During church service one day, after the tithes are collected, I notice that our pastor mutters something to one of the ushers and tries to continue as normal, though he seems somewhat annoyed through the entire sermon for reasons he doesn’t seem to want to talk about.

The next Sunday, though, he decides to be fairly blunt about what disrupted the sermon.

Pastor: “You all might wonder why I seemed so agitated last Sunday. I will be blunt: it’s because someone came in and put nearly $500 in those fake notes that are meant to trick waiters into thinking they’re being tipped well only to crush their spirits when they unfold them by having a Bible verse or a plea to attend Church in place of receiving money. This was not a singular large note, but multiple of them, gathered over a large amount of time.”

The audience murmurs a bit and looks about to see if anyone might be outing themselves with obvious guilt. A fair few of the members of the church, including me, are waitstaff and we would be completely beside ourselves if we ended up on the other end of this. Then, our pastor continues.

Pastor: “Now, I will only say a few things. We are now banned from [Restaurant we would often go to after service concluded] because someone either by accident or on purpose used one of these to pay their check, and not just to harass some poor person thinking they were seeing an example of human goodwill only to have it crushed. Doing that was the final straw for the owner to okay them dumping every single fake tip they’ve received on us. Whoever this is was arrogant enough to have our church’s name printed on it — and their name — which I will not say in public, though I am going to have a very stern talk with them afterward and urge them to go and pay the restaurant the owed money they failed to pay — I am being very charitable in assuming it was by accident — before the restaurant takes it into their own hands to call the police on them. The only reason they haven’t is because they’re giving the congregation as a whole the benefit of the doubt that we didn’t encourage this. Now then, on to the service.”

What followed was a very chastising lesson about Greed and how awful and cruel it can get, laced with especially harsh condemnations on how evil it was to disguise Greed under the veil of charity or kindness — like scamming workers out of the money they deserve and acting like it was being Godly because you were telling them to go to church.

Whoever it was either skipped that day or was very good at holding it together because nobody broke or stormed out. But, given that the following Sunday, the church “mean girls” (i.e., those hypocritical fifty-five-plus church women who say they’re good Christian women but gossip, look down on others, and generally treat the Golden Rule as more of a Golden Suggestion) were missing half of their number, it was kind of an open secret who the culprit(s) was/were. 

We did get unbanned from the restaurant eventually, but only after they moved to those smart devices that automatically add the tip to credit card payments and added a rule that if you’re paying cash, you include the intended tip with the meal payment, which I don’t blame them for.

I work at a gas station that isn’t in the best part of town. We often get customers who are drunk or high, and many of them are rude. Alcoholics get upset with me if I refuse to lend them my money to cover the cost of their beer when they don’t have enough. People addicted to gambling have cussed me for selling them scratch-off tickets that didn’t win after spending the last of their money, and heaven forbid if we are out of promotionally priced tobacco products and someone has to pay regular price for a pack of smokes.

I have many more pleasant customers than rude ones, but out of all the customer service-related jobs I have worked, I have never had to deal with so many rude customers daily as I do being a gas station clerk. I usually take all rude comments in stride, don’t lose my cool, and try to resolve any matter peacefully. I’m a very friendly person, and I hate conflict.

Another part of my job that can cause problems is asking for identification for the sale of alcohol and tobacco. I am required by law to ask for an ID for every purchase of alcohol regardless of age, even if I have seen their ID before.

I have some customers I card three to four times a day. I have the date of birth of many regulars memorized. For tobacco, I am required to card anyone who appears to be under the age of forty. Not only would I lose my job if I failed to follow the law, but I could face criminal charges and penalties, so I make sure I do my job correctly. Thankfully, most people have no problem with this, but some do.

A young man comes in who looks under the age of twenty. He places a soda and a bag of Cheetos on my counter, which I ring up.

Customer: “I need a pack of Swishers, white grape.”

Me: “Okay, can I see your ID, please?”

Customer: “NO.”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot sell this to you without seeing your ID.”

Customer: “B****!”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Customer: “You heard me, you b****! You’re not going to sell me that?”

Me: “I’m sorry, but no I am not. No ID, no sale.”

Customer: “You’re a stupid f****** b****.”

I pull his bag off the counter, set it on the floor beside me, and snap:

Me: “I’m not selling you s***, and I am not going to be disrespected like that. You need to leave.”

Customer: “Oh, you’re not going to sell me my stuff, you f****** b****? I’m paying for it; give it to me.”

Me: “H*** no, I’m not selling it to you. I have the right to refuse the sale, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. You’re not paying for s***, because I’m not selling you a d*** thing. Get the h*** out of my store before I call the police.”

Customer: “Call the police, you f****** b****. They won’t do nothing!”

I picked up the phone and called dispatch. Once the guy realized I was actually on the phone with the police, he quickly swiped something from the counter and held it up in the air as he walked out the door.

My report changed from a disturbance and a customer harassing me to a report of theft. I walked out the door of the store to give the officer a description of the vehicle the guy got into, and as I was standing there, he drove towards me and nearly hit me. I quickly stepped back, and as he drove past, I was able to give the officer a tag number and the direction the guy turned once he pulled out.

About ten minutes later, an officer showed up at the store and informed me that they had pulled the customer over about a mile down the road and that he had been arrested. He then told me that he had only stolen a candy bar and asked if we (the store) wanted to press charges. I contacted my manager, who said that she wanted him banned from the store, but since it was only a candy bar, we weren’t going to press charges for the theft.

The next day, my manager asked me to tell her exactly what had happened, and I did, including how I’d responded. Her response was that had she known the whole story, and how the customer had spoken to me, she would have pressed charges.

The officer came by a few days later and told me the guy had two charges of failure to appear in court and driving on a suspended license. It makes sense now why he refused to show his ID.

Going to the post office is usually a weekly event for me. I rarely give it any thought other than to drive there, go inside, and drop off my letter or package. However, during that crazy time when the world changed, I had to give careful consideration to this journey, as my age and pre-existing condition put me into the “vulnerable” category.

There are decisions that I need to make. Is this a package that must go out now? I conclude that it is. Is there anyone else who can take the package for me? I conclude there is not. So, I have made two decisions already.

Next, I must determine which of the two post offices closest to me would be the easiest one to accomplish my goal. I realize the larger one would be my best choice. Three decisions made!

On the drive over, I determine that I will look to see the number of cars in the parking lot before I make my decision to go in. Upon arriving, I conclude that the car population is small enough, so I pull into an empty space. My next thought is, “Perhaps I should wait for someone to come out and ask them to take my package in?”

Then I realize that I will be making contact with a perfect stranger, and what is the difference between talking to that stranger and just going in and talking to the clerk? The next decision made, I walk inside. There are only two people, and both are standing at the counters making their transactions. I walk to the front of what is normally a very long line. I am standing alone, waiting my turn.

Shortly, I am called to the window. I can see that the postal clerk is aware of the fear in my eyes. She quietly steps back from her station and motions me to come forward. I step up to the counter and place my package on the scale. She then motions me to step back. I move away, and she begins the process of weighing it and determining the proper postage. She tells me the price and motions me forward as she takes a step back. Again, I believe she sees the terror in my eyes.

Clerk: “One moment, ma’am.”

She leaned under the counter and picked up a Lysol wipe. She thoroughly cleaned the credit card machine and the entire counter around it. She then stepped back and again motioned me forward.

As I inserted my card, tears started to roll down my cheeks. I was so moved by the care with which she accomplished this usually very simple task. When I had completed the transaction, she again motioned me back as she stepped forward. She took the receipt, wiped it down, and laid it on the counter. Beside it, she placed a clean tissue as she could see that my tears were still streaming down my cheeks. She again stepped away from the counter. I picked up the receipt and took a step back.

In gratitude, I bowed to her. She bowed to me with equal respect.

I am working at the checkout at a grocery store in a small town in the American South. It is my last week working here, so I am putting up with less from fools. While this story was a while ago, it’s one I remember with clarity since nothing as dramatic has ever happened since, and I was immensely proud of myself.

Southern hospitality reigns here, and small talk isn’t discouraged between customers and retail workers. I have the “typical” Southern accent, which sadly means that some folk from other parts of the country assume I am stupid.

I am about to start checking out my next customer’s items.

Me: “Hi, how y’all doing?”

Customer: “Do you really care? Or are you just programmed to ask that stupid question to all customers?”

Me: “Well, I’m just making conversation.”

Customer: “Make it somewhere else.”

I nod and continue to scan the items silently. Some customers are having a bad day and need to vent. As a retail worker, I get it, and it doesn’t bother me. This particular customer, however, seems to have had their ruffles feathered by my innocent question.

Customer: “Seriously? How am I doing? Be honest: do you really want to know?”

Me: “I know what you’re implying, sir. You’re taking a well-known phrase used in small talk and associating rules of different types of conversation toward it, where a more honest answer would be more appropriate.”

Customer: “Whatever, just scan my groceries—

I keep scanning, but I also keep talking. I’m on a roll now!

Me: “Most people would have the cognitive reasoning to decipher my true intent with the usage of the phrase and choose to either answer in the same manner or refuse to, either choice being no skin off my nose. Some, however, decide to take umbrage at its usage simply for no other reason other than they want to be a jerk and make the other person feel small.”

Customer: “What the f*** are you talking about?!”

Me: “Oh, I thought since you appreciated honesty so much, I would give it a whirl! It’s liberating, isn’t it? Now, do you want me to wish you the day I think you deserve, or would you just like the total?”

The customer stared at me, obviously not prepared for the tirade I had just thrown at him. He just angrily stated, “Total,” and I finished the rest of the transaction in silence. 

I enjoyed my time working there, but I’ll never work a job where I can’t be honest with the people who come at me ever again.

Two days before Thanksgiving, I noticed that something was wrong: my youngest son wasn’t his usual energetic self. He was crawling across the floor to the breakfast table and muttering incomplete sentences that I couldn’t make sense of. I touched him and he was burning up.

I took him to the doctor and they said he had a fever of 106.5F, which is very bad — and could get worse.

My husband asked around while I was with the kid at the hospital, and it turns out that the neighbor’s kid had had a fever of about 105F recently, but the neighbor let him play with my son despite being dangerously ill, because it was “just a little fever”.

Our family was supposed to visit us for Thanksgiving, but I called them to cancel since I didn’t want my nieces and nephews to get sick.

One of my brothers actually mocked me for “being a wimp” and “letting a little fever cancel Thanksgiving”.

So, here we are on Thanksgiving Day, smuggling a turkey, some cranberry sauce, and a pumpkin pie smoothie into the hospital to feed my smallest a Thanksgiving meal. Because some morons didn’t take disease prevention seriously.