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A collection of stories curated from different subreddits, adapted for NAR.

Technically, He’s Not Lying

, , , | Right | CREDIT: stormtrooper1989 | December 3, 2020

I work at a bar. The owner is an a** but he’s great to work for. He’s a super alcoholic, but he always pays for his drinks and he’s a great tipper. He is permanently banned from every other bar in town which is why he bought the bar. He has a policy that if he is drinking, he isn’t the owner, so if he gets out of hand, we can throw him out; however, we cannot ban or call the cops on him. All he does is sign the checks; he has nothing to do otherwise with the day-to-day of the bar other than drinking.

One morning, I am opening the bar; typically, the doors are unlocked an hour before we open so regulars can come in and drink. They know the bartender will be cleaning and stocking the bar and they will just deal with small wait times to get a drink or refill. The owner comes in and doesn’t want to wait for me to come out of the back, so he goes behind the bar and makes himself a drink. He then goes and sits at the bar and puts some money on one of the rubber mats.

When I come out of the back with a few cases of beer, I hear a woman going off on the owner.

Woman: “It’s horrible that you’re drinking on the job! And how dare you refuse to make me a drink?!”

Owner: *Simply* “I don’t work here.”

And he goes back to his drink.

When the woman sees me, she immediately starts complaining about him.

Woman: “I want to speak to the owner or a manager!”

Me: “I’m the only one here, so you’ll have to deal with me.”

She goes on a tirade.

Woman: “That man needs to be fired! And I demand a free drink as compensation for his rudeness and unwillingness to help me!”

Me: “That isn’t going to happen. He doesn’t work here.”

Then, she decides to take it up a notch; she says she knows the owner. Cue the typical “you’ll both be fired” rant. The owner is shaking his head laughing, which just makes the woman madder. I call her bluff.

Me: “Either shut up and order a drink or leave; I have things to do.”

She gets huffy and then demands a tab, trying to hand me a credit card.

Me: “We only accept cash, but you are welcome to go pull money out of the ATM near the bathroom.”

That doesn’t make her happy, so she decides to stomp out of the bar, saying she’ll take her business elsewhere. The owner then asks for my keys and promptly locks the door behind her.

Owner: “I’ve never met that woman, so you’re definitely not fired.”

We had a good laugh. She did come back about twenty minutes later because there wasn’t another bar open, and she got super pissed when my boss waved and went back to his drink. She banged on the door for about five minutes. He then made me a sign to put up on the glass door with the bar hours, and she got in her car and sped off. I luckily never saw her again.

Time To Put This Lady On Ice

, , , , | Right | CREDIT: litcandle87 | December 3, 2020

My dad used to own an ice rink where we lived. The ice rink had a bar in a big lobby that was really long — think about thirty feet or ten meters. I was allowed to since my dad owned the rink. I would get lemonade, and occasionally, I’d get some for my friends, too, without charging them.

One day, I am behind the bar just getting some lemonade like I normally do. While my back is turned to the bar, I hear somebody sort of clearing their throat, as if to get my attention. I don’t pay any mind to it, assuming they are trying to get the actual bartender’s attention. After I finish filling up my lemonade, I turn around and see this lady. She looks unhappy, and I immediately get nervous. I have social anxiety, and I tend to clam up around adults I don’t know.

Woman: “Excuse me, but I have been trying to order drinks and you have been ignoring me.”

Me: “Ma’am, I didn’t know you were talking to me. I don’t work here; I’m only behind the bar because—”

Woman: *Cutting me off* “I need two lemonades, a Sprite, a Budweiser, and a Coors Light.”

Me: “Ma’am, for the last time, I don’t work here. I’m fourteen. Please go see the actual bartender, [Bartender], and order your drinks.”

Woman: *Starting to get mad* “Then why are you behind the bar? Are you trying to steal drinks?”

Me: “No, ma’am. I’ve been trying to tell you, my dad—”

Woman: *Screeching* “Get me whoever is in charge right now! You are behaving absolutely unacceptably and not getting me my drinks!”

I am on the verge of tears. Fortunately, my dad happens to be in his little office near the bar, and I can go get him. I tell him what happened in a few brief words, and he actually knows who I am talking about. Apparently, he kicked out the same lady a few weeks ago for abusing [Bartender].

My dad stands up and walks over to this woman. He’s about 6’5” and weighs 210 pounds, so he is pretty intimidating. This lady can’t be more than 5’2” and maybe 130 pounds. So, when my dad walks over to this lady, I could see a little bit of apprehension on her face. She is still trying to maintain her bluster, but I can also tell she doesn’t want to be anywhere near my dad.

Dad: “Hello, is there a problem?”

Woman: “Yes! Are you the manager here? This bartender is absolutely awful and refusing to serve me drinks!”

Dad: “Ma’am, I am the owner of this building and that is my daughter. She is fourteen and is not a bartender.”

There happens to be a framed newspaper clipping with my dad on it for buying the ice rink right where we are standing, which the woman sees. The color immediately drains out of her face, but for whatever reason, she still tries to throw a fit.

Woman: “Well, she should have still served me drinks! I didn’t know she was fourteen! You should give me free skating passes for my trouble!”

How this woman didn’t know I wasn’t a bartender is a mystery to me. I am a little bit tall for my age, around 5’6”, but the oldest you could mistake me for is maybe sixteen. I have freaking braces, for crying out loud.

My dad is getting pretty angry right now, and he is tired of dealing with this lady.

Dad: “Actually, aren’t you the lady who got thrown out a few weeks ago for being rude to the actual bartender? Because you have been abusing the staff here, you need to leave now, and you are banned from the building, as well.”

Woman: “But I didn’t know! You can’t ban me! You have no right!”

Dad: “Actually, I do. Now, either get out before I have to remove you myself, or leave before I call the police to file a report for harassment.”

The woman realized he wasn’t actually kidding and thankfully left. My dad made sure I was okay, and I got some more lemonade.

She’s Not Chicken; She’s Got AUDACITY

, , , , | Right | CREDIT: ShenaniganXD | December 3, 2020

I work for a large retail and grocery company. And like most grocery stores, we have a deli section.

I am working the returns desk, which I am still fairly new at, and a customer rolls up with a cart that has two cardboard boxes full of half-eaten fried chicken. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much fried chicken before.

Me: “Hello, how can I help you?”

Customer: “I would like to return this fried chicken.”

Me: “What’s wrong with it?”

Customer: “I ordered this for a family reunion this past weekend. I took it home to my family and when we got to eating it, it was all burnt and nasty. We weren’t satisfied, and I’d like my money back.”

I’d like to note that she’s still wearing her family reunion shirt.

She’s quoting our fresh food policy, which is 100% money-back guarantee. So, I decide to follow through with the return, although in my head I’m trying to figure out why anyone would buy fried chicken from us, ever. Of course, it is going to be bad; our deli food is known for being nasty.

The customer hands me her receipt and it says she bought two orders of seventy-five pieces of chicken, totaling about $100. I do the return and give her her money back, and I come around to grab the cart of chicken.

It doesn’t end there.

Later, I’m taking returns and claims back to their respective sections: bakery to bakery, frozen to frozen, etc. I roll the chicken cart over to deli, and the workers greet me, confused.

Deli: “What’s this?”

Me: “Claims. A lady came and returned these. Said they were burnt and nasty.”

Deli: “And you took it back?”

Me: *Shrugs* “Yeah, it’s policy. 100% money-back guarantee.”

At this point, they’re now visibly angry. I have a mini-freak-out and start to doubt myself. Is that the policy? Did I do it wrong? I am still new at returns, so it’s possible.

Me: “Was I wrong?”

They tell me no and sigh. They ask what the customer looked like and I described her to them. They get angrier.

Deli: “She came in last weekend to pick up that big order of hers. It took us all day to make it. She came in and didn’t have enough money! She told us she didn’t know it would be that much. She told us about her family reunion and how much it meant to her. She started crying. She only had about $80 on her, so we — the deli and bakery workers who were in that day — decided to chip in and help her pay for the rest.”

All three of us look down at the cart and cardboard boxes filled with half-eaten nasty chicken.

This is why I have trust issues.

Nowhere Is Safe From… THEM

, , , | Friendly | CREDIT: painsomnia | December 2, 2020

I live in a ground floor apartment in the middle of my little town with a small courtyard at the back. There’s a lovely set of glass sliding doors that open from the living room into said courtyard, and on the other side of the courtyard fence is a public footpath, with a public carpark behind it. It’s lunchtime here, so there’s a person walking past every five minutes or so.

I’m physically disabled and use a walking stick. My genetic disorder, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, also makes me look significantly younger than I am, so despite being thirty-one, I’m often mistaken for a teenager — especially by entitled jerks, for whom I seem to be a g**d*** magnet.

I am sitting on my sofa, watching TV and eating my lunch, when I spot one of those little black millipedes on the carpet. We get a lot of them at this time of year. So, I use an empty muesli bar box to scoop it up and chuck it over the fence, so that it hopefully won’t come back into the apartment. No big deal, right?

There is this lady walking along the footpath, a fair way down from our fence.

Lady: *Yelling* “I saw what you just did!”

I don’t think she is barking at me, since I haven’t done anything wrong or unusual, so I start to go back inside. She then appears at our back gate and starts shouting at me.

Lady: “I saw you throwing rubbish over the fence! That’s littering!”

Me: “I just threw a millipede over the fence that I found on my carpet.”

Lady: “You’re lying! I saw you throw a box!”

I open the fly screen and hold up the empty muesli bar box.

Me: “You mean this one?”

She freezes and stammers a bit.

Lady: “Well, obviously, you threw something else, then!”

Like I am being the idiot here? Ha!

Me: “Then where is it?”

And this b**** actually starts scouring the flowerbed between the footpath and the carpark for the imaginary rubbish she is adamant that I threw!

I guess she finds nothing she can reasonably accuse me of having thrown out there, because she comes back to the fence and barks:

Lady: “If I ever catch you littering again, missy, you’ll be dealing with the police!

Me: “Sure! I’d love to tell them about you harassing a disabled woman in her own home. We’ll see how that goes for you.”

And she storms off. What the actual f***?! I get dealing with jerks like that in the wild, but in my own g**d*** home?! I wish I’d thought to snap a photo of her, just in case. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

Here’s Hoping The Kid Doesn’t Take After His Grandfather

, , , | Right | CREDIT: NepiPrincess01 | December 1, 2020

I work at a fast food restaurant in my town. I open in the wee hours of the morning to keep the store clean for all you loving customers, especially with what is going on. You’re welcome.

Around 10:30 am we start lunch and we start to get busy quickly. A lot of parents will order kids’ meals for their children and maybe a small drink or coffee for themselves; I’ve noticed this pattern. My coworker is working in the back cash/first window. She takes orders and pays out the orders to keep the drive-thru moving.

Around 11:00 am, this older gentleman comes back to the drive-thru. My coworker opens the window.

Coworker: “Is there something wrong?”

Customer: “Yes, I just ordered this kids’ meal for my grandson. He can’t play with this toy!”

The man throws the toy at [Coworker]. It is a little Black Panther toy. Our store, along with all the others worldwide, are doing a thing with Marvel and their superheroes, so the first toys of the week are Black Panther.

Coworker: “Is there something wrong with it? Is it broken? I can easily replace it for you.”

Coworker: “No, he can’t play with it because he’s African American!”

I’m not sure if my coworker gave him another toy that was available or told him that was all we had available, but she kept the line moving.