I was a nineteen-year-old college student in a university under the Hospitality course, majoring in Culinary Entrepreneurship. Every week, each member of our group was assigned to buy certain ingredients for our cooking or baking projects.

After class one day, I went to the supermarket to buy my ingredients. The only ingredients that were assigned to me were heavy cream and powdered sugar, so I went to the dairy and creamery section first. As I picked up the cream and placed it in a basket, an old lady came up to me.

Lady: “Excuse me, sir.”

Me: “Yes, ma’am?”

Lady: “Can you help me find butter? The one I bought yesterday was margarine. It gives my cookies a weird texture.”

Me: “Sure, ma’am.”

As the creamery and dairy sections were close to each other, I went on suggesting items for her.

Me: “If you want the cheapest one, this brand is a good unsalted and salted butter for you. But if you want quality, I recommend this for you; I use this when I bake some myself.”

Lady: “Thank you, young man. May I ask for your assistance with finding more baking items that I need? I might need your suggestions on this one.”

Being a good boy, I helped her as I also got my second and last item.

Lady: “Thank you so much, young man. I can take care of the rest now.”

Me: “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

I decided to buy a soda and snacks for my trips back home before going for checkout. As I finished shopping, I saw the same lady with the manager talking about a nice young man who helped her and demanding that they give that person a raise. When she saw me, she approached me, pointing in my direction.

Lady: “That’s him! That’s the young man I was talking about. I would like to ask that you give him a raise for helping me.”

Manager: “Ma’am, I appreciate your good feedback, but I’m sorry, he doesn’t work here.”

Lady: “Wait, you don’t work here?”

Me: “Sorry, ma’am, but I am only a student — here is my ID. I think you’ve mistaken me for an employee due to our similar uniform.”

Lady: “Oh, how embarrassing for me to ask a complete stranger and waste a manager’s time.”

Manager: “It’s fine, ma’am. If he actually worked here, I would convey your comment to him.”

Me: “It’s fine for me, too, ma’am. I am not that busy anyway, and I’m just helping when I can, even if I don’t work here.”

Lady: “I’m sorry again. Thank you very much for helping me.”

Me: “You’re welcome again, and I’m happy to help.”

And then we went on our way.

I’m in college. I tend to dress somewhat interestingly — not odd, but enough that I stand out and tend to look a bit dapper.

One day, I’m out shopping with a friend, and she wants to pop into a clothing store. I’m standing outside the dressing room while my friend tries something on. This woman walks up to me and just assumes I work there. I get this a lot, actually.

Customer: “I don’t think I’m going to get this shirt. Can I just hand this to you? And do I need to get a number to try these three on?”

Me: *Taking the shirt* “You know, I don’t think you need a number, but…”

I spot a girl in a headset standing next to a Go Back rack.

Me: “…I believe she works here. Let me ask.”

Customer: *Laughing* “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re just dressed so fancy.”

Me: “Thank you, and it’s no trouble at all. I’m just waiting for my friend, anyway.”

I walk up to the attendant.

Me: “Excuse me, does she need a number to use the dressing rooms?”

Attendant: “Oh, no.” *To the woman* “You’re fine; go on in!”

Me: “Oh, perfect. And can I just leave this top with you? I guess she decided she didn’t want it.”

Attendant: “Yeah, sure.”

My friend finally comes out.

Friend: “Who did I hear you talking to?”

Me: “Oh, a customer confused me for an employee.”

Just then, the floor manager comes up because he’s apparently been watching the whole thing.

Manager: “You handled that very well. Would you like to work here?”

It just so happened that I was looking for a new job — my current boss was horrible — so I said sure. I filled out an application as a formality and started within a week.

I moved out soon after turning eighteen and went from the country to a big city. At first, it was a culture shock, but I adapted to it. A friend of mine was working as a security guard/bouncer at a club in town. It wasn’t a total high society thing, but it wasn’t crappy, either. One night, my then-roommate dragged me out partying.

I went out to have a smoke and to call someone as smoking wasn’t allowed inside. My bouncer buddy saw me and I chilled with him, smoking a cigarette, and having a chat. He then went away to use the toilet, so I lit my second cigarette and tried to make my call.

I was approached by what seemed to be a mother-daughter duo or maybe aunt and niece. But the girl was maybe eighteen or nineteen, and the woman was in her early to mid-forties.

Woman: “Hey, excuse me!”

She waved to get my attention.

Me: “Huh?”

Woman: “So, we’ve waited at least half an hour.”

My friends and I waited forty-five minutes to get inside.

Me: “So?”

Woman: “So, maybe you could bring us in?”

Now I got it. She mistook me for a bouncer. Okay. The bouncers were in black jackets with “SECURITY” written in big, white, reflecting letters on the back and in little print on the right side of the chest, and they had earplugs for radios in their ears so they could be called if they were needed inside. I was in a black bomber jacket, an AC/DC shirt, black pants, and a pair of combat boots.

Me: “Uh, I think there is a misunderstanding.”

Woman: “Oh, no, there isn’t. Sure, you can’t let us skip the line, but what if you just look the other way…”

She started touching my jacket and I guess she was trying to be flirty?

Woman: “…and we slip in. We just want to do clubbing, and I bet you need some ladies in there.”

She then slipped a banknote into my pocket.

Girl: “Look, clubs need some girls so guys buy drinks, right?”

Me: “Sorry, I’m not working here.”

Woman: “Oh, come on. I know a bouncer when I see one. I’m long enough in the clubbing scene. I know you’re afraid of what your boss maybe will say, kid, but I know him. It’s Frank, right? He’s a friend of mine. Tell him [Woman] slipped in.”

My buddy came back from the toilet and raised an eyebrow when he saw me. The girl looked at my buddy and her eyes widened. My buddy was wearing the security jacket, black leather gloves, the radio plug in his ear, and an ID card around his neck. The girl then whispered in the woman’s ear. She looked at my buddy and went red in the face. Both then retreated to the back of the line.

He asked me what happened, I told him, and we laughed. I pulled the banknote out of my pocket; this woman had given me 100 euros. I went back into the club and bought beers for myself and my friends. Thanks for the beers and my groceries the next day, lady!

This is my first real call center job that I like, and I just got my first weekly customer survey responses: fifteen good, three bad.

One person was unhappy that we don’t have more discounts. One person was mad we wouldn’t call [Major Shipping Company] to tell them to be better at delivering.

My favorite, though? I had a call with this customer.

Customer: “I want to cancel my account and my husband’s account, as well.”

I’m new and a phone-shy person, and we don’t have a retention line.

Me: “Why do you want to cancel?”

She gave a plethora of reasons, so I was like, “Mkay!”

I mean, doesn’t everyone always complain when you want to cancel and they make you work for it? They guilt you and cajole you and offer you their firstborn to get you to stay, but you just don’t want to deal with them anymore and it’s a headache.

I figured I was doing this lady a favor by making it painless and just canceling the accounts for her.

But no. I got a bad review. No comments. No suggestions. Just a call recording and the “BAD — I AM UNSATISFIED WITH THIS REPRESENTATIVE” button clicked.

I’m not a mind reader, you know.

I used to work at a call centre, where a big part of my job was managing warranty claims on faulty handsets. A customer called in, having made a complaint before, and having been given a resolution for a refund of £1,700 (USD $2,300) to his account. Not too shabby.

However, it had been ten days — our timescale — and still, no refund.

I couldn’t see any reason why there had been a delay, so went to speak to a manager who could check how the payment was coming along. It turned out someone had just made a dumb error, and the payment hadn’t gone through. Easily fixed, thankfully.

We made payments by submitting a VERY tightly secured form. I explained this, and seeing he had some data concerns from the notes on his account, I assured him his data was very safe.

I apologised to the customer and advised him that, as management was aware of this and closely keeping an eye on it, he should get his big juicy payment around the middle of next week. I apologised profusely for the delay; it wasn’t his fault at all, of course. He seemed to be agreeable, and just as I was about to wind the call down…

Customer: “Wait. Do you not need my card details?”

Me: “No, my colleague who took your last call submitted everything using your bank account details, and we’ve double-checked that it’s all there. You don’t need to do anything else at all to get the refund.”

Customer: “But then how do I know my payment is coming?”

Me: “I’m sorry for the delay. It should be with you by Wednesday next week at the latest.”

Customer: “But you don’t have my card details.”

Me: “My colleague on your last call took all the details we need to get that refund sorted — just your bank account details, for a bank transfer.”

Customer: “Well, that’s money laundering, then, isn’t it?”

Me: *Pauses* “Um… no, we do not need card details to make a bank transfer.”

Customer: “But I paid for my phone by card. You’re using one way to take money and another to give it back.”

Me: “The refund is being paid by bank transfer. It is not money laundering, just a means of refunding you for the £1,700 agreed on during your last call.”

Customer: “But that’s money laundering.”

It took about ten minutes to communicate what a bank transfer is.

This man has children. And I’ve never seen someone so loath to get a free £1,700.