My dad had to throw away his favorite pair of sneakers after they were ruined and asked me to order him a new pair as it was during the health crisis and stores were closed. The problem was that he didn’t know the brand name; he would always just get the same pair and would look for them in the store. However, my dad had the stereotypical “dad shoes,” so on a hunch, I Googled “dad shoes” to see if it was the correct pair.

Me: “Dad, is this the pair that you want?”

Dad: “That’s it exactly! How did you find them so quickly?!”

I scrolled up so he could see my search bar.

Dad: “Well, at least it’s nice to know I’m part of the official club.”

My first job in high school is as a scorekeeper at a trapshooting range. Five guys with shotguns line up sixteen yards away from the trap house and shoot at bright orange clay pigeons. A shooter calls “pull” or some variation thereof to indicate they are ready for a target. Before the days of voice-activated pulls, it’s the scorekeeper’s job to push a button immediately upon hearing “pull.” If a shooter feels the pull came late, they won’t shoot at it. Most are pretty nice as this is an unusual occurrence. Each bank has four traps where the shooters take aim at twenty-five targets each. Their final score is out of 100.

I’m at the fourth trap of the bank. We are a few shots into the round when the only teenage shooter of this group calls “pull.” I push the button and he lowers his gun and calls, “Late.” I don’t think it was, but I give him the benefit of the doubt. I send another target when he calls again and we move on.

A few shots later, the same thing happens. He asks for a target, I push the button, he calls, “Late,” and doesn’t shoot. I know I wasn’t late and suspect he simply didn’t like the placement of the target when it left the trap house. Now I’m paying special attention to him.

A few shots later, he calls, I push the button, and he simply lowers his gun without saying anything.

Me: “Failure to fire.”

This is usually called when a gun misfires but is also appropriate when a shooter chooses not to fire at a good target. If a shooter has more than one failure to fire per round, he will be charged with a missed shot. The teenager turns to me, mouth wide open.

Teenager: “Excuse me?!”

Me: *Pointedly* “Failure to fire. That was a good pull.”

He looks around at the other shooters in his group for support, all of whom are studiously ignoring him and not making eye contact. The round continues as normal. He fires at every target after that.

At the end of the round, shooters usually come up to check their scores, say thank you, etc. The teenage shooter stalks away without coming by my chair. The lead shooter comes up to me.

Lead Shooter: “He’s been pulling that crap all day and you’re the first one to call him on it. Here, this is for having a backbone.”

He handed me $20!

I’ve been helping a woman shop for gifts for her daughter. She finds them cheaper on our website, but I’m unable to price-match due to stupid corporate rules. The woman buys three items and orders the other three online. After I ring her up for her three, she looks at me expectantly.

Customer: “So, now that I’ve bought these online, do I just pick them up now or…?” 

Me: “Well, you ordered them online so they’ll be shipped to the store in a few days.” 

Customer: “WHAT?! BUT I NEED THEM TODAY!” 

I’m staring in disbelief, not sure what she thought was going to happen. 

Me: “I apologize for the confusion, but you did order them online to get the sale price, so you’ll have to wait for them to come in, or you can buy them full price now and we can refund the difference when your order arrives.” 

Customer: “No, no, that won’t work for me. You will return and refund all of this right this instant.” 

I manage to keep my cool, despite her comments that we’re a scam and don’t know what good customer service means. I refund the three items she bought and she leaves, knocking over a display as she goes. 

Next Customer: “Jesus Christ, what a moron!”

I have spent the last two years working in the kitchen of a local casino. I have been either cooking for the employees or doing the majority of the prep work for the casino buffet. I don’t deal with the general public.

Today, I clock in to find they want me to run the dessert counter on the buffet. Most of our cakes are premade and presliced, so aside from keeping the options for guests full, my other job is to plate the cakes. As I’m doing this, a blissfully clueless woman comes up to look at the desserts.

Guest: “Excuse me, what’s in the chocolate cake?”

I simply think she is looking for allergens and she also seems polite.

Me: “Flour, eggs, gluten, sugar, cocoa, milk…”

Guest: “No! No, no, what is in the chocolate cake?”

I reach over to grab the ingredient list and start to recite the list for her and politely as possible.

Guest: “No, no, no! How can you not know what is in your chocolate cake?!”

We stare at each other for a moment.

Guest: “So, what is in the chocolate cake?”

Me: *As emotionless as I can* “Chocolate and cake.”

Guest: “Manager, now!”

I leave the dessert table to find a manager; thankfully, one is close. I explain the situation. He is less than pleased with my last response but doesn’t say anything and goes straight to deal with the lady.

I get back to work but stay out of sight, and they have the same conversation, minus the last part. Then, she delivers this gem.

Guest: “I have Platinum on my card! I will not have anything less. Now, last chance, WHAT. IS. IN. THE. CHOCOLATE. CAKE?!”

There was a long moment of silence and curiosity got the better of me. I peeked around the corner to see my manager standing as though his brain had died. The customer finally gave up and walked away.

I never did find out what she wanted to find inside her cake. I’ve never seen Platinum as an edible.

I go to the gas station and pull up at one of the pumps. It’s morning, and the gas station is empty. I get out of my car, run my card at the pump, select my fuel type, and put the nozzle in the gas tank. It clicks but nothing happens. The pump is clearly not running. I check the pump to make sure I actually selected the fuel type; yes, I did select the fuel type I wanted since that one is showing the price, whereas the other two are no longer showing the price. I try again; nothing comes out. I check to make sure my credit card was read by the machine; the screen does not indicate anything is wrong. I try to get the pump started a few more times, each time checking both the fuel screen and the payment screen to see if I missed a step. There is no sign indicating that the pump is out of order. Finally deciding that the problem may be the attendant failing to activate the pump, I finally go inside.

The attendant is standing at the counter, looking at me. Considering that I am the only customer at the station and the pump I used is in her direct line of vision, I am wondering why she would not activate the pump.

Me: “Hi, pump two appears to not be working, and I checked everything—”

Attendant: “Yes, there was a sign on there before, but someone took it down. It only works on Premium.”

There is a long pause after she speaks. I stare at her, waiting for her to offer further assistance. I am incredibly confused as to why she would not replace the sign or put a bag over the pump. By all appearances, she seems to have literally NOTHING to do, and there were no cars around when I pulled in. In the past, I’ve even had attendants alert me over the intercom if something was wrong with my pump or the card reader as I was using it. This particular attendant makes absolutely no move to help, and her response does not offer a solution, like suggesting that I move to a different pump.

Me: “Um… are all the pumps like that?”

Attendant: “You can move to pump four if you want to use Regular.”

I sputtered a bit because I was frustrated and trying very hard not to take it out on her, even though I felt like she did nothing to prevent the situation from happening and seemed to not be interested in helping further. I just walked out of the gas station, moved my car, and tried again with pump four, which works perfectly.

I kept looking at the broken pump; the attendant was not coming out with a sign. I went to my car to make my own sign since I felt like she was going to let this happen to everyone who came to that pump. However, the second I was done making my sign, she came out with a sign and put it on the pump. We both made eye contact for a long moment before she turned around and went back inside. I just got back in my car and drove to work, making a mental note to never to go to that gas station if I could avoid it.