When I was a young teen, I worked at a fifties-themed restaurant in our heavily tourist-oriented downtown. I was just the dishwasher and prep cook, and the real star of our little restaurant was our elderly cook.

She made all our fabulous baked goods, soups, desserts, and sauces, and she had “signature” items that drew in a lot of people. She had been a sous-chef at some high-end, fancy restaurant before her age made her look for something less demanding. She was in her 70s, a tough, plainspoken, chain-smoking kitchen genius. One of the things she made better than anyone else was scones.

One busy Sunday morning, she had already worked her hours and gone home. I was alone in the kitchen, since the fry cook had left for a bathroom break and the restaurant’s owner was up front handling the cash register.

Suddenly, a very large, loud woman in a vividly red dress barged into the kitchen and started yelling at me that she wanted the cook’s scone recipe. She forced me into a corner and kept screaming in my face about how she came to Stratford every year and how the cook always refused to share her recipe.

I was only fourteen and a rather timid, shy fourteen at that, and the woman’s yelling, flailing arms, and intrusion into my physical space had me scared, flustered, and close to tears.

The business’s owner heard the woman yelling even over the din of a full restaurant and ran into the kitchen. Seeing what was going on, she grabbed the screeching woman by the neck of her dress and bodily hauled her out of the restaurant. As she frog-marched the woman out, she yelled into her ear, “I will not have anyone coming into my restaurant, barging into my kitchen, and abusing my staff! Get out! If I ever see you back here again, I’ll have you charged with trespassing!”

The owner then came back into the kitchen and calmed me down. She told me that this woman was an American tourist who came every summer and always tried some ugly tactic to attempt to get the cook to part with the recipe. She had already tried bribing her, waiting until the end of her shift and following her to her home, and even threatening her. The cook had always managed to send her packing with her typical snarkiness.

She also told me that the only reason the cook wouldn’t give her the recipe is that it required steps to be done in perfect order, with exact timing, and with a very light touch, and she doubted the screaming, overly-entitled tourist nutbar could manage it… and she was just the type to sue her if her attempts at the recipe failed.

We never saw the insane tourist harpy again, thankfully.

I am a security guard, and I worked shoplifting prevention for a highly publicized and hugely popular annual Midnight Madness sale that has always drawn a large and sometimes rowdy crowd.

A huge line had formed at the door before midnight, waiting for the store to open. Among the first in line was a woman of about my age — mid-30s — who was obviously disabled with cerebral palsy. She wore a heavy-looking brace system on both legs and partway up her torso and walked using two canes. Because of the disability and the braces and canes, she walked a little slower and less steadily than able-bodied people. We were chatting while everyone waited for the store to open and I warned her that some people get pushy during sales like these.

A few minutes later, the store unlocked its doors and officially opened for the sale. The disabled lady began walking in, heading for the store’s scooters. She was doing just fine until a scuzzy-looking chick wielding a baby carriage like a weapon came up from behind her and started pushing and yanking at the disabled woman, who looked like she was going to fall because of the aggressive baby-mama shoving at her.

I ran over. I took the disabled lady’s arm and told the baby-mama that she had no right to shove another customer.

She retorted with, “These [mentally disabled slurs] have no right to be here, holding up the line!”

At that point, I saw red. The disabled lady was not mentally impaired, and even if she had been, she still had the right to be there and the right to be treated with respect and not called a hideously bigoted term.

I said to the disabled lady, “Would you like to press charges for physical assault against this jerk?”, and she said no. At that point, the baby-mama started screaming obscenities at me and at the disabled lady.

I took baby-mama by the arm and escorted her and her stunned-looking toddler in the baby carriage out forcibly. I told her that she was not welcome back tonight or at any other time. At that, she dropped the trailer-trash obscenity production and started whining about how the store I had just banned her from was the only one within walking distance of her apartment and how was she supposed to get groceries now?!

I said to her that she should have thought of that before assaulting a disabled person and making an absolute embarrassment of herself with the screamed obscenities and the bigoted comment. She whined at me a few minutes more, until I said that I’d be happy to call the police and explain what she did and said to them. She took off fast after that, dragging the baby carriage and the stunned-looking toddler along with her. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

(I am working at the customer service desk when a woman comes up to me carrying a light fixture that is not in a box and has obviously been installed.)

Customer: “I’m looking for a light fixture. This one. You need to replace it; it doesn’t work anymore!”

Me: “All right, let me see what I can do about that. I just need to make sure it’s something we have in stock.”

(The woman has neither the packaging, nor the receipt, so it takes some doing to find the item, but I eventually locate it in the computer. Unfortunately, I’m on my own and can’t leave the desk to go get it for her.)

Me: “I found the light for you, ma’am. It’s down aisle 49, bay number 1. It will be at the front of the aisle on the left.”

Customer: “What does that mean, bay 1?”

Me: *pointing down an aisle near us* “Do you see how the aisles are divided up into sections? There are signs labeling where the sections are divided, and we call those sections ‘bays.’ You can see the signs here. You want the very first bay on the left-hand side, which will be labeled with a number 1.”

(The woman seems to understand and goes on her way. Sometime later she returns with her light fixture, absolutely fuming.)

Customer: “Your numbering system is stupid!”

Me: “Did you have a problem?”

Customer: “I looked for the label like you said, but there was a tag with a one, and there was a tag with two ones! I didn’t know where to look!”

Me: “Ma’am… the two ones would be an eleven.”

(When I am a kid, a good friend lives across the street with his grandparents. One day, my dad and I see him and his grandmother piling into the car, the grandmother visibly upset. Curious, we go over.)

Dad: “Everything all right?”

Friend’s Grandfather: “Yeah, [Friend] just hurt his hand using the stapler. It is still lodged in there, so [Grandmother] is taking him to the clinic.”

Dad: “Why? They are just going to take it out and then put a new staple in!”

Friend’s Grandfather: “That’s what I said! They are wasting three hours!”

(My friend returned later, with a — sterilized — surgical staple and relieved grandmother. By then, both my dad and his grandfather had thoroughly discussed which tool in their toolboxes they would have used to take care of the problem at home.)

(For the past four years or so, every time I get sick I end up with a lasting cough. When it started, it was for about a week after I got over the cold, but most recently it lasted almost two whole months before going away. This September, I get a cold again, and I’m already ticked because now I’m going to have a cough all winter. One of my coworkers tells me to call my doctor. I keep putting it off, but she keeps hounding me to do it. Finally, on my day off, I call and make an appointment for the next Tuesday. The Friday before is the next time I see this particular coworker.)

Me: “Hey, [Coworker], I finally made that doctor’s appointment.”

Coworker: “What?”

Me: *a little louder* “I finally made a doctor’s appointment for my cough.”

Coworker: “Good, you really should get in to see someone about that.”

Owner: *from the office* “Yes, you should go see a doctor about that. You are exposing everyone here.”

Me: *even though I know I’m long over the cold and most likely not contagious anymore* “Yes, I know; that’s why…”

Owner: *interrupting* “And it looks really bad at the front desk. When a guest walks in and you start coughing, they think they will get it.”

Me: “I know, that’s why…”

Owner: *interrupting again* “People won’t want to stay here because they think they’ll get sick. You are driving away business.”

Coworker: “Mr. [Owner]! Let him finish! He literally just said he made a doctor’s appointment for his cough. If you’d stop interrupting him, you would know that.”

Owner: “Oh, well, good, because you should really see a doctor about that cough.”

Me: *internally face palming* “Yep, that’s why I have an appointment on Tuesday, Mr. [Owner].”