Back in maybe 2006 to 2008ish, I was a tax associate at the most well-known tax service in North America. I did very well in the class you take, which determines your eligibility to be hired as well as teaching you how to do taxes, and was hired. I bounced from office to office as newbies do, and I was doing well enough that I was always the first to be called if a shift needed covering.

After my first season with them went so well, I was invited back for the next year, and the class was free because of the invitation. In case you wonder why the class is every year, it’s because tax rules change every year and we have to keep up.

Shortly after the class was over, which I aced, I was approached by the lady who ran the district. She wanted to open a seasonal office in a [Retail Chain] 50 km (about 31 miles) outside the city I worked in. She wanted me as a primary associate there: in part because I’d done so well in the previous year, in part because I’d aced the class, in part because of my background in security, and in part because I lived 20 km (about 12 miles) closer to this [Retail Chain] than anyone else on staff.

I wasn’t to be a manager, but I was going to be the only full-time associate. (Full-time associate for the location did not mean actual full-time hours; this “office” would be open four hours on weekends and six hours on weekdays.) I’d open and close almost every day and often be the only associate on-site. It was basically my baby to take care of. There were hints that it might lead to advancement in the company, as well. I was pretty excited about the opportunity.

At first, everything was great. The [Retail Chain] staff liked me, the customers liked me, and my boss liked me. I was blasting through customers. Only maybe five people walked away due to having to wait out of the few hundred who approached my little “office” beside the produce section.

Two months in, right before the tax season really heated up, I had a weekend I’d booked off the same day they’d hired me. I was going out of the province to see family. The trip had been set long before they hired me, and I’d made it quite clear that I wasn’t going to be around. The schedule accurately reflected that. So, the weekend arrived and I went and had a good time. I came home Monday evening so I could be back Tuesday morning.

When I got home, I checked my answering machine and found three messages. Two were from my boss, the district lady, and one was from the scheduler. I don’t remember everything word for word, so I’ll paraphrase.

Message #1, from [Boss], was on Saturday morning at approximately 7:00 am.

Boss: “Hi, [My Name], sorry to do this to you, but we need you in today. [Employee] who we scheduled to replace you had their car break down.”

Message #2, also from [Boss], was on Saturday afternoon at approximately 2:00 pm.

Boss: “I’m very disappointed in you for not responding to me and not showing up. I’ll be making some changes.”

Message #3, from the scheduler, was on Monday morning at approximately 9:00 am.

Scheduler: “Hi, [My Name], this is [Scheduler]. Your hours have changed this week. Call me when you get this.”

Now, at that point in my life, I was not a kid out of high school and I’d had enough experience with screw-jobs that I was absolutely not going to crawl on my hands and knees apologizing and begging for my job. If you’re going to be petty and mean just because you f***ed up, then we’re going to have problems. And so we did.

I called [Scheduler] and was told that I had been suspended for a week and should call [Boss] after a week to get back on the schedule. She said [Boss] was trying to put me in my place and teach me how to be a good manager. I’d get back on the schedule after the week was over. I brought up my pre-planned and scheduled time off, and I also pointed out that I wasn’t a manager; I was a regular employee. [Scheduler] was very uncomfortable, but she was only doing what she was told. They did need me, she said. I just needed to call [Boss] in a week.

I said sure — and then didn’t call. I was furious, and I wasn’t the one who was going to be put in her place. I called a few of the customers whom I’d been working with and explained that I was no longer working there, and they chose to keep me as their tax gal regardless. It really wasn’t intended as revenge, even though it sounds that way; the company wasn’t going to make more than it cost to have someone do their taxes anyway. This was purely a customer relationship thing. I like to finish what I start.

The real revenge was accepting my suspension. For the entire week that I was suspended, I made sure to stop in at the [Retail Chain] to see if I knew who they’d scheduled for my shift, and if we were friendly, then I’d help them out with the quirks of this location. But there was never anyone there. I confirmed with the [Retail Chain] staff; all week, they had no one working there. They were paying [Retail Chain] to rent space and getting nothing but a bad reputation for it because the heavily advertised new location had zero employees. It remained that way for the rest of the season — two months.

[Boss] never called me, and I never called her. Pride. I have no idea how it impacted her professionally; I’ve stayed far away from taxes ever since. I got another job before my suspension was over and never looked back.

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.