I’m working in the drive-thru. I take an order and the car pulls to the window to pay. I do my usual spiel and the driver goes to pass me a folded-up bill.

I reach out, but just as I’m about to grab it, I realize that it’s a $100 bill which we don’t accept.

Me: *Pulling my hand back* “Oh, I’m sorry, but we don’t—”

The customer, thinking I was holding the bill, lets go, sending it off in the wind.

I have never moved so fast in my life. I practically vault the counter and go Juggernaut through the front door to chase after the money. Thankfully, it doesn’t get far. Thoroughly out of breath, I run inside and hand it back to the customer.

Me: *Panting* “I’m sorry… We… don’t take $100… bills… Do you… have… another way… to pay?”

We’ve introduced chicken snack wraps as a promotional item. I’ve somehow managed to become the go-to for making them. One of my coworkers will even specifically ask for me by name to make hers for break, even if I’m on another station, since I’m the only one who can ever do her only special request properly.

That request is, and I quote:

Customer: “Extra lettuce, but like, not a lot extra. Just a little extra. But not too much.”

I put the normal amount on every single one and she’s never said a word.

At the end of each transaction, we are required to ask the customer if they would like to donate to a local charity that is geared towards helping under-privileged children get active. It is completely their choice if they want to, and if so, how much.

Me: “Would you like to make a donation to [Local Charity]?”

Customer: “Sure.”

Awkward silence.

Me: “How much would you like to donate?”

Customer: “Oh, that’s confidential.”

Me: “But I can’t put in the donation amount unless you tell me how much you want to donate.”

Customer: “Well, you’re not supposed to let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” *Slightly angrier.* “Forget it. I’m not donating anymore.”

We finish the transaction without a donation. After the customer leaves, my colleagues, my supervisor and I all look at each other, extremely confused at what had just happened.

My husband works at a cannabis dispensary on Indigenous land, so many of the government regulations don’t apply. Apparently, people think that means there are NO rules.

A customer comes in, orders some cannabis products, and then browses the paraphernalia. He looks to be in his forties.

Customer: “Hmm, I’m not sure…”

Husband: “Anything I can help you with? We have lots of designs. What are you looking for?”

Customer: “I just don’t know! I’m buying for my son, and I don’t know which he’d prefer.”

Husband: “You can always come back with him. We’re open until 9:00 pm.”

Customer: “Oh, no. He’s too young to come in here.”

Husband: “You do realize I can’t sell to you now, right?”

Customer: “What?! Why?”

One fine summer, when I was still a student, I was in the dreaded process of sending out applications to as many jobs as possible in hopes of securing a summer job. I would take my cover letter and resume from the previous job, change the details, and tailor the content to the job I was applying for. Lather, rinse, repeat. I had been at it for a while and was starting to feel tired.

One application was for a water tour company that gave tours around the harbour. The official job title was “Boat Captain”. I did my resume and cover letter and sent them off. The next was for a server position at a local restaurant. I changed the details and sent that off, too.

When I came to the next application, I read over the cover letter I had just sent out to the restaurant and discovered, to my horror, that I had left the last line unedited from the previous application. 

The last line of my cover letter to this restaurant read: “I believe these qualities would make me a successful boat captain.”

Needless to say, I didn’t get the job, but I can only imagine the look on the person’s face as they read my cover letter.