I work at a thrift store, and when I mean “work,” it actually functions more as a daycare for me, as I was deemed incapacitated due to a burnout that also gave me anxiety issues that manifest around stressful environments. Most of my coworkers are in similar situations, but we have a handful of higher-ups — the owners and store manager — who do this as their real job and are, let’s say, in a better financial place than the rest.

Our store manager has a granddaughter who is about fifteen who sometimes ”helps out” in the back. Today she’s working at my table and is instructed to polish all incoming silverware.

For the first hour, she pouts like a toddler and whines non-stop about how this ruins her nail polish and that her back hurts. All of us work standing up, but her grandmother rushes to get her a chair to sit on.

She also drops this gem.

Manager’s Granddaughter: “Eww, I can’t believe you people do this for a living! When I grow up, I will never do such low work. It’s pathetic!”

This makes me swallow the urge to punch this kid in the face, but she’s the manager’s granddaughter, so I gotta play nice!

She continues to whine and mope, and every ten minutes she treats us with a nagging:

Manager’s Granddaughter: “When is my break? Is it break time yet? Grandmah-ah-ah! Can I go on break yet?”

Come three o’clock, she jumps up and barks to our manager:

Manager’s Granddaughter: “Grandma. Come. Now. Coffee break.”

And grandmother replies:

Manager: ”Yes, my darling dear.”

The rest of the afternoon, she sits and does nothing except pout, sigh, and play on her phone. Her grandmother says nothing about it.

I happen to strike up a conversation with a coworker, and the topic goes to how my bicycle is currently falling apart and I’m contemplating whether to get a new one or repair this one. Little Miss Entitled cuts in.

Manager’s Granddaughter: “My daddy is getting me a new scooter when I turn sixteen! He let me pick it out already. It’s gonna be a pink one. It will match so cute with this helmet I saw, with sparkles on it!” 

But of course, dear, I think. I give her a “That’s nice” with a forced smile and turn back to my work, trying to ignore the continuous sighs and ughs coming from her side of the table. Yes, poor thing, it’s so hard doing absolutely nothing while I’m drowning in work!

Come the end of the day, her grandmother beams proudly.

Manager: “What a darling, isn’t she? Taking her time off her busy studying schedule to help us out! She’s going to university soon, you know. She’s so smart!”

I swear my tongue will cut in half from all the biting I did on it at this point.

I work at a sit-down chain restaurant. A group of teenagers, fresh out of their last day of high school, comes in to celebrate. They even bring a cake with them; this isn’t a big deal, except we don’t allow that because we serve cake.

One of the more level-headed ones talks to a manager, and we decide to let it slide, even giving them extra plates.

Fast forward to about an hour later, when the cake is being cut up. These kids are borderline drunk now — we found out later they had spiked their drinks — and one of them gets the bright idea to smush his cake into his friend’s face. This starts an all-out riot at the table, with drunk eighteen-year-olds throwing cake, half-eaten burgers, cups of Dr. Pepper and mysterious alcohols, and even silverware at each other.

Our managers come out, but policy is to not touch patrons at all (lawsuits and stuff), so we have to wait for the cops to come. They do, eventually, and take the lot of them away.

Since it is my table and servers bus their own there, I am stuck with the job of cleaning up the remains. Cake was ground into the carpet, and the stains are still there. I spend maybe three hours making that section presentable again. The worst part is, since the kids were arrested, they didn’t pay. I got no tip and registered zero sales (manager comps don’t reflect in your total) for five hours of my shift, and I later found out that one of the children’s parents was suing the restaurant for not keeping a better eye on her adult son.

I had a group of four teenage boys come in right as the lunch rush was beginning. They were laughing and joking with each other, which made it hard to get their actual orders put in, and led to the line backing up as they took up my register. Finally, I got all of their orders in the system.

Me: “Okay, your price is [Price]. Cash or card?”

The kid who had been the spokesman for the group had turned back towards his group, and all four of them started walking away at that point.

Me: “Sir? Sir! Kid, you still need to pay!”

Nothing. All four of them just wandered off to go sit at a table.

Me: *To the kitchen* “Cancel the order.”

I cancelled it out in the system and then moved on to handle the next customer. We got through the line and everything had died down somewhat, and then one of the teens came up.

Teen: “Hey! Where’s our food?”

Me: “You never paid, so we never made it.”

Teen: “We pay afterward.”

Me: “No, you pay now or you don’t get food.”

He made a face at me and stormed back to the table. They continued to sit around, glaring up at the registers every so often, before they went over to the condiment counter and made a mess with the sauces and knocked over a stack of trays, and then they all stomped out.

Back in my high school days, when my friends and I were sixteen to eighteen, we went to a tiny diner out of town. All of us worked in the service industry so we would tip pretty decently. I think the bill came to around $80, and I just put in a $100 in the bill book and we left.

After we got in the car and drove a few miles, my friend asked if we thought it was enough that she only tipped our waitress $15. I expressed that I’d tipped her about $20 already, after which my other friend chimed in that she’d left a twenty on the table. We laughed it off and said we probably made her day with the over 65% tip.

Three years later, we were passing through that town and we decided to stop by that same diner. Lo and behold, the waitress was there and she remembered us! She mentioned that she was lowkey confused at the amount of cash left after the tip my friend handed to her but was grateful as it helped her buy her son a birthday present. It’s just amazing how she remembered after three years.

Every time the schools closes, a load of teenagers like to congregate outside of our office. They are often loud, and they smoke, drink, and leave rubbish everywhere. Recently, they have started to bring in skateboards and use our carpark as a park to play in. 

After several cars were damaged, security started to chase them out time and again, but they come back, often worse. This time, “someone” has sprayed graffiti over the front of the building. The police are called and catch a few of them still hiding on the grounds.

I get there as one of the mothers arrives. Instead of being a decent parent, she is screaming at the policewoman.

Woman: “He didn’t do anything! It was the others.”

Police: “I’m sorry, but he has spray paint in his bag that matches the damage. Did you give it to him?”

Woman: “Well, yeah, but that’s for his school work. He was probably just carrying it for someone.”

I do a double-take at that particular lack of common sense, and then I recognise the kid as the one who threw things at my car the other day while swearing at me. This is my chance to set him straight.

Me: “Oh, excuse me, officer, but if you look around the back, I saw this one smoking something that I’m guessing is illegal. I imagine you can trace the spit back to his DNA or something.”

Police: “Thank you, sir. Whereabouts?”

As I explained, the mother started to scream obscenities at me, eventually having to be restrained and arrested herself. The kid, on the other hand, seemed to accept his fate.

I ended up working for the company for many years. Shortly after I left, I heard that that same kid got a job there working as one of the security guards he used to try so hard to evade.