If there is any one thing that has consistently baffled me in my eleven years in hospitality, it has to be people showing up four, five, six, or even fifteen hours before check-in and becoming indignant when I tell them I don’t have a room ready for them yet.

Case in point: I get this phone call at a quarter to noon.

Guest: “I have a reservation for tonight. I want to see if an early check-in is possible — ideally, in the next hour.”

Me: “Can I have your name, please?”

I pull up his reservation and see that he has booked a suite with two double beds, a room type that we will only have one of tonight.

Here, I should mention a few things. Our check-in time is 4:00 pm and our checkout time is noon. We were completely sold out last night. We had two large groups in house who are all due out today — one for a wedding and one for a family reunion. As of the time I’m taking this call, none of these rooms — including the sole double queen suite — have checked out yet. They are in it for the long haul.

I inform the gentleman on the phone of all these circumstances.

Me: “While I can still get you in earlier than 4:00, the earliest will probably be around 2:00.”

Guest: “That’s fine. See you in a couple of hours!”

All good, right?

I don’t know what happens in this guy’s brain between the time he hangs up the phone and the time he shows up at the desk forty-five minutes later, but here’s how it went:

Me: “Hello. Welcome. How can I help you today?”

Guest: “Hi. I called about an early check-in a while ago. I’m not sure who I talked to but the reservation is under [Guest].”

Me: *A bit confused* “Uh, yeah, that was me you spoke with earlier, but as I said on the phone, we don’t have any rooms yet and probably won’t—”

Guest: “Yeah, but that was forty-five minutes ago. I figured you’d have one ready by now.”

Me: *Still a bit confused* “Yes, sir, but as I said on the phone, we only have one of the room type you reserved available for the night, and that room was still occupied at the time you called—”

Guest: “Well, we left [City] at 7:00 am and just got off the road. My kids have been stuck in the car for five and a half hours.”

Me: “I understand. But as I said on the phone, my best estimate for when that room will be ready is 2:00 pm.”

Guest: “You don’t have any rooms ready?”

Me: “The only rooms I have ready are King Standards and I don’t—”

Guest: “That won’t work; I’ve got my wife and three kids with me. Can you just call me when the room is ready?”

Me: “Of course, sir.”

I have to point out that the guy wasn’t being too rude, and I can understand that he was probably worn out from a five-hour road trip with three kids, but why the h*** would you just show up an hour and a half earlier than when you were told the room would be ready? I just don’t understand why this dude had to get on the road at 7:00 am when he knew how long the drive would take and obviously knew what time check-in was.

I work in a hotel. I am covering the front desk while the front desk person finishes delivering lunch stuff. A lady comes in. The check-in goes fine, and as I’m handing her the keycard, she sees the front desk person bringing back the trolly with a couple of dirty dishes, etc.

On one of the plates is a cinnamon bun. The guest points to the bun.

Guest: “Can I have that bun?”

I’m alarmed that she’s about to take a bun off an obviously dirty plate.

Me: “Ma’am, that’s a dirty plate!”

Guest: “Yeah, but they didn’t touch the bun. It’s fine.”

Me: “I can’t let you, unfortunately.”

Guest: “Can I have a fresh one, then?”

Me: “That comes with the breakfast package, and you’ll get a fresh one tomorrow. They’re great.”

Guest: “Isn’t there another one I can have?”

Me: “We bring them in fresh each morning, one per guest, so we don’t have anymore, I’m afraid. But the cafe that bakes them is about twenty steps from here, and sometimes they’ll have stuff still available, but they’re often sold out because they’re so good!”

Guest: “You’re going to eat that bun as soon as I leave, aren’t you?”

Me: “I assure you, ma’am, I’m not.”

The guest leaves angry that I won’t let her eat a garbage cinnamon bun.

Fast forward to a couple of days later at checkout time. I get a call from the front desk as a customer wants to escalate a complaint about an employee. I head to the desk, and there is the cinnamon bun lady.

Me: “Hi, ma’am, I can speak with you over here.”

I direct her to speak with me in the waiting area.

Me: “I’m very sorry you’ve had a bad experience. Can you tell me more about it so I can make things right?”

Guest: “When I checked in, your employee wouldn’t let me have one of those free cinnamon buns and was very rude about it.”

I blink a couple of times and then it dawns on me; she has forgotten it was me. I don’t quite believe she doesn’t recognize me.

Me: “Can you tell me what they looked like?”

She describes the “rude employee” as having grey hair (yes!) and glasses (nope), being tall (the complete opposite), and not even being in uniform! (Management has a different dress code and I feel like that’s the norm?)

Guest: “How do I know that wasn’t someone just stealing my information?”

Me: “All right, I have their description. Did that person give you a working key card?”

Guest: “Yeah.”

Me: “They would have to enter a functioning staff number to program your card, so I can assure you that was an employee.”

Guest: “Well, do you know who that is?”

I still don’t this woman is being serious.

Me: “…yes.”

Guest: “Can you make sure she’s not allowed to be rude anymore? People won’t come back when you have staff like that. I’m going to leave a review and forward it to your boss.”

I still can’t quite believe she didn’t know it was me, but regardless, I can’t imagine getting this angry over me not letting you eat food off a stranger’s plate. Like… how are you not dead?

She emailed my boss her “review,” and was immediately clear that she was just extremely angry that I told her “no”.

Our hotel is within ten miles of a [Vehicle Brand] assembly plant, and we get a lot of guests staying with us that are affiliated with the brand, either as direct employees or subcontractors coming in to do work at the plant. The [Brand] rate is $117 plus tax, which is a substantial savings off of our rack rate.

A guy checks in on a Friday night who has a reservation for four nights with the [Brand] rate. We progress through the check-in process we get to the point where he needs to insert his card into the card reader. He freaks out over the amount of his stay (plus incidental hold) showing on the screen.

Guest: “Why is it so much?! I was told that the rate was $117 plus tax for my stay!”

Me: “The total showing is for $117 plus tax per night, plus the incidental hold.”

He starts screaming at me.

Guest: “I was told when I made the reservation that the total would be just $132 for my whole stay!”

Me: “You must have misunderstood the reservation agent, because… do you really think you’d get a room here for four nights for just 132 bucks?”

Guest: “Yes! If I knew I was going to have to pay over $500, I would have made a reservation somewhere else!”

At this point, I was getting tired of him yelling at me.

Me: “If you would prefer to stay somewhere else, I could cancel the check-in process and cancel your reservation, or you can have your card authorized for the full amount and be on your way to your room.”

Guest: “I’m going to call corporate and have you fired!”

Me: “Have at it; I’m not in the wrong here.”

After steaming and stewing for a few more minutes, he finally decides he wants to stay, and we finish the check-in process. As he walks away from the front desk, he says:

Guest: “I’ll be speaking with your manager in the morning!”

Me: “The general manager won’t be in until Monday morning, but our assistant general manager will be here at 9:00 Saturday morning.”

Guest: “I’ll wait to talk to the big boss on Monday.”

As an added “bonus,” he called down about thirty minutes later, saying that when he made his reservation, he requested a smoking room, but he didn’t see an ashtray in his room. I told him that all of our rooms were non-smoking, and if he wanted to smoke, he would need to go outside to do so. I got treated to yet another verbal assault, so I just hung up on him.

Thankfully, I didn’t have any more interactions with him for the rest of the night, and hopefully, I won’t for the remainder of his stay.

I had just moved to the city and had just started working at a bank. I didn’t have the company apparel yet but had a good amount of business clothes, plus I like dressing nice. I was done early that day, so I figured I’d stop to do some clothes shopping.

I was shopping around the store in the business attire section — in my business attire, so one could guess why there would be confusion. This lady who only spoke Spanish asked if I spoke Spanish and if I could help her. I said yes and asked what she needed.

Lady #1: “¿Sabes donde están las maletas?” *Do you know where the suitcases are?*

Me: “Perdón, señora, yo no trabajo aquí, pero creo que están en el primer piso.” *Sorry, ma’am, I don’t work here, but I think they’re on the first floor.*

We both laughed and she commented on how nice my clothes looked. It made me blush a little bit — I’m self-conscious and she thanked me for helping her.

Less than a minute later, another lady came up to me and demanded in a not-so-nice way that I get her another coat with matching pants in a particular size, asked why we had suits mixed up, and insisted specifically that I get her a f****** dressing room since she had no idea why we only had two open in the middle of the health crisis.

I explained to her that, 1) we were in a health crisis, 2) I didn’t know s**** about suits; I just wear them, and 3) I didn’t f****** work there.

Lady #2: “Of course, you f****** work here. Why else would you be dressed like that?”

Me: “Because I like dressing nice, and frankly, it’s none of your business.”

Lady #2: “Well, I saw you helping the other lady! Stop lying!”

Me: “Because she was nice. Maybe you should try it every once in a while.”

At this point, one of the actual workers saw what was going on and intervened. We both happened to be in the changing room later (different stalls), and she started going off on the phone about how a “rude employee” refused to help her.

When I was done trying on new suits, she was talking to the manager about me, and she exclaimed, “That short one!” when I walked by! The manager was like, “Who is that dude?”

I just laughed and paid for my clothes.

Content Warning: Gun-Related Injury

This takes place back around 2008. In Iowa, quite a few state parks have shooting ranges that are completely free and just have posted rules. As a rule, everyone is responsible for making sure the range is safe and clean.

I have just bought a new gun and want to sight it in to my shooting style. I’m a left-handed shooter but right-eye dominant.

When I get to the range, there are the usual people there, including the brass thief, but he’s a story for another time. The far left lane is open.

I move my stuff to the table and start setting up my sled and other equipment.

To the right of my lane is a father and son shooting a tiny bolt action .22. The gun is one of those that takes a key to function every time. The kid is maybe ten years old and seems to know how to use the rifle because he is loading .22 shorts, using the key to reload, and shooting again. He is being safe and keeping it pointed downrange. His dad is giving pointers and overall is a good mentor.

I load and shoot.

Then, I wait for the range to clear and for people to reset targets.

The dad next to me walks away and leaves the kid to shoot.

I pick up my rifle and start to wipe the barrel. I’m planning on waiting for the barrel to cool, shoot, wait, and so on.

I hear the kid fumbling with the keys and getting frustrated

Pop! I just got punched in the leg. It hurts but in a weird way. The kid squeaks a “sorry” and I take inventory. I feel my leg and find the hole. It isn’t even bleeding yet, but still, my brain is going, “Holy f***, f***, s***, f***, I just got shot!”

I look for the dad and he’s fiddling with fishing equipment in the back of his truck.

Me: “Excuse me, sir—”

Man: *Interrupting* “My son is allowed to shoot and we aren’t moving.”

Me: “Yes, sir, but the issue is that he just shot me!”

Man: *Laughing* “No, he didn’t.”

I take my hand off my leg and show him as, by now, it has started to bleed.

Man: “You must have shot yourself. My son has been shooting since he could walk!”

Me: “Accidents happen. I’m not upset. I just need insurance information for the ranger and paramedics as I need to call 911.”

Man: “Look, I’ll give you $100 to just leave and say it was an accident.”

Me: “No.”

I call 911.

Other people on the range start to gather and some go find a park ranger.

The dad keeps arguing.

Man: “My son couldn’t have shot you. He doesn’t know how to load the gun. And if he did, it was because you were downrange.”

Kid: “Yeah, I do, Dad; you showed me. I did shoot him. It was an accident!”

The dad starts to panic and starts tossing everything into the truck in a scramble to get away. Before he can, another shooter grabs the man’s keys from the table.

The guy gets more and more upset as I sit there with my pinky stuffed in a brand new hole.

Eventually, the ranger gets there and everyone starts yelling their side of what happened. The ranger calms everyone down as the police arrive and start sorting through everything.

Me: “The kid shot me by accident. His dad was freaking out and tried to leave, but another person has his keys.”

They summon an ambulance and they look me over.

The officers handcuff the dad.

Me: “Wait, he didn’t do any harm. I’m not pressing charges.”

The officers explained that he was a felon and thus not allowed to be around guns anyway.

I was taken away, and they removed the bullet. There was no major harm done, but it did chip bone.