(I receive a coupon by text message from a sandwich shop chain and stop into the location near my home to take advantage of the deal. The coupon says, “Any six-inch sandwich and drink for $4.” I order the sandwich, then go to the register where the employee behind the counter asks if I want a drink or chips with it. I reply:)

Me: “Yes, I have a coupon for a sandwich and drink for $4.”

Employee: “What size drink do you want?”

Me: “Usually, the coupon will say what size drink; is there a certain size?”

Employee: “No, it doesn’t say.”

Me: “In that case, I’ll have a large drink.”

(Why not? It’s the same price no matter what size.)

Employee: *pushes some buttons on the cash register and says* “That’ll be $5.54.”

Me: “No, the coupon says, ‘sandwich and drink for $4.’ I expected to pay $4, plus whatever sales tax, but certainly not that much.”

Employee: “Well, that coupon isn’t programmed in our register, so I don’t know what to do.”

Me: *getting a little annoyed, but staying polite* “Look: your company sent me this coupon, and I only came in here because of the coupon. Can’t you figure out how to ring it up?”

Employee: *gets exasperated and starts getting very defensive* “Well, the sandwich is $3.99, anyway, so the coupon doesn’t matter.”

(At this point, I’m thinking this should be easy. Just ring up the regular priced sandwich and a free drink, right? Nope, the employee still can’t figure it out. She turns to her coworker for help. The coworker tells her pretty much what I would have said: ring up the sandwich and make the drink free. The employee glares at me, pushes more buttons, and looks up and says:)

Employee: “Okay, that will be $3.”

(I hand her a $20 bill and she gives me $17 back. I return $1 to her and say:)

Me: “No, the coupon said $4, and that’s what I expected to pay.”

(I took my sandwich and drink and left. I have no idea how she came up with the $3, and I can’t help but wonder how much time her manager spent trying to cash out her register that night.)

(I work in a store that customises your sandwich. This story was relayed to me by a coworker.)

Customer: “Could I please have a meatball sub with extra sauce?”

Coworker: “Sure!” *puts meatballs on sub, then grabs the marinara sauce and adds sauce*

Customer: “What do you think you’re doing?”

Coworker: “You asked for extra sauce, so I’m putting it on.”

Customer: “That’s not the same sauce!”

Coworker: “I can assure you that it is the same sauce, ma’am.”

Customer: “But I want extra sauce from the meatball container! That sauce won’t be hot!”

Coworker: “I can heat or toast your sub, ma’am, but I promise you that it is still hot.”

Coworker: “No, I want you to remake the sub.”

(My poor coworker had to remake her sub over this. But, hey, at least the coworker got a free lunch!)

(I am picking up some subs from my local sub shop. The lady helping me seems a bit gruff, but I just shrug it off. Once she rings me up and hands me my bag, I notice a basket of cookies. On the cookies is a sign that reads, “If we don’t offer you a cookie, you get one for free!”)

Me: “Oh! I don’t think you offered me a cookie. Do I actually get one for free?”

Cashier: “I did offer you a cookie.”

Me: “You asked for my name and told me my total. You never offered me a cookie.”

Cashier: “What is with you people and always trying to scam me out of the d*** cookies?! They’re five-dollar cookies. Why can’t you just buy it yourself instead of trying to make me look bad?”

Me: “Wow. Well, the cookie wasn’t that important to me, but I would like to see the owner, please.”

Cashier: “Oh, really? Now you’re going to try and complain over a cookie? You people are the worst.”

Me: “Please get the owner.”

(The cashier grumbles and walks into a back room. She comes back about five minutes later with a young man.)

Young Man: “Hi, I’m the owner. My colleague here was telling me that you’re trying to get a free cookie and getting very agitated with her due to a misunderstanding. If you have your subs, I am going to ask that you leave and not come back.”

Me: “Congratulations, that sounded very professional. If I were someone else, I may have believed you. Now, please go get the owner.”

Cashier: “He just told you he is the owner! Just accept that you were wrong and get out of this store!”

(At this point I’m fed up, so I pull out my phone and call the owner, personally.)

Me: “Hi, sorry to call you while you’re working. Would you mind coming up front for a moment? I’m having a bit of an issue.”

(The cashier looks skeptical about my call, but the owner comes out in less than a minute. The cashier looks horrified as I explain what happened. She tries to cut in a few times, but the owner shushes her.)

Owner: “[Young Man], is this all true?”

Young Man: “I’m so sorry, sir. I just went along with it because she said she felt like she was in danger, and we didn’t want to bother you while you were in the office.”

Owner: “[Cashier]! How could you do something like this?”

Cashier: “I don’t understand why you believe her! She’s just some b**** off the street, and I’m a loyal employee. You should believe me!”

Owner: “You have been here for a week, and this girl is my daughter!”

(The cashier pales and starts to try and sputter out a response as the owner takes her into the back. She comes out crying and shoves past me on the way out, glaring daggers at me. The owner comes back out to apologize and say she has been fired.)

Me: “Well, Dad, do I get my free cookie now?”

Owner: “Don’t call me ‘Dad.’ It’s weird! Here. Take a few cookies for your family, as well. Tell them I said, ‘Hi!’”

(The owner was a well-known volunteer in our community, and often worked with my family on different projects. Of course, I didn’t mind being his daughter for a few minutes to get those cookies! They were delicious.)

(I go to a sandwich shop for lunch. There’s one girl making sandwiches alone, but luckily it isn’t busy, because this ensues:)

Me: “I’d like the regular chicken carbonara on wheat, please.”

Worker: “For here or to go?”

Me: “For here.”

(She starts making my sandwich.)

Worker: “I accidentally put ranch on it.”

(She then starts to put other toppings on it.)

Me: “Wait! I don’t like ranch!”

Worker: “Oh… I’ll just start a new one, then? Do you even want alfredo sauce?”

Me: “Yeah, that’s what comes on the sandwich.”

Worker: “And it’s to go?”

Me: “For here.”

Worker: “I thought you said to go.”

(My sandwich turned out as described by some miracle! I still can’t believe she was just going to try to sub alfredo for ranch, instead of just making the sandwich I asked for.)

(The sandwich shop I work in during college is a chain famous for its speedy delivery. This means that the shop has a delivery radius; according to corporate, we can’t deliver outside that radius. I have been working there for about three months when this happens. The phone rings.)

Me: “[Sandwich Shop], how can I help you?”

Customer: “I’d like a [sandwich #1] with extra lettuce and no tomato, a [sandwich #2] with double meat, a bag of [flavor] chips…” *goes on with a very complicated order that involves several other sandwiches, all with modifications*

Me: “Okay, great. Can I have your address, please?”

Customer: “It’s [address].”

(As soon as she says this, I check it on the map above the phones and realize with a sinking feeling that she lives outside our delivery zone.)

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t deliver there.”

Customer: *suddenly very angry* “WELL, I NEVER. YOU DELIVERED HERE LAST WEEK; WHY CAN’T YOU DELIVER HERE NOW? THIS IS AN OUTRAGE! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT THIS?”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m not even qualified to cut bread. I have absolutely no say over our delivery zone.”