I am going to a family event and stop at a local farm-fresh ice cream shop on my way there. My boyfriend gets out to get a gallon of ice cream. He comes back all exasperated.

Boyfriend: “The girl at the counter won’t sell me a gallon of ice cream!”

I get out of the car, go up to the window, and ask for a gallon of ice cream.

Employee: “We can’t sell you a gallon of that flavor.”

Me: “Are you out of that flavor?

Employee: “No. We just don’t sell it in a gallon.”

Me: “It doesn’t matter what size the container is in; I just want to purchase a gallon of it.”

Employee: “We can’t sell you a gallon.”

Me: “Okay, I will have two half-gallons.”

Employee: “We can’t sell you a half-gallon.”

Me: *Getting frustrated* “What size container do you sell this flavor in?”

Employee: “We have it in a quart, pint, cup, or cone.”

Me: “Great! I would like four quarts, please.”

The employee hand-packs four quarts and puts them on the counter with snark and ignorance.

Employee: “You can’t just buy a gallon of any flavor, and we only have half-gallons of vanilla and chocolate.”

Me: *Blank stare* “Four quarts is a gallon.”

Employee: *Looking confused* “Really?”

Me: “Yeah. Two pints is a quart; four quarts is a gallon.”

The employee took my money and then went to talk to another server. I don’t even want to know how that conversation went.

A few years ago, I worked at a casual restaurant that offered two different menus: one for breakfast and one for lunch and dinner. I am being entirely honest when I say that I despise this from the very bottom of my heart. It’s bad enough that people come in wanting X cuisine when you only offer Y; it’s even worse when you DO offer X cuisine, but they’re two hours late and determined to make it your problem.

When I first started working at this restaurant, my job was primarily taking to-go orders until I learned the two menus and understood how the restaurant operated.

It was one such morning, at around 11:30, when an elderly man walked in and asked for an omelet off our breakfast menu.

Me: “I’m sorry. We stop serving breakfast at 10:00.”

This, he felt, was unacceptable, and he started berating me.

Customer: “It’s not even noon yet. You clearly don’t know what you’re doing if you think I can’t have an omelet in the morning time.”

I was not interested in arguing, so to placate him, I went to ask the kitchen whether they were still willing to make an omelet for this old man. Obviously, they refused, because breakfast had ended over an hour and a half ago, but my manager was there. In [Manager]’s eyes, it’s better for both parties if we spend five minutes frying an omelet than spending fifteen arguing that we can’t. I didn’t like it, but she did have a point, so I went back to the customer.

Me: “My manager said we’ll be able to make your omelette this time. Please go wait at the pickup counter.”

Customer: “What if I don’t want to?”

Folks, in my working career, this was the one and only time “but I don’t wanna” was brought up in the guise of a legitimate complaint. It was not my job to coddle customers who are being intentionally petulant. He had already berated me once. I was not gonna play a “cater to you” game for my $13 an hour.

Me: “Well, that’s where your food’s going to be.”

Customer: “Fine.”

And he sulked over to the pickup counter. I figured that would be the end of it.

We were busy, so when it was ready, I did what we usually did with to-go food: I left his bag at the pickup counter and called out the order.

It sat there for some time. The man didn’t come to claim it. I figured he was in the bathroom or something and got back to work.

A while later, my coworker came to relieve me from the to-gos so I could take my break. I went outside to chill and didn’t see the customer there until he grabbed my arm. I laughed, just a bit, in incredulity, and this old guy told me:

Customer: “Don’t laugh! This is ridiculous. I’ve been waiting half an hour for a f****** omelette!”

I went inside and the man followed me. I pointed to the bag on the counter.

Me: “There’s your omelet, where I told you it’d be.”

The man, of course, demanded his money back. I got [Manager], not only because of the refund, but now because I had a man who was cursing and thought it was okay to put his hands on me.

[Manager], who is by all accounts a Very Wholesome Southern Lady, went back up to the front to find the man. She immediately pulled the cash refund from the register and GRABBED THE OMELET BACK. Then, she told him it was unacceptable to curse at employees, he would not be served, and he had to leave or she would have him trespassed.

Customer: “You f****** b****, you act like you work at [Fast Food Chain], and you look like it, too.”

And so, [Manager] pulled out her phone and called 911 on a belligerent man harassing employees.

Even as [Manager] was on the phone with the authorities, he spent the whole time yelling that she was a b****, the restaurant was s***, and all sorts of other fun obscenities. He did this all while standing directly in front of the cash register. A handful of customers were uncomfortable and left.

When the cops DID actually arrive, as [Manager] said they would, the old man finally realized there would be consequences for his actions. He decided it was time to pull out his ace-in-the-hole — not just ANY ace-in-the-hole, and certainly not a well-thought-out ace-in-the-hole, but an ace-in-the-hole nonetheless.

He unbuckled his belt, HURLED HIS PANTS AT AN OFFICER, and then threw himself onto the floor as if he were having a seizure.

Despite his brilliant (awful) performance, the man was apprehended and removed from the premises.

And that is the tale of how I got a free hour-old omelette.

I worked at a small company with approximately thirty-five employees. We had a good-sized kitchen with a fridge that several employees used, though most brought a lunch bag they just kept by their desk. The fridge was usually used for stuff that people wanted to keep really cold or for drinks.

People often would go to the fridge to find either their whole lunch missing, an item from it gone, or, in my case, my can of Cherry Coke gone. I usually kept it in my lunch bag, but on occasion when I would order out, I would get two — one for lunch and one for later — so I didn’t have my lunch bag.

We suspected who was stealing but could never prove it. This particular day, I was in the mood and I figured I would try and prove it.

It was [Thief]’s break time. I headed down to the kitchen about five minutes ahead and gave my Coke a really, really hard shake — so hard I feared it may actually pop in my hands — and placed it back in the fridge. Then, I ducked into the storage closet in the kitchen and peeked out the crack.

BINGO! [Thief] took the Coke. I waited, hand over my mouth, for her to open it, but she took it with her and left.

Oh, s***. I thought she was gonna open it in the hall. Nope.

As I left, the kitchen I heard her yell, “WHAT THE F***?!”

I passed her office, and Coke was everywhere: the walls, the floor, the ceiling, all over her desk, computer, and her work, all over her — everywhere!

The previous week, we had all been given these “sippy”-type cups that were spillproof. We were supposed to use them at our desks when drinking because we all got new computers.

Well, food never went missing again because [Thief] got fired.

The summer after my senior year in high school, I worked collecting shopping carts at a grocery store. I lived on the coast, so it was hot as Hell during the summers. It was one of those “uppity” grocery chains so we had a pretty strict dress code: a white, long-sleeve dress shirt, tucked into khaki dress slacks. But because I worked outside for a good portion of the day, management let me wear khaki shorts and a short-sleeve button-up. All was fine until toward the end of the summer when we got a new general manager who was MUCH stricter on policy than the old one had been.

When I came in for my first shift with the new manager, he called me into his office.

Manager: “There have been some changes. Your uniform is clearly lacking in several areas and I’ll need you to correct it. We’ll need you to go home and change into pants and the provided long-sleeve button-up.”

I thought he had mistaken me for someone who worked inside.

Me: “Actually, sir, I collect carts, so I’m allowed to wear shorts.”

Manager: “Son, I said what I said. Either you adhere to the dress code or you go home.”

Me: “So, I don’t have a choice but to wear pants, in ninety-plus-degree heat, in the height of summer?”

Manager: “That is the policy. And being smart with me is not getting us off on the right foot.”

Me: “All right. Then I’m going home.”

Manager: “Good. Thank you for your understanding.”

I walked out of his office, fully understanding that he expected me to actually come back. But his ultimatum was to either wear pants or not come to work, so I chose the latter. I was going away to college in a couple of weeks, so I chose not to sweat my butt off for six hours a day for $7.25 an hour.

I was at home about an hour later, chilling, and I got a call from my manager. He was furious.

Manager: “Why the h*** are you taking so long? We are swamped and desperately need a cart collector!”

Me: “I’m not coming back.”

Of course, he didn’t take this well.

Manager: “Get back here right now or you’ll be fired!”

Me: “Well, I thought that was the idea.”

He was absolutely dumbfounded. He hadn’t expected me to call his bluff on something he considered to be so inconsequential (because he wasn’t the one outside pushing carts in the heat). He tried to talk me into coming back, but I told him he gave me two options, and I had chosen option two.

I never went back to work. I found out that the cart collectors were only made to wear pants for a few days after that until the new manager relented and let them wear shorts. I never got a call with an apology from him, but I didn’t care. I enjoyed the time off before going to college.

I fully realize that this was an immature and unprofessional thing to do. I know I was fortunate at the time to be a teenager who didn’t have a dire need for a job so I was able to make this move. He was a jerk from the initial approach, and I was in a position to return his fire, so I went for it. I’d never in a million years think of doing something like this at my full-time big-boy job.

When I got my first job, I worked at a wildly popular tourist location in their cafe. Now, being a young eighteen-year-old at their first job, I did everything to a T. Working food service isn’t hard, but the customers never make it easy for you.

On this particular day, it was quite busy and I couldn’t see the end of the line. The kitchen was throwing orders up to the pass, and each cashier’s transaction was probably no more than two minutes, so we were constantly moving. It was required of us to also upsell as much as possible — not that we were rewarded for it or anything, but if the manager didn’t hear us try, we would get talked to.

I had done a bunch of fairly easy orders and customers could see how busy we were, so they were generally quite nice to us… except for this one lady, her husband, and their child who was definitely way too old for a stroller.

This lady came up, ready to order, but she had a question.

Customer: “I just wanted to know what the grilled cheese is? Like what is that?”

In all honesty, I was a little shocked because it’s not like a grilled cheese was like… a food from a different culture? I could understand if it was literally any other food, but a grilled cheese is quite common in North America. This woman was speaking North American English with no accent.

Me: “Um… it’s two pieces of bread with a few slices of cheese in between, and we grill it on a panini press.”

She didn’t really seem to understand the concept.

Customer: “So, it’s like a sandwich?”

Me: “Yeah, they just grill it so that the cheese melts and it’s crispy.”

Customer: “Um, okay. I’ll get one of those, then.”

Me: “Okay, cool. Would you like it with some fries and a drink?”

The lady instantly froze. I repeated the question and she just blinked.

Me: “Did you want fries and a drink, or did you just want the grilled cheese by itself?”

Customer: “I don’t know what that means.”

Me: “Oh, uh… did you want it as a combo? With fries? And a drink?”

At this point, this lady was getting really annoyed, and I really probably should have ended the conversation there, but alas, she went on.

Customer: “I don’t know what that means. I just want a grilled cheese.”

Me: “I was just asking if you also wanted fries and a drink?”

And then she absolutely lost it.

Customer: “I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS! THAT’S TOO MANY OPTIONS! I JUST WANT THE GRILLED CHEESE! WHY ARE YOU BEING SO RUDE?!”

Her husband also chimed in and started yelling at me, saying that this was terrible customer service and it was too complicated to understand. I literally just stood there waiting for them to finish. The lady ended up demanding that someone else take their order because I was making it difficult for them.

I pulled someone else to go help and walked into the kitchen and began crying instantly, mostly out of frustration because it was literally not that confusing. I watched through the kitchen doors as the guy helping this lady tried to calm her down, but she was throwing hands like her life depended on it.

To this day, any time I see a grilled cheese, I just get flashbacks.