I work as a receptionist for a well-known RV dealership. They bought a well-known but defunct outdoors chain, and I was moved across the road to be the receptionist over there. I had a single desk with a phone and a computer terminal and a chair out in the middle of a big open area right where you came in from the outside.

People would come up to me CONSTANTLY wanting to check out and pay for whatever they were buying, and over and over and over, I kept having to point to the cashier lines, of which there were several.

These were people who felt entitled; they did not want to wait behind a couple of other customers to pay for their purchases. But I kept having to show them with a very polite look on my face and kind words, pointing over to the cashier lines, saying, “I’m sorry you’ll have to go to the cashier.”

After a year and a half of this, with a sign on my desk that said, “RECEPTIONIST,” and nothing on my desk but the computer and the telephone, a young man came up behind me during a very busy time of day with a handful of items and asked me if he could check out there.

After eighteen months of this, I finally broke.

Me: “Pardon me, sir. I’m not trying to be rude, but do I look like I have a cash register in front of me?”

And I pointed over toward the cashier line which was less than twenty feet away.

Of course, within fifteen minutes, my supervisor was breathing down my neck asking me if I actually said that to a customer because, of course, the entitled jerk had called and filed a complaint.

Me: “Yes, I did, and after eighteen months of putting up with this crap, I’m glad I did it, but be assured I won’t do it again.”

Six months later, I put in my three-week notice because I finally found another job.

Related:
Lack Of Register Does Not Register, Part 19
Lack Of Register Does Not Register, Part 18
Lack Of Register Does Not Register, Part 17
Lack Of Register Does Not Register, Part 16
Lack Of Register Does Not Register, Part 15
Very Bad Reception, Part 23
Very Bad Reception, Part 22
Very Bad Reception, Part 21
Very Bad Reception, Part 20
Very Bad Reception, Part 19

This happened back in 2014 when I managed a small, locally-owned vape shop.

It’s been a long day, and my employee and I are cleaning up to close when the door opens. In walks this guy with a swagger the likes of which I will never forget. He’s clutching a brown paper bag and a small pair of pruning shears, holding these tight to his chest as if his life depends on their safety. As soon as he approaches the glass display cases, my employee and I both look at each other. We know that swagger: meth.

It’s hard to describe to someone who hasn’t been face-to-face with someone like this, but there’s this specific crab-walk they do when looking at things lower than torso height — dramatically bent knees, legs out to the sides, bouncing from side to side like a crustacean on a lethal dose of caffeine. [Guy] is looking through our product cases, crab-walking across them, pointing at random items, and repeating, “WAZZAT?! WAZZAT?! HOWMUCHIZZAT?! GIMMEDAT!”

I know better than to confront these people; they’re volatile and unpredictable. I keep my business face on and try to get through this ordeal as professionally as possible. He chooses a lanyard (for an old-style vape pen, clearly useless for him), and we go to the register. We’re watching this guy’s every little movement. My employee (relatively recently released from prison for, of all things, drug charges) is tense; he’s ready to fight.

And then, the reason for the visit was revealed. I know the hundred-dollar bill is a fake as soon as he pulls it out of the brown paper bag, but I play along and don’t immediately call him out. I do my normal big bill check, holding it up against the light to see a missing watermark and security strip. (We didn’t use counterfeit pens; that’s another story). Of course, it’s a fake.

Me: “Sorry, I can’t take this.” *Hands back the bill*

Guy: “WHY NOT?!”

Me: “It’s a fake.”

Guy: *Visibly enraged* “HOW DO YOU KNOW?!”

Me: “No security features; it’s fake.”

The guy points the pruning shears at me like a knife.

Guy: “YOU WANNA SHOW ME A REAL ONE?!“

And that’s when I drop the mask. I break; this is too absurd. I can’t help but laugh in the face of this clearly deranged person. What is he going to do? Trim me and enter me into his neighborhood’s prettiest lawn contest?

Me: *Snorting with laughter* “No?”

He waves the pruning shears around… threateningly? 

Guy: “WELL, YOU’RE A F****** LIAR, THEN!”

He stomped away like a petulant child, kicking over an innocent trash can on his way out the door. We never saw him again, but legends say he’s still trying to get change for that fake Benjamin.

One of my coworkers comes into work drunk. This is grounds for immediate dismissal, so he is promptly fired. [Coworker] usually walks to work, but the manager has me walk him out just to make sure he didn’t come in a car.

On our way out, a customer approaches us and addresses [Coworker].

Customer: “Hey, you! Take me to your [items].”

Coworker: *Pauses* “I don’t think I can. I’m pretty drunk.”

Customer: “What?! They let you drink on the job?!”

Coworker: “Nope! I was fired, like, two minutes ago.”

Customer: “Um… okay.”

He went off to find someone else to help him, leaving [Coworker] and me laughing on the way out.

At my very first job, we used to have a girl who did bank runs, taking the cash from any cash transactions that we had over to the local bank in a deposit bag, where she would sometimes use what is known as a Night Drop.

One day, [Coworker] went out to do the deposit. Then, she was supposed to come back to help me close the store for the day. This left me to clean, because the walk to the bank was a bit of a distance — our town was very safe, so she had no worries about doing this on foot — and it normally took her a while to get to and from the location.

About twenty-five minutes later, [Coworker] called me and apologized, telling me that she would be late coming back because she had to call EMS to the bank. When she came back, I asked her what had happened, and the story unfolded as such.

[Coworker] arrived at the bank, but there was already someone using the Night Drop, so she waited. While she was standing there, a very good friend of hers saw her at the branch, parked his car, and got in line behind her without her noticing.

Once the other person left, [Coworker]’s friend put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Give me all the money!” You know… as a joke…

Well, [Coworker] whipped around and belted her friend in the face with the deposit bag. Now, this is a vinyl sack with some bills in it, so it didn’t do any damage but it did scare him, which caused him to jump back. As he jumped back, his foot rolled, and he fell down and knocked himself unconscious on a handrail.

[Coworker] had to call EMS, and the police also arrived to take statements and get an idea of what had happened. They agreed that [Coworker]’s friend was an idiot.

In order to prevent him from having to pay impound fees and such, [Coworker] asked the police if she could take his car. I’m not sure what conversation she had with them, but it ended in a “yes”, and she was able to drive back to our shop and then pick her friend up at the hospital the next afternoon when he was released from observation.

The best part was that I got like an hour of overtime because I couldn’t leave the shop unsecured since I wasn’t a keyholder.

It is a busy sale season, so the lines are long. As a result, some customers are more vocal than others about having to wait their turn. I am serving a customer who appears to be trans. They have indicators that they are transitioning, and they are wearing a trans pride pin.

The customer behind them seems to have noticed, too.

Next Customer: “Not only do I have to wait a f****** age to be served, but I have to be stuck behind this monstrosity?”

My current customer is checking out like they haven’t heard this bigot at all. I chalk it up to the sad fact that they’ve had this all their life and so words like this are just water against oil at this point.

Next Customer: “I know you can hear me, you pervert! Keep your perversions at home, you [trans slur]. Hurry up!”

My current customer pays, throws me a smile, and says:

Customer: “Thanks, and have a great day! Sorry about what’s to come.”

They side-eye the next customer and walk out totally unbothered.

The next customer has their items on the belt, but I am placing aside in my “go-back” pile.

Next Customer: “What the f*** are you doing?”

I point to a sign and read it aloud.

Me: “Customers are expected to be respectful and patient and refrain from abusive language.”

Next Customer: “I didn’t say anything to you!”

Me: “This rule applies to what you say to anyone in the store, sir. Since your behavior is unbefitting of a customer in [Store], I no longer deem you a customer. The exit is just over here.”

Next Customer: “Get me your manager!”

My manager happens to be serving at the next till over. He speaks up.

Manager: “I’m the manager, and I’m also the one that wrote that sign. You either walk out those doors now, or you do so later with the police. Choose.”

Next Customer: “You’re all a bunch of trans-loving w***es!”

Manager: “Which makes us infinitely better off than a miserable little bigot like you. Out. Now.”

The customer stormed off, and I was never so happy about having to do more “put-backs” that shift.