(I am an assistant manager. We are located in a suburb, and our clientele tends to be on the affluent side. It is not common for us to have clients from the city branches come out to our area. A customer approaches the counter and asks to withdraw money. I am standing nearby and overhear the conversation, though I am waiting on the phone and cannot interject.)

Customer: “I want to withdraw money, but I have nothing in the account.”

Teller: “Let me look it up… You are correct. We cannot do a withdrawal, because the balance is currently at zero.”

Customer: “It’s just $4! You can withdraw $4!”

Teller: “I am sorry, ma’am, I cannot do a withdrawal if it will take the account negative.”

Customer: “You don’t understand! I drove all around the city looking for these lamps and [Small Chain Store] has them! I’ve already spent $20 in gas going back and forth from the city! They’ll only hold them for one day! I can’t drive back out! It’s just $4!”

(The customer continues to ramble on over how she thought she enough money, but only needs $4 to get the set, and she really needs both lamps.)

Customer: “Well, ask someone else! Get your supervisor! My social security check comes in every month to this bank, you’ll have the money tonight!”

(I have returned to my desk to resume my phone call, but I am directly in front of the teller line. The teller approaches the closest supervisor, and he confirms that they cannot do the transaction, and returns to the customer he is helping.)

Customer: “This is why I hate this bank! You’re awful, horrible people! You have no customer service!”

(The customer has interrupted the supervisor and his customer, making the second customer step away from the window and cover her information and money.)

Supervisor: “Ma’am, we can’t take an account negative. If the money isn’t in the account, there is nothing we can give you.”

Customer: “I see the money there in your drawer! You have it! You just won’t give it to me!”

Supervisor: “So, what you’re saying is you want me to either steal from the bank or give you the money from my own wallet.”

Customer: “Yes! It’s just $4! You can take it from my social security deposit. It comes tonight!”

Supervisor: “We can’t help you until it is in your account. Come back tomorrow.”

Customer: “This is ridiculous! I want to see the manager!”

(I have finished up my phone call at this point, and I know it will inevitably fall upon me to handle the customer, as the branch manager had his own customer. The customer storms into my office and reiterates her lamp story. I look up the account.)

Me: “Well, ma’am, unless you would like to apply for a loan or get a credit card…”

Customer: “Fine! Give me a loan for f******* $4!”

Me: “Unfortunately, neither the loan nor the Visa would be approved today. Additionally, for loans originating in the branch, it’s a $99 fee, so you’ll probably want to reconsider coming back tomorrow.”

Customer: “THIS IS RIDICULOUS! YOU ARE AN AWFUL PERSON! HOW DO YOU LIVE WITH YOURSELF EVERYDAY?! IT’S PEOPLE LIKE YOU AND PLACES LIKE THIS BANK THAT’RE RUINING OUR SOCIETY! ALL I F******* WANT IS FOUR F******* DOLLARS AND YOU WON’T GIVE IT TO ME!”

(Customer #2, the one who was interrupted earlier, runs up, slams down a $5 bill, then runs to her car.)

Customer: *looking surprised, tries to catch the other woman before running back and jabbing her finger in my face* “You see THAT?! That’s a good person! Not like YOU!

(The customer leaves and I am left in utter shock at the entire situation. My coworker walks over to me.)

Coworker: “You know, you’re going to turn on the TV next week and find yourself on that show ‘What Would You Do’ or whatever it is.”

Me: “Yeah, maybe…”

Supervisor: “It’s Friday. Her social security won’t be in until Sunday night, at the earliest.”

(And that was when I knew I needed to get out of retail banking.)

Related:
For A Few Dollars More, Part 2
For A Few Dollars More

(I am ordering at a restaurant where you order at the counter, and then a server brings you your food. While considered a fast, casual place, their food and service is usually on point, and I come here frequently.)

Me: “Hello! Can I please get [entree] with chicken, and a side salad? And can I get the pomegranate dressing for the side salad?”

Server: “Okay, I’ll bring that out to you.”

(A few minutes later, the server brings me my food. I notice that my entree does not have chicken on it, which I paid extra for.)

Me: “Excuse me, I don’t think there’s any—”

Server: “Chicken? Okay, I’ll get that for you.”

(I overhear her say to the kitchen staff, “Yeah, she noticed.” While waiting for my chicken, I notice my salad has dressing on it, and there is also a cup of dressing next to it. I assume it’s just extra dressing. However, I taste the salad, and the dressing on it is balsamic vinaigrette. The server comes back with chicken in a cup for me to dump on my entree.)

Me: “Thank you. I’m sorry, I just tasted the salad, and there’s balsamic vinaigrette on it. I wanted the pomegranate. I’m not sure if that’s what’s in the extra cup?”

Server: “Yeah. I thought you just wanted the pomegranate as an extra thing.”

(I am a bit dumbstruck by this and don’t know exactly how to respond.)

Me: “No… I wanted it to put on my salad.”

Server: “Oh. Okay, I’ll get you a new one.”

(She goes to bring me a new salad. She comes back with a salad without dressing. I taste the dressing in the cup, and surprise, it’s also balsamic.)

Me: “I’m sorry, the dressing in the cup was also balsamic. Are you guys out of the pomegranate? I can just take this.”

Server: *sighs* “No, they’re just idiots. I’ll take care of that.”

(I hear her yell at the kitchen staff, “POMEGRANATE! THIS IS BALSAMIC!” The cook looks very confused. I see another staff member tell him which dressing is the balsamic and which is the pomegranate. The cook brings me a cup of dressing.)

Cook: “Here you go. I’m sorry about that.”

Me: “It’s okay. Thank you!”

(I taste the dressing. It is balsamic again. I walk up to the server.)

Me: “I am so sorry to do this, but this is balsamic again. Are you sure you guys have the pomegranate? I’ll just take this.”

Server: *to the cook* “Are you kidding me?!”

Cook: “[Other Staff Member] told me that one was the pomegranate!”

Server: “Well, [Other Staff Member] was wrong!” *to me* “I’m sorry. This is crazy. Here, take a couple cookies.”

(She hands me some of their homemade cookies, which are actually really good.)

Me: “Oh, okay, thank you. I’m really not trying to be difficult. I can just take the balsamic.” *I really don’t like balsamic, but I’m ready to be done with this at this point.*

Server: “No, we have it. You should get what you ordered.”

(The cook brought up the dressing. I tasted it, and it was finally pomegranate. This was the most trouble I’ve ever had at any restaurant to get my order right. But at least I did get two free cookies!)

I own a pair of big black dogs: a border collie mix who weighs about 50 pounds, and a Labrador who weighs over 100 pounds. They’re the sweetest dogs you could ever hope to meet, but like many dogs, they like to rush at the door, barking, whenever anyone comes to visit. Most people who don’t know us, door to door salesmen and the like, only see 150 combined pounds of black fur and teeth coming at them, and jump back. But there was one person…

A little old lady was making the rounds of our neighborhood, hanging flyers on door knobs for a dance troupe that performs each year in my town. I saw her coming to my door and tried to grab for my dogs, but missed. They charged at the door, barking their heads off as usual.

The little old lady saw them coming, and laughed out loud. With no fear whatsoever, she hung her flyer on my door handle, booped both dogs’ noses through the screen, waved at me, and left.

I want to be her when I grow up.

(I’m a waitress at a family restaurant. In this instance, I’m waiting on a couple whose food is taking a bit longer than expected — pushing 30 minutes when our normal turn-around is 10. Despite apologizing for the delay and asking how I can help, they’re looking more and more frustrated. The food finally comes out, and it isn’t up to the standards that I like when I serve my food, but the customers are hungry, so I risk it. I take it out to them, and they’re not pleased with the quality of one of the side dishes. I go to get a new one, and the kitchen is in the process of making a new batch. I already know this table is sick of waiting, and they would probably be upset when I tell them they need to wait even longer. I go to give my manager a head’s up. This particular manager is not the best with customer interaction despite being a great team member.)

Me: “Hey, table 16 had been waiting for their food for about half an hour, and when I finally took it out there, they weren’t pleased with the mashed potatoes. I went to get a new order from the kitchen, but they’re making a fresh batch. It’s going to take another 5 minutes. They were already upset with the original delay, I can’t go back out there and tell them they have to wait more. Will you please go talk to them?”

Manager: “If they haven’t complained yet, I’m not going to go talk to them.”

(I headed back out to the table and relayed the delay, visibly cringing and apologizing for the delay; lo and behold, they wanted to talk to a manager. I couldn’t help but smirk as I popped my head back in and told her that Table 16 requested to talk to her.)

When I was in first grade, our bus had a stop at the corner by my house on [Street #1] and a second stop at the fire hall located across the alley and main road, behind my house, for all of the kids on [Street #2]. Typically, I caught my bus at the corner stop, but I thought the stop at the fire hall was so much cooler since the kids got to cross the main road.

One day, on the way to school, I wrote a note and signed my mom’s name on it, giving myself permission to get off the bus at the fire hall with all of my friends. Keep in mind, I was six years old with nothing but crayons and some old worksheets in my bookbag, and no knowledge of cursive handwriting. You can imagine how ridiculous that permission note looked.

The school accepted it. My mom had a field day telling the school administrators about themselves.

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