?”

Guest: “Well, we don’t need it now. We needed it last night. I just thought there ought to have been two when we got here.”

(There is an expectant pause. I will give discounts for a lot of things, but being too dumb to call and ask for a washcloth when you need one is not one of them.)

Me: “Well, I’m sorry about that, ma’am. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you today; have a good morning!” *click*

(At least when I repeated the interaction to my manager, I got to hear her response: “Well, if you needed it so badly, you should have called and asked for it, you dumb b****.”)