(I work in a library, and one of the best parts of my job is when I get to go shopping for new books with what essentially amounts to a blank cheque. The bookstore we have an account with knows us, and when I or my colleagues turn up to do some buying they usually give us a big trolley to pile up our purchases in. These are staff trolleys; most customers in the shop wouldn’t use anything bigger than a shopping basket. I’m dressed in casual shopping clothes; the staff have uniforms, name tags, and lanyards. Another customer approaches me while I’m pushing my trolley around selecting books.)

Customer: “Excuse me. Do you know if you have [New Popular Cookbook] in stock?”

Me: “Sorry, I don’t work here!”

Customer: “Oh, I just thought…” *gestures at the trolley*

Me: “Yeah, I know it’s confusing. But I actually work for a library and I’m here buying some new stock!”

(The customer stares at me blankly before walking away. This has happened to me before, and this is the second time that line has gone down with blank stares and borderline hostile reactions, as if it’s my fault that they made the mistake and can’t just laugh it off or admit that they’re super jealous that I get paid to shop for books. I continue on my merry way, until about five minutes later, when the same woman approaches me again in a different aisle.)

Customer: “Do you know where [Some Other Specific Book] is?”

Me: *incredulously* “I still don’t work here?”

Customer: “Oh, I know. I just thought you might know, anyway.”

(The store is busy, but there’s always staff around who are knowledgeable and eager to help. I have no idea why she decided that I was more likely to know than they were, or why she doubled down on being wrong. But my library got new books, so it’s all good!)

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 33
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 32
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 31

(My old and very tricky car is hot wired and stolen, but only makes it halfway down the road before it breaks down. The thief takes my car seat covers and runs. I have to file a police report for insurance.)

Me: “Hey! Someone tried to steal my car. We found it, but I need to file a report.”

Police Officer: *laughs* “Aw, sweetheart. Are you sure it was stolen?”

Me: “Pretty sure, yeah.”

Police Officer: “Sure you didn’t just park it and forget where you left it? Girls sometimes forget things.”

Me: “Well, considering I tend to not rip all of the wiring out of my dashboard when I park it, I’m pretty sure.”

Police Officer: “Oh. Right. That makes sense.”

(I need to put petrol in my car but I’m not sure I have any money on my credit card. Not wanting to be stuck unable to pay, as I’m a long way from home, I go inside to pay before filling up.)

Me: “Hi, I’m not sure I have any money in my account, so can I pay $50 before I fill up?” *holding up my credit card*

Cashier: “You want to prepay?”

Me: “Yes, please, $50.”

(She seems confused, but progresses the payment, which gets approved.)

Me: “Phew. Wasn’t sure that would work”

Cashier: “You know you can just preselect 50 at the pump?”

Me: “Yes, but I wasn’t sure I had the money to pay for it.”

Cashier: “Yeah, but you can just select 50 at the pump.”

(For those that don’t know, this literally just delivers $50 worth of fuel; it has nothing to do with payment, which must be done from inside the building.)

Me: *holds up card again* “Yeah, but it was my card; I wasn’t sure would work.”

Cashier: “Just select 50 at the pump next time.”

Me: “But I wasn’t sure I could pay for it.”

Cashier: “You just press the 50 button.”

(I just sighed and walked out. She watched me from the window, with a confused expression the whole time, as I filled up $50 worth and drove off.)

I am working on reception at a fairly up-market hotel. A female customer comes to check out. She is attractive but looks very tired.

She has been with us for a fortnight and in that time she has never allowed housekeeping into her room. She has requested many new towels, though, leaving the dirty ones outside her door for pick-up.

We have been suspicious about her for a while, thinking she is probably a prostitute. This is against our rules, but the hotel is quite big and people can enter the premises without coming under the nose of reception staff, so it’s hard to catch them out. As long as their customers are discreet and they don’t cause a noise complaint or similar anti-social issue, there’s not much we can do about it.

When I print out the bill, she offers me a wad of cash, many thousands of dollars. We don’t have a credit card imprint, because she checked in with a cash bond, instead. I smile and tell her it will just be a couple of minutes, as we have to check her mini-bar, and dash up to her room.

It is an absolute ruin.

The carpet is dotted with hundreds of burns, where cigarettes have been flicked onto the floor. It’s also stained with food and wine.

The curtains have sweat marks on them. The glass is cracked in the shower. The bed is a wreck, structurally broken at one end and horribly stained across the mattress.

And the whole room stinks of body odour and smoke. It is absolutely overpowering, making me want to retch. We are a non-smoking hotel, and it smells like she was burning tyres in there.

I march back down to reception and let her know we have to repaint the room, replace the carpet and furniture, and charge her for the week it will take to do it. This is a standard charge for room-wreckers, which adds more than $20,000 to her bill.

She pays at once. In cash.

(I’m in the ER with my husband after he broke his arm. A woman and her adult daughter are in the curtain area next to us from what I can gather the older woman had a fall and hit her head and doesn’t remember what happened and lost her hearing aids. The nurse is asking her some general questions.)

Nurse: “Okay just a few questions: what is your full name?”

Older Woman: “[Name].”

Nurse: “Great, and your birthdate?”

Older Woman: “Pardon?”

Daughter: *bit louder* “Your birthday mum”

Older Woman: “Oh it’s [birthdate].”

Nurse: “Who is the prime minister?”

Older Woman: “I’m sorry what?”

Daughter: *louder again* “Who’s the idiot that runs the country?”

Older Woman: “Oh that’s Tony Abbott”

(My husband and I start can’t help but laugh. The nurse had a good chuckle too.)