CONTENT WARNING: Violence, Injury Detail

I was a young kid the year my dad was diagnosed with diabetes, so no delicious pie and treats for him at the big family gatherings. My dad’s brother (my uncle) makes awesome pies and is a huge troll, like HUGE.

He comes over with a pumpkin, apple, cherry, and blueberry pie for the next family gathering:

Uncle: “These are all for [Dad]!”

Dad: “Oh f*** off!”

Uncle: “Try one! They’re extra good this year!”

My uncle just keeps teasing him all day. When we’re seated for the meal:

Dad: “Can you pass me the potato?”

My uncle, of course, passes him pie.

My dad gets up, walks over to my uncle, and punches him right in the face, breaking his nose. He’s on the floor, bleeding, shouting for help. My mom, sitting near him, leans over and offers him pie.

That was the last time I saw him for a whole decade.

On New Year’s Day, we weren’t very busy by the afternoon, so I was standing at the front talking to the security guard. As we’re chatting, a woman walks into the giant window at the front of the store, before stumbling in holding her head.

Me: “Ma’am, are you okay?”

Customer: “I’m fine.”

Me: “Would you like to sit down, or—”

Customer: “—I said I’m fine.”

She proceeds to go to the meat section.

Customer: *Confused.* “Where did all the cigarettes go?”

It’s Christmas Eve, around 5 PM. We closed at 3:30 that year. The shutters are fully down, uniforms off, lights low, music up, staff rushing around setting up for the post-Christmas sale so we can go home.

We’ve had signs posted everywhere since the start of December that we were closing early. 

Suddenly, someone starts slamming on our shutters. Not tapping, but hammering like his life depends on getting inside. I walk over.

Me: “We’re closed.”

Customer: “I need a PlayStation for my son!”

This is the year the PS2 released. They’re sold out everywhere.

Me: “We don’t have any, and even if we did, we’re closed. Our tills are cashed. They can’t process anything.”

Customer: *Exploding into rage.* “LET ME IN! You’re lying! B***!”

He keeps pounding the shutters, kicking them, punching them, trying to shove his hand through the small gaps. At one point, he even tries lifting the shutter from the bottom like he can roll it up.

Thank God it’s a mechanical shutter; it needs a key for the motor or the interior-only hand crank.

The phone rings. It’s the security office upstairs. They’ve been watching him on the centre’s high-def cameras.

Security: “We’re sending someone down.”

They send our biggest ex-military security guard, along with backup. The guy is escorted out, still screaming down the corridor:

Customer: “THAT B**** RUINED MY SON’S CHRISTMAS! IT’S ALL HER FAULT THAT HE’S GETTING NOTHING!”

We go back to setting up the store, thinking about how close this man came to breaking into a retail unit over a console.

I am helping at a food pantry. Most of us are over sixty, except for a couple of Spanish women who are mid-forties. This has been a busy few weeks, especially so with Christmas next week.

We have a few simple rules: Check in. Be nice. Move the line as quickly as possible. Please don’t ask for more than is given. Keep off your phone. It takes less than five minutes to walk the line and leave with a decent amount of grocery products, desserts, meat, bread, and lots of vegetables.

One ‘Good Samaritan’ complained:

Pantry User: “You don’t have rye bread!”

Pantry User: “You don’t have apple pies!”

Pantry User: “You don’t have a Christmas ham!” *We had twenty-pound turkeys.*

Also, he wouldn’t get off his phone.

Me: “Sir, please get off the phone. You’re holding up the line.”

After three warnings:

Me: “Sir, you’re holding up the line. You need to leave.”

He was asked to leave, so he did the only sensible thing and punched a seventy-two-year-old man.

The police were called, a report was filed, charges will be filed, and we have the whole encounter on tape, including his car and license plate.

Merry Christmas, loser.

CONTENT WARNING: Injury detail.

It’s my first week working as a cashier in a big box store, part-time while in High School. As I’m ringing up stuff at the register closest to the door, I hear a commotion. I turn to see a guy, covered in blood, pushing a shopping cart with a TV. He’s running for the door. The asset protection security guy is giving chase.

Asset Protection: “Stop! That TV is busted! It’s not worth it!”

Customer: “F*** you!”

An old lady customer whom I didn’t even see, steps forward and thwacks the guy with her heavy purse. The strength of her swing, combined with his already significant momentum, means he falls straight to the ground.

The asset protection guy pounces on him, and as they fight a little, this is when I notice the guy’s arm is just spewing blood everywhere, all over the floor, right at the store exit.

Me: “Uh… you okay?”

Asset Protection: *Holding him down.* “Police are already on their way.”

The store manager has now run over.

Store Manager: “What happened?!”

Asset Protection: “I caught him stealing a display model on the top shelf. When I surprised him, he sliced his arm open on the metal shelves while pulling the TV down. Busted both his TV and his arm.”

Store Manager: “You got blood all over you.”

Asset Protection: “Couldn’t be helped.”

The store manager looks over at me.

Store Manager: “And on you.”

Me: “What?!”

I look down, and in the ruckus, some of the guy’s blood has sprayed onto my apron.

Me: “Gross!”

The blood spill meant we had to call professional hazmat cleaners. They came and did all their cleaning while the store stayed open for business (because America). Everyone who got blood on them had to get blood work done to make sure they didn’t contract anything.

My first week in retail!

CORRECTION: Speaker title error has been corrected.