I’m a twenty-two-year-old woman, and I took my little brother (age fifteen) to the mall a few months ago to shop for Christmas gifts for our grandparents. We were in the jacket area of a department store chain, and I was handing him a couple of things to hold up so I could take a photo of one of the sweatshirts.

This big guy came up to me and got in front of my little brother.

Guy: “Where is the shoe section?”

I was in a Horror Nights hoodie and a graphic tee shirt with a kid. Yes, sir, I obviously work here.

Me: “I don’t know; I don’t work here.”

Guy: *Getting all huffy* “You people all work here; you just don’t want to help.”

And he stormed off.

I laughed so hard after he left. I should also note that both my brother and I had very obvious [Restaurant Chain] to-go cups, so the dude really just stopped the first brown person he saw.

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 48
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 47
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 46
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 45
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 44

I’m working the AM shift at a hotel today. I usually work PM shifts, but the AM shift front desk agent had a funeral to go to, and I was asked to cover.

I am all alone for the first three hours since my general manager is at a conference, and my assistant general manager is working a mid-shift to cover the arrival of two sports teams this evening. Outside of the sports teams, we are only around 40% full, as it’s the slow time.

As I am looking over arrivals for the day, I see a note that a traveling nurse will be checking in at 8:00 am, since she works overnight. There are plenty of clean rooms of her room type, so I assign a room and go about other tasks.

Eight am rolls around and the guest arrives. I assume it is her, but it’s always my practice to just follow the normal script that I use every time.

Guest: “I’m checking in.”

Me: “Great. What is your last name?”

Guest: “[Guest’s Full Name].”

I open up the reservation.

Me: “I have you here for three nights in a king suite — a complimentary upgrade because you are a [High-Tier Loyalty] member. Thank you for your loyalty.”

Then, I continue without pause to ask the question that undoes me.

Me: “Can I see your ID and the credit or debit card you would like to use for the room?”

She looks over at me at this point and gives me a look like I just asked her if she still wears a thong. Then, she replies haughtily.

Guest: “Are you the only one working right now?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

I tend to revert to military courtesy when I deal with a certain kind of customer.

Me: “Can I please see your ID and card?”

Guest: “Is [General Manager] here? Or [Assistant General Manager]?”

She asks for them both by first name.

Me: “No, they are not here, I am sorry.”

Guest: “Well, I stay here every week, and they never ask for my ID.”

Me: “Sorry, ma’am, but I am the only one here, and I do not recognize you. Can I please see your ID and the credit card you would like to use?”

She finally started to rummage through her giant purse, pulling out the ID and card, which I checked and then had her run through the POS.

Do people not realize that we ask for ID and form of payment for their protection as much as the hotel’s?

The rest of the check-in went smoothly and she went on her way. Maybe someday I will be worthy to check her in on my own.

I am homeless. No, I don’t drink, and no, I don’t do drugs. I am trying to get a job, but finding employment when homeless is not an easy task. (Something I need to get out of the way.)

Every few days, I take a trip to the library to charge my phone and batteries so I can keep my phone on and working. I typically spend three or four hours in a quiet corner of the library glued to the power outlet.

Today, I had a cute and then frustrating interaction between a little kid and her parent.

I walked through the sliding doors of the library and wandered around looking for an open chair near an outlet to sit and charge.

I heard this little voice shout out in excitement and glee, “Santa!” and pitter-patters of little boots running over to me.

Now, I get it. I really do. A big bearded man dressed in red, with big black bags and an oversized backpack strapped over his shoulders — any little kid would easily mistake me for the big jolly man.

The kid stopped dead in front of me. She couldn’t have been more than four years old, and she was clenching her fists tight, trembling in excitement.

She looked up at me, her eyes opened wide.

Kid: “HI, SANTA!”

That made me smile, and I laughed.

Her mother came running over and scooped her child up.

Mother: *To me* “I’m sorry!” *To her kid, walking away* “That’s not Santa!”

The entire interaction put a smile on my face, but here’s where it went downhill.

I found an open seat and plugged in my phone to charge and do my thing.

The little kid and her parent were on the other side of the library, but the kid was still brimming with excitement. I could see her head poke out of the bookshelf, staring at me every so often.

That went on for about half an hour.

Until, I guess, the mother couldn’t handle her child anymore, and she came over to me.

Mother: “You need to leave and find a different spot. You’re distracting my daughter.”

Me: “Hey, I’m sorry, but this is the only open space with an outlet. I need to charge my stuff.”

Mother: *Very sarcastically* “Oh? Why’s that?”

Me: “Because I don’t have one. I am homeless.”

I thought that was the end of it because her face went red and she walked away.

But no, she came back.

Mother: “I went to the front desk to ask if there are any outlets outside and if it’s okay for you to use them. They said they’re okay with you using those outlets, so you can go out there.”

Seriously!

Me: “So, you don’t want me in the library, a public institution, to charge my stuff? You would rather me sit outside in the cold just because your kid thinks I’m Santa? Really, that’s it. Well, ho ho ho, Merry Christmas to you. I’m going to stay right here until my batteries are charged.”

The lady went to the front desk, and I listened in because I figured I was screwed, and I was getting kicked out.

Mother: “Can you tell that guy to leave?”

Library Staff: “We can’t unless he is intentionally making a disturbance or being violent or threatening.”

I have been there before; I keep to myself and don’t bother anyone.

So, yeah, I was there for four hours. I didn’t move or get kicked out. My things are charged and good for the next few days.

Honestly, it wasn’t the worst interaction I have ever experienced. At least she was somewhat polite. I don’t think she was being malicious at all; I think, in her mind, she was doing a good deed.

I work in a hotel. I hate that some people think that “We’re sold out” means, “We are keeping some secret rooms out of our inventory for malicious purposes, and only people who know about this long-held secret can book one.” NO. That ain’t it! When I say we have no more rooms, we have no more rooms.

This lady calls me on a busy night at like 10:00 pm. We have a wedding party, a reunion, and two wrestling teams in the hotel. We are sold out completely.

Caller: “Do you have any rooms?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry. We’re sold out tonight.”

Caller: “Well, it’s kind of an emergency.”

Me: “I’m sorry. You should try one of the other hotels in the area.”

Caller: “I’d be willing to pay extra if you could get me a room.”

Me: “Ma’am, we don’t have any rooms.”

Caller: “Where’s your manager? I want to talk to him; I bet he can get me a room.”

Me: “I— Wha— No. I mean that every single one of our rooms is either occupied or reserved by people arriving tonight. There aren’t any rooms left.”

And she said thanks and hung up.

It just blows my mind that people think we have Secret Rooms. We don’t. I once had a guy scream at me because he “knew we kept secret rooms”. I got my manager, and he deada** just said, “If our goal is to make a profit, why would we choose to hoard rooms instead of sell them? That doesn’t make any sense.”

I love the whole “We’re sold out” followed by “I want to talk to your manager” schtick. MY MANAGER IS SOLD OUT, TOO. MY MANAGER DOESN’T HAVE ANY ROOMS, EITHER! We LITERALLY work at the same business and use the same inventory. If I don’t have rooms, he doesn’t have rooms. And bribes don’t make other people’s reservations just disappear for you.

Good grief. When I say we don’t have any rooms, I REALLY mean WE DON’T HAVE ANY ROOMS.

In Ireland, we do a thing called “Transition Year”, a year in school where fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds do work experience rather than study for tests. When I was sixteen, I did my work experience in a childcare facility for a couple of weeks, and everyone was super nice, apart from one mother.

I had a suspicion that [Mother] didn’t really like me that much, and I didn’t know why. She did small, passive-aggressive actions toward me, like refusing to talk to me unless absolutely necessary — and even then she was rude — and going out of her way to make work harder for me.

Then, one day, [Mother] was collecting her daughter. As she was just about to leave the nursery, her daughter asked:

Daughter: “Mammy, why does [My Name] have a hand like a crab?”

I am slightly disabled in my left hand. I was born with no fingers but got two toes stitched onto it. I usually don’t mind when kids ask this; they’re very curious, and I just tell them that I was born with it, but it doesn’t affect me in any way. I’m still me.

Anyway, after her daughter asked, [Mother] proudly and snarkily replied in a louder tone so I could hear it at the other end of the hallway.

Mother: “That’s because [My Name] spent too long on his iPad and never ate his veggies!”

And she shut the door of the facility.

Unfortunately, it was my last day working, so I couldn’t do much, but I did tell the manager the whole story. (She already knew [Mother] didn’t like me.) I don’t know what happened to [Mother] or if she got kicked out of the nursery. Hopefully, she did, though.