(It is February 13th. There is a customer staring at the Valentine’s cards. He is near tears. I am nearby waiting for my cousin who works here, and is my ride home.)

My Cousin: “Can I help you find something?”

Customer: “No, thanks. Wait… no. No.”

My Cousin: “Now that sounds like a cry for help. Talk to me; what’s wrong?”

Customer: *sadly and rather awkwardly, in lots of broken sentences* “I can’t… I… this couple. We’ve been having threesomes and I want to get them something. I love them. Both. So much. But they’re married, and they’re my best friends, and I don’t want to ruin everything.”

My Cousin: “How can a card ruin everything? You think telling people you’ve been having sex with that you love them will scare them off?”

Customer: “I… don’t want to presume.”

My Cousin: “Come on, you haven’t been standing here for a half hour because it’s a bad idea. You know what you want to do.”

(He nods slowly, and she helps him pick out a ‘to the woman I love’ and a ‘to the man I love’ cards. His hands shake the whole time he’s paying, and his knuckles are white around the little plastic bag as he leaves.)

Me: “Man, now the hot ones are, like, double taken.”

My Cousin: “I suddenly have a good feeling about the woman who was in here a few days ago buying a ‘for my husband’ and a ‘for my boyfriend.'”

(The cashier has just given me my total for my purchases. I swipe my credit card and sign the electronic screen. She looks at the signature on the screen and informs me that she needs to see my card and identification since the signature is not clear. She asks me to sign it again and as I hand her my driver’s license, I sign the screen a second time.)

Cashier: “I cannot make out your signature. You need to sign it again.”

Me: “Why? You have my ID in your hand. The names match and the picture is definitely me.”

Cashier: “Well, I cannot read your signature. It doesn’t really match.”

Me: *joking with her* “Those crazy machines never allow anyone to properly write their signature on them. Can I have my receipt and cards back please?”

Cashier: *dead serious* “Not until your signature matches your ID.”

Me: “Are you kidding me? You have my ID that proves who I am. What more do you need?”

Cashier: *looking at my ID again* “You do realize that your signature isn’t very legible on your ID either, don’t you?”

Me: “Yes, I know. I do that on purpose because it’s harder to forge a messy signature. My husband was in the military and was told to always write a signature messy since it’s easier to forge a neat signature.”

Cashier: “You really should get your ID redone with a neater signature.”

Me: “Um… that is my signature. It’s how I write. Just give me my stuff now, please.”

Cashier: “I can’t until I get a proper signature. You aren’t worth my job.”

Me: “Can I see your manager? I have signed it twice and you have my ID.”

Cashier: *rolling her eyes* “Fine.” *calls manager*

Manager: “What’s the problem?”

Cashier: “This customer has signed the thing twice. The signature doesn’t match the card or the ID, and she won’t sign it again.”

Manager: “But you have her ID; it matches the name on the card, and the picture is her. That should be the end of it. Those machines never allow someone to write it clearly. Just give her the cards back and her purchase.”

Cashier: “Well, it’s not worth losing my job over.”

Manager: *raising voice a little* “There is no problem here. Just give her the stuff and complete the transaction!”

Cashier: *rolling her eyes again* “Fine! But I better not be fired if it comes up as ID theft!”

Manager: *grabbing the receipt, cards, and bag from the cashier and handing them to me* “I’m sorry, miss. Have a nice day.”

Me: “Thank you. Hopefully, I won’t have this problem next time.”

Manager: “I assure you that you won’t.”

(An older gentleman enters the store with a young woman who might be his granddaughter. She pauses at a display near the door, while he approaches me. I’m standing next to one of our speaker displays, which is blasting a hit country-pop song.)

Me: “Hi, welcome to [Store]!”

Customer: “Hello there!”

Me: *noticing he’s studying the speakers* “Are you interested in—”

Customer: *deadpan* “This would be great spooning music.”

(I’m completely shocked by this, and I don’t know how to respond. Before I can say anything, he pulls a pair of table spoons out of his shirt pocket and begins to play along with the music!)

Customer: “Yeah! See? This is great!”

(He calls over his granddaughter, and she pulls out a pair of spoons and starts to play, too! They have a five-minute jam session at the front of the store, and then spend 20 minutes happily chatting with my coworkers and me before making their purchases and leaving. It makes my day!)

(My boss’ office is out by the back dock, at the end of a narrow corridor covered by security cameras that are viewed in the office. I’m walking down this corridor to ask her a question.)

Me: *sticks head in door* “Hey, boss—”

(My boss screams and whips her head around.)

Boss: “Don’t do that!”

Me: “What?”

Boss: “Don’t scare me like that! I didn’t know you were coming!”

Me: “What do you mean? There are cameras down the whole corridor!”

Boss: “I didn’t hear you coming! Admit it; you’re a ninja!”

Me: “…yes boss, I’m a ninja. Now, about aisle three…”

(I’m a teenager, although I look younger. My father owns a small, English-run shop, and I work some shifts there if I want some extra cash. My father can’t speak a word of Spanish, although I can since I go to school in Spain. Two customers walk in, talking in Spanish.)

Customer #1: “I hate this shop! It’s stupid, and they don’t even speak Spanish.”

Customer #2: “I know, right? I only come in here so I can mentally mock everything.”

(I’ve been listening the whole time, but they’ve only just spotted me.)

Customer #1: “Look! They’ve hired some low-life kid to help them out. I swear that’s illegal; I’m going to report it because it will be funny.”

(I’ve been keeping quiet, but now I get angry. I twist around, facing the men, and start talking to them in Spanish.)

Me: “Okay, listen up: I’m a teenager, and my dad owns this shop. In case you haven’t noticed already, I do speak Spanish, and I’ve heard everything you just said. So if you hate this shop so much, why don’t you get out?”

(We never see them again, which my father appreciates since they were always coming in without buying anything and he didn’t know how to say anything!)

This story is part of our Spain-themed roundup!

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