(A customer comes up through my pharmacy drive-thru and hands me a script for Oxycontin, 30mg, which we do not carry.)

Customer: “I’d like to fill this script here.”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t carry this particular medication.”

Customer: “But I want it.”

Me: “We don’t carry this, though. There’s a pharmacy a few blocks from here that does carry this; have you tried filling there?”

Customer: “I don’t want to fill it there. I want it here. You know what? I’m not going to argue with you morons. I’ll come back in an hour to pick it up.”

(I have had no chance to verify any information for this patient — no date of birth, no phone number. The patient comes back in about twenty minutes:)

Customer: “Is it ready yet?”

Me: “No, and we don’t carry this medication.”

Customer: “But I want it now! You had a whole hour to figure it out! Let me speak to your manager!”

(I bring my manager over, and she tells him the exact same thing.)

Customer: “Oh, really? I didn’t know that. Maybe your employee should have told me that before wasting my time.”

(When you come to pick up a prescription, I have to make sure it’s going to the right person or I get written up and, if I get written up enough times, lose my job. This particular pharmacy asks that we verify the address on file, but if they don’t know it, I’ll usually take some other manner of verification if necessary. It’s late, and there’s an hour and a half left to go of a seven-hour day, and all I want to do is go home, so I admit I’m a bit tired. A guy comes up who couldn’t be more than 22, I’d guess, and I smile and go to the register, asking him who he’s picking up for.)

Guy: “My girlfriend.”

Me: “Okay. What’s her name?”

Guy: “[First Name].”

(I need a last name in particular to search, and unfortunately most of the younger crowd usually never give their last name unless prompted. I have no idea why.)

Me: “What’s her last name?”

Guy: “[Last Name].”

(I go over to get it, which doesn’t take long, and return.)

Me: “And what’s her address, please?”

(He gives me this look like I’ve told him that the sky is green or that he’s standing on his head.)

Guy: “I’ve picked up before and they’ve never, ever asked me for her address before.”

(Then he clearly hasn’t picked up for her before at this pharmacy, because we always ask for the address. I say it so often that even when I’m doing things that don’t require it, I sometimes end up saying the words. Sometimes I end up asking them their address before I ask their name, before I can stop myself.)

Me: “Um… We always ask for the address.”

Guy: “No one has ever asked me before!”

Me: “Well, sometimes if you don’t know it, we’ll try another way to verify. Do you know it?”

Guy: “No!”

Me: “Okay, what’s her date of birth?”

(That, he knows. He tells that to me and I’m assured that I have the right person. A new law was passed in July that on certain types and classes of medicines, I now have to ask for a form of ID and enter it into the computer. What he’s picking up falls into that class.)

Me: “I need to see your ID, please.”

Guy: “Why?”

Me: “It’s the law as of the first of July. I have to have an ID.”

Guy: “Does that mean I have to get hers from the car?”

Me: “No, I need yours, since you’re picking it up.”

Guy: “But… does that mean I have to get hers?”

Me: “Um… No. I need yours.”

Guy: “I don’t have mine.”

Me: “Then she has to come in and pick it up.”

Guy: “Why can’t I just go get hers and give it to you?”

(Now I can understand his hesitancy. There’s a big storm that has been going on all day, but neither weather nor annoying teenagers are going to make me break the law.)

Me: “Because it’s her license. Whatever license I have has to be for the person picking up. It’s the law.”

(We go back and forth about this for another minute, to the point that my pharmacist has to come over and back me up, telling him that we have to follow all rules and regulations, and if it’s her license, it has be her. He finally goes out to get her and comes back in. I think this is a wonderful opportunity to do my job right now that she’s here.)

Me: “What’s your address?”

Girl: *throws her ID on the counter* “On file.”

Me: *blink*

(I’ve never had a customer refuse to give their address. Sometimes they’ll pretend to give me a hard time or forget some of the numbers, but I’ve never had someone give me a smart a** remark about it being “on file,” because most have the intelligence to realize that there’s a reason I’m asking for it and it’s most certainly not to hear myself talk. I want to keep my job.)

Me: “I’m sorry; we ask that for verification. If you don’t know yo—”

Girl: *interrupts snottily* “I know my address. It’s [address].”

(She picked up her license from the counter and proceeded to throw it again. I decided I’d had enough of dealing with the twat that was clearly just too lazy to come in and sent her boyfriend in for her, since I could see no legitimate reason for her not to come in besides the rain. And part of me wanted a little bit of revenge for these people half my age giving me a hard time, so I took my time, every bit of it that I could, prolonging the transaction just because they were antsy. As they left, she shot me a glare, snatched up her prescription, and then went to the industrial scale nearby that people use to measure weight and proceeded to jump up and down on it once or twice before leaving.)

(I’m at common, nationwide pharmacy and grocery store when I see a woman walking a small dog down one of the aisles. While the woman is distracted, I watch the dog pee on a shelf filled with cereal boxes. The woman never seems to notice, so as I am heading to the cash, anyway, I decide to tell the cashiers about the dog. There are two cashiers and a supervisor at the front when I get up there.)

Me: “Hi, do you guys know you have a lady in here walking around with a dog?”

Supervisor: “Yeah, it’s fine.”

Me: “Really? So, I can bring my dog in with me next time?”

(Pointing at my dog sitting outside the glass window watching for me.)

Supervisor: “Ah, no. She’s just a friend, so it’s okay.”

Me: “Not really. Your company policy says no dogs except service dogs, so I should be allowed to bring my dog in if that woman can; it’s clearly not a service dog.”

Supervisor: “No, but it’s a really good dog! So, it’s okay for her, but uh, your dog can’t come in. “

(I see nothing wrong with dogs in stores as long as the owners are responsible, clean up if there’s an accident, and carefully watch them. I also have this view of parents with kids. My dog loves her pet store and hardware store walking trips, but this attitude annoyed me. Guess what I didn’t tell them?)

Customer: “Excuse me, can you help me with this photo machine?”

Me: “Yes, what’s the problem?”

Customer: “It printed all of my photos, but it’s telling me to bring the receipt to the counter, and it’s not printing a receipt.”

(Our kiosk’s receipt printer hasn’t worked in years, so we frequently have to give this explanation.)

Me: “The summary it printed after the last photo is what we use. It tells you how many pictures were in the order, and we can figure the price out from that.”

Customer: “But I don’t know how much photos cost!”

Me: “Well, they’re 29 cents each, and it says here there were 13 photos, so with that—”

Customer: “But it doesn’t tell me how much it’ll cost, or how many photos there are!”

(She begins counting the photos by hand, so I grab the calculator and work out the cost.)

Customer: “…twelve, thirteen. Now to get the cost. Thirteen times 29 cents…”

Me: “It’ll be $3.77 before tax, ma’am.”

(The customer ignores me and continues to write out the multiplication.)

Customer: “Okay, it’s $3.77! By the way, you don’t sell photo postcards here, do you? Or any of the stores in this square?”

Me: “I’m afraid we don’t; if anyone here does, it would probably be [Other Store], so I’d check there first.”

Customer: “Thank you. I’ll do that!”

(The customer immediately turns from the counter and starts toward the exit.)

Me: “Ma’am, you need to— Ma’am, you need to pay for those!”

Customer: “I did!”

Me: “No… you didn’t.”

Customer: “I paid it right over there, you can check my balance and see!”

(Fearful that she might have tried jamming her card into a slot on the kiosk, I rush around… only to find her pointing at the ATM next to it.)

Customer: “I slid it right here, and it says here you can check my balance to see.”

Me: “This is the store’s ATM, not part of the photo machine.”

Customer: “Well, can I check my balance?”

Me: “Uh… Yes?”

(With another customer waiting, I leave to ring them up while keeping the first customer in earshot while she uses the ATM.)

Customer: “It wants a PIN? It’s never asked for that before!”

(I finish checking the second customer out, right as the first customer walks back up to the counter.)

Customer: “Since when does it want a PIN for anything? Anyway, I guess I’ll trust that I still need to pay for these. But I’m using cash this time, not a card!”

Me: “All right, after tax, that’ll be four dollars even!”

(The customer pulls out a small wad of bills with a twenty and three ones visible. She returns to her purse, and I assume she’s getting a fourth dollar bill.)

Customer: “Feels like it’s been forever since I paid with cash!”

(She does pull out another wad of cash with another dollar bill, only to drop it and continue digging for two more handfuls. By the time she stops, I can see a five, a ten, a twenty, and far more ones than needed to pay for the pictures.)

Me: “Ma’am, you… have enough to pay for this…”

(Paying no attention to me, she begins straightening out some of the ones, the five, and the twenty. After she’s stacked twelve of them up, she sighs and slides me the ten.)

Customer: “Oh, just take it out of the ten, then.”

Me: “Um… Okay… And six dollars is your change!”

Customer: “Whew, never a dull moment, is there?”

Me: “Nope!”

(I’m a cashier at a pharmacy. Unfortunately, due to its rewards program, our chain is a haven for “Coupon Queens” to come buy a cartload of products for $3.00. I mean, do what you gotta do, but sometimes, the couponers get way out of hand. The customer in this story is a notorious regular, and he and his wife always make my coworkers and me go running when they come into the store. The customer, sans his wife, has been chatting to me while I ring him up, going on about saving this and saving that, occasionally snapping at me if I even look at one of the items he’s set aside for a third or fourth transaction. It takes fifteen minutes before I finally get it all rang up.)

Customer: “I’ll bring your cart back in when I get these out to my car. I just… Oh, s***!”

Me: “Is everything all right, sir?”

Customer: “I forgot to use my coupons on this stuff. Oh, my God, my wife is going to kill me. Here, you need to refund all of these so I can do it again and use my coupons.”

Me: “I… I’m sorry, sir. I can’t do that.”

Customer: “Well, why the h*** not? I have the coupons right here; there’s no one else in line right now.”

Me: “Sir, it’s against company policy. I cannot refund your items for full price, and then sell them back to you when you’re using coupons.”

Customer: “Well, I’m going to tell my wife you did this!” *storms out*

Related:
The Couponator 6: The Coupon Awakens
The Couponator 5: Online Decline
The Couponator 4: Deadly Discounts