I recently started back at a job in a new city. Where I work, we sell anything and everything you are looking for, but people really love our clothes and kitchenware.

It is about ten minutes until closing — 9:20 — and I am exhausted, running on caffeine and my will to live. There are only a few customers in the store, and they are coming to check out. This is the last customer in my line.

Me: “Hello! How is your evening going?”

Customer: “Good.”

Me: “Did we find what we were looking for today?”

Customer: “Sure.”

Me: “All righty, your total is [total]. Will you be paying cash or card?”

Customer: “Wait. I have a ten-dollar coupon, right?”

Me: *Suddenly confused* “What do you mean, sir?”

Customer: “My ten-dollar coupon, don’t I have one?”

Me: “I don’t know, sir. If you spent $200, then you should see it in your mailbox in real life or in your email.”

Customer: “Well, I didn’t get one.”

Sometimes our customers who sign up for a credit card may not get their coupons until a few weeks after. Perhaps he didn’t sign up with his email?

Me: “When did you sign up, sir?”

Customer: “Sign up for what?”

I look at the card in his hand, and it is, in fact, not our store’s credit card. Did he not sign up at all?

Me: “Sir, did you sign up for our credit card?”

Customer: “No, but where is my ten dollars?”

I am not sure whether I should laugh, cry, or groan — perhaps all three at once.

Me: “You won’t get the ten-dollar coupons unless you spend $200 with our store credit card.”

Customer: “Get me the manager.”

I got the manager, and she was just as done as I was with today. She said EXACTLY what I said, and he still didn’t seem to quite get it. I offered to sign him up for the credit card, but he, obviously, declined. He did not get his 10$.

I am at the bowling alley where my brother is a manager, practicing for a bowling league I’m in. A young kid comes up to me and asks to use my bowling ball.

Me: “Sorry, kid. I don’t think you could pick it up even if I let you.”

Kid: “Aww, okay.”

Later, the kid’s mother comes up to me.

Mother: “Hey! Give my kid your bowling ball, now!”

Me: “No. It’s fourteen pounds. Your kid is like seven; he could not lift it, let alone bowl with it.”

Mother: “Too bad! Give me it, now!”

Me: “No, lady, I’m using it. I still have two more games to bowl, and when I’m done, I’m packing up my bowling balls and leaving.”

Mother: “You can’t steal them! I’m telling the manager!”

Me: “Oh, please do.”

Mother: *To my brother* “Someone is stealing four bowling balls on lane four!”

My brother remembers what lane he put me on.

Brother: “Okay, I’ll go check.” *Coming over to me* “Man, that lady’s crazy!”

Me: “I know, right?”

Mother: “Since the manager won’t do anything, give me those balls!”

Me: “No, lady. I paid for these with my money!”

Mother: “TOO BAD!”

She tried to take the balls from me and was promptly kicked out.

I am at the gas station washing my car window. The local station has a uniform — a green-collared shirt with the logo and black pants — neither of which am I wearing.

Lady: *To me* “I’m next!”

I think she is talking about using the brush next, so I smiled.

Me: “Okay!”

I put the brush back in its bucket and start to walk toward the station.

Lady: “Excuse me, I said I’m next!”

I turn around and glance at her, think, “Whatever,” and go inside. I pay for my gas and go to the ATM at the back of the store. As I am leaving:

Cashier: “We’ve just had a complaint about you.”

Me: “Yeah?”

Cashier: “That lady said you didn’t wash her windscreen and wants to speak to the manager; she’s coming back tomorrow.”

I just giggled and left. I’ll be going back again tomorrow to see if I can catch her.

To help pay the bills until I get called back to work, I got a job as a personal shopper. Our company has us wear black T-shirts with the company logo, but other than that, you can wear pretty much anything you want as long as you look professional.

Yesterday, I got an order at a certain store that requires its employees to wear a red shirt. Luckily, I had been to this particular store many times — both for orders and for myself — and am friendly with most of the staff, including the managers.

This order required me to go through self-checkout. Once I got the all-clear from the employee running the self-checkout lane, I went to one of the closed checkout lanes to bag up the order so I could get it to my car. Again, nothing too unusual.

I was wearing my black company shirt, a nice pair of jeans, a comfortable pair of sneakers, and a thin jacket — not a scrap of red on me — and the light for the checkout lane was turned off.

As I was packing up, I heard an oncoming cart and then the sound of plastic and cardboard. I looked up to see our Friendly Neighborhood Entitled Jerk unloading her three overloaded carts in the closed checkout lane where I was packing things away. I groaned. I knew my friends at this store were going to have a major headache; she wasn’t really paying attention to me and couldn’t see that I was not an employee of this store.

I finished bagging my things and waited for her to make eye contact with me. And when she did, I swear I heard the theme for The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly playing.

She pointed at the register and nodded as if I was a dumb person who didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing. I just picked up my bags, waved at her with a smile, and walked off, leaving her stuck there and me with a new way to get back at the entitled jerks of the world.

But that wasn’t the end. This morning, I decided to go to the store to get my own groceries and bumped into one of the managers. This manager is good at saying, “You’ve pushed my last button; now get the h*** out of here before I go Hulk on you’re a**,” in the most polite way possible. He’s also protective of his employees.

[Manager] happened to see me and came over with a teasing smile. He said, “You know, you caused us a lot of trouble yesterday, [My Name].”

I asked what he meant… and I hope you have the popcorn ready.

[Manager] was on duty yesterday. After I made my dramatic exit, she tried to bully some of the store workers into opening up the register. Unlucky for her, there weren’t enough employees around to open extra registers. Her “squawking” — [Manager]’s words, not mine — soon attracted [Manager]’s attention and he came over.

He hadn’t had the chance to begin his “How may I help you?” spiel when the customer began her tirade about me and how employees really need to deliver, especially in these tough times, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Through her and the worker at the checkout lane, [Manager] figured out what had happened, along with who had offended the customer’s delicate sensitivities. He explained, “Ma’am, that was a personal shopper who is not employed with our company. We leave this register closed so they can pack up their orders. If you want, I’ll help you over to the next register and check you out.”

[Manager] doesn’t like rewarding bad behavior, but some battles just aren’t worth picking.

Now, most normal people would realize their error, apologize profusely to everyone, repack their cart, and go to an open register with meekness and humility. And if she had done that, [Manager] tells me, he would’ve helped her.

Entitled jerks like this one, unfortunately, aren’t most normal people.

The customer decided to puff out her chest and play the weakest card in her hand. “Well, since you’re here and I’m not going to call corporate… do you mind opening up this register and checking me out since I’m already here?” She tried saying this in a sticky-sweet voice, which is one of [Manager]’s pet peeves.

[Manager] looked at her and said in a professional but firm voice, “Ma’am, you’re asking me to check you out of a register dedicated just to personal shoppers, after harassing several employees, after I volunteered to help you move?”

The customer, realizing that she had probably pissed off the one person who had been most willing to help her, slowly reloaded her carts and slunk to an open register. [Manager] watched her to make sure she wouldn’t cause a problem.

She meekly paid for her groceries and left.

I work in luxury optical retail, so I’m dressed in a black top and black skirt with dark pantyhose. I could definitely be mistaken for a hostess or a waiter, so you can guess where this is headed.

I go to get sushi from a Japanese restaurant near work that I visit all the time, and I wait for my order near the front till, right by the entrance. I’m not standing behind the till or in front of the computer, so I don’t think I look like I am working there. I’m on my phone while waiting. Two white women around my age walk in. I glance up, see them, and then look back at my phone. I mind my own business.

One of them walks toward me and waves her hand in front of me.

Woman: “Hellooooo?”

I look at her. She gives me this angry look and gestures to herself and her friend.

Woman: “Hello! Can we please get some help or what?”

Me: “Uh, try asking one of the wait—”

Woman: *Cutting me off and huffing* “Okay, you continue being useless.”

She walks past me, and then the waitress comes out of the kitchen with my order. She smiles and greets the women, says, “Just a moment,” and gives me my food.

The two women look so angry. I don’t even know why.

Woman: *Loudly* “Well, if you weren’t a waitress, you should have said something.”

But I did kind of try to tell her to get a waiter before she cut me off. It’s not my problem that she decided to assume I was a waitress.

I’d like to believe that this wasn’t a racial thing, but as an Asian woman at a sushi restaurant, it probably was.