Right Working Romantic Related Learning Friendly Healthy Legal Inspirational Unfiltered

Sleep With One Eye Open

, , , | Right | CREDIT: Catnip_cryptidd | April 30, 2022

I work in a thrift shop. The majority of our customers are senior citizens, so I’m pretty used to having to explain what certain things we have for sale are used for.

One day, an older woman comes up to me holding a knife sharpener.

Customer: “Do you know what this is?”

I start to explain what it is, and she shakes her head.

Customer: “I know what it is. I’m asking if you know.”

I’m a little confused at this point, but I nod.

Me: “Yes, I know what a knife sharpener is.”

She closes her eyes and nods again.

Customer: “Sharp knives are good. You’re going to need one soon.”

And she just walked off. That was the single most cryptic thing anyone had ever said to me and I think about it quite often. Why am I gonna need a sharp knife soon? Why was she concerned about whether I knew what a knife sharpener was? To this day, I’m convinced she’s a witch.

One Annoying Mother-Pricer

, , , , , | Working | April 14, 2022

I handle all the incoming toys and kids’ stuff at our thrift store. I have difficulty working with numbers due to autism, so the pricing is done by either our store manager or the owner’s mother, who mostly works the clothing section.

I’d rather have the store manager do it. She’s fast, thorough, and good at guessing prices based on the condition of the item and such. This is not the case with the owner’s mother. She has been reprimanded for pricing items too high several times, and the manager told me to call her to do the pricing if she was available.

Today, the store manager is very busy and not present in the back room where I’m working. The pile of toys to be priced is growing, and I need to step out for a bit to use the bathroom. When I return, I see the owner’s mother at my table, price gun in hand, working her way through the pile.

Owner’s Mother: “Hey, [My Name], I saw that you had a lot that needed pricing so I stepped up to help. Nice of me, isn’t it?”

Me: “You did get the memo that [Store Manager] would rather handle the pricing herself, right?”

Owner’s Mother: “She’s busy, and I had some time on my hands, so I thought I’d help you out. I’m sure she doesn’t mind.” *Holds up a game box* “Oh, what’s this?”

Me: “It’s [Well-Known Board Game], as you can see.”

Owner’s Mother: “And what does it do? What should I price it as?”

Me: “I don’t know. Erm… two euro… fifty?”

She does this with almost every item she has in her hands. That’s one of the many reasons I’d rather not have her do the pricing. After she asks me for the umpteenth time, I get fed up.

Me: “Look, most of the games have the name and an image on the box that tells you what it is. You can use your eyes.”

Owner’s Mother: *With a sugary sweet smile* “That’s true, but asking you is so much quicker and more convenient for me. Ooh, what’s this, then?”

She’s almost worked her way through so I’d rather just have her be done so I can go and shelve the items. Once she’s done and I wheel my cart of priced goods out to the shop floor, I bump into [Store Manager].

Store Manager: “I’m on my way to price your stuff, [My Name]! O-oh… it’s already priced?”

Me: “Yeah. [Owner’s Mother] couldn’t help herself.”

Store Manager: *Sighs* “Right. Okay. Your shift’s almost over, is it? Just… shelve the items, and the first thing you do tomorrow is take a price gun, compare the prices on similar items, and see what you can fix, okay? I’ll have a word with her. Again.”

All This… Over A Purse?!

, , , , , | Right | April 4, 2022

I come into work for my afternoon shift through the front of the store. Things aren’t looking too bad customer wise… and I jinxed it with that thought.

A kid comes sprinting straight up to me who is, give or take, about six years old. His eyes are all on my purse which, I’ll admit, is pretty nice. I managed to snag a pricey brand that is patterned with the letter C in teal and lavender colors.

The kid comes to a stop, eyes glued to my purse.

Kid: “Can I see that purse?”

I get the creeping feeling of ‘this is going to go south,’ and give him a small, tight smile. I move my arm a little so he can see the pattern better but keep a grip on it.

Me: “Pretty cool, huh?”

Kid: *Frowns at me a little.* “No, I said I want to see that purse,” and reaches for it.

I promptly tuck it firmly against my side.

Me: “Sorry, honey, look with your eyes only, okay?”

Kid: “No. You’re going to give it to me to look at.”

Me: “No, I’m not, son.”

Kid: *Turning it up to eleven instantly.* “YOU CAN’T TELL ME ‘NO!’ GIVE ME THE PURSE OR I’M TELLING MY MOM!”

Me: “Go right ahead and tell her, kiddo.”

The kid spins around and sprints off.

I’m no idiot: if this is the kid, I hold no illusions about the behavior of the mom. I want my personal belongings nowhere near this train wreck. Since I’m right next to the employee door, I dart inside, stuff my purse in my locker and lock it.

A few minutes later I’m signed in and walking the floor to the front of the store.


Sigh. So help me, if this is a sign of how my entire day is going to go, I quit… On the plus side, I can already see a coworker on the phone, calling the manager. We’re good about spotting those huge, flashing, neon signs that warn of danger.

The raging woman comes storming up to me just as I reach the registers.

Entitled Mom: “Did you just tell my child ‘no?!'”

Me: “Yes.”

Entitled Mom: “How dare you! You do not tell my child ‘no!’ ”

Kid: “She wouldn’t let me hold her purse!”

Entitled Mom: “Where is the purse?”

Me: “I put it away.”

Entitled Mom: “My son wants to see your purse! Go get it for him!”

Me: “Nope.”

Entitled Mom: “My. Son. Wants. To. Hold. Your. Purse. Go. Get. It.”

Me: “Nope.”

Entitled Mom: “You will get your purse and give it to my son, or I will have you fired.”

Me: “Nope.”

Entitled Mom: “Manager! NOW!”

Me: “Yup.”

The manager is jogging our way, expression confused.

Manager: “What’s going—”

Entitled Mom: “I want this b**** fired!”

Manager: “I heard something about a purse…?”

Entitled Mom: “My son asked to hold a purse, and she refused to hand it to him!”

Me: “That’s because the purse is mine, ma’am.”

Manager: *Eyebrow raised.* “My employee doesn’t have to let your son hold her personal property, ma’am.”

Entitled Mom: “You can’t refuse my son service!”

Manager: *Glances at me, and I can read his thoughts.* “Yes, actually, we can. Ma’am, we have purses on the floor that your son is perfectly welcome to hold.”

Kid: *Screaming.* “I WANT THAT ONE!”

Entitled Mom: “I don’t care about those purses. My son wanted a specific purse, and this b**** refused him.”

Manager: “I repeat; my employee doesn’t have to let your son hold her personal property. Now, unless you actually want to shop for product that we’re actually selling, I think we’re done here.”

Kid: *Still full volume.* “I WANT THE PURSE!”

Entitled Mom: *Seething.* “I’ll call corporate!”

Manager: *Scribbling on a scrap of paper, holding it out, and smiling.* “Here’s their phone number.”

The woman snatches the slip of paper out of his hand and storms off, angrily screeching child in tow.

Manager: “[My Name], go into the back and… I dunno, hide or something, until I call you.”

I stay in the back for quite a while. I find out later the woman whipped out her cell phone three feet away from the door, jabbed her finger on it like the phone had personally insulted her, and ranted into it for several minutes.

Our phone rang a few minutes after that, and the woman stared in at my manager with an expression of smug superiority as the manager picked it up.

Big Wig: “[Manager], you’re not going to believe the call I just got, and I’m not even sure if your employees are just bored or what…”

Manager: “Oh I bet I can believe it. Let me guess, some lady just called because my employee wouldn’t give her personal property to a kid.”

Beat of silence.

Big Wig: “…So this isn’t a prank?”

According to my coworkers, who were shamelessly watching this debacle go down, the mom’s smug expression wavered when my manager grinned widely, then laughed.

Manager: “Nope. Sorry. It’s an actual thing.”

There is a long, deep sigh. My manager said he could almost see the Big Wig pinching the bridge of his nose.

Big Wig: “I’ll call her back and tell her that since no policies were broken, no action will be taken at this time. If she harasses your employees, just have her removed by the police. Ban her if she pulls it.”

He hangs up. The lady’s phone rings. She snatches it up, and her face twists into an expression of ‘lemon, no sugar,’ and barks out:

Entitled Mom: “I will never shop at your store again!”

She then pulls her phone away from her ear as though she can’t believe what she’s hearing, glares murderously at my manager, and disappears into the sunset.

For once, the promise of never returning was kept, and there was rejoicing throughout the land.

Not Very Closed-Minded, Part 50

, , , , , | Right | February 25, 2022

This story was told to me by the assistant store manager of my place of work. I work at a thrift store that closes at 7:00 pm every day (except Sundays at 5:00). The store hours are posted on the door. Starting thirty minutes before we close, we make announcements saying we are closing in [number] minutes and will reopen the next morning.

A woman enters the shop about ten minutes before we close. She hears the announcements we make, yet still browses. There is a long line, so as long as there is a line, we don’t say anything to customers browsing after closing. Twenty-five minutes after we close, the line is gone but she is still browsing. A team member reminds her that we are closed and she says she will head up to the cashier right now. The staff are doing their closing assignments at this time.

Five minutes later, one of the production team members walks out and mentions to the assistant store manager that there is a lady still shopping. Different team members have been reminding her every five minutes that the store is closed and she keeps saying she will be right up. The manager walks up to the woman to see what is going on. Now it’s forty minutes after closing.

Manager: “Ma’am, we are closed.” 

Woman: “Okay, I’ll be right up, promise. I just have to use the bathroom first.”

The manager goes to the registers to wait for her to walk her out so he can lock the doors behind her.

Five minutes later:

Manager: *To a female associate* “Can you go see where that woman is? Check the bathroom, too.”

The associate walks away to check. Five minutes later, the associate comes back and says the woman is by the floral department — at the opposite side of the store from the bathrooms.

The manager goes over to the woman.

Manager: “Ma’am, we are closed. You need to head to the checkouts now as we are about to close down the last cashier.”

Woman: “But I’m not done shopping!”

Manager: “No, you are done. It is fifty minutes after we are supposed to be closed. Take your items to the cashier now and pay.”

The woman and the manager walked up to the cashier and she paid for her items while asking for the corporate number. The manager gave her one of the customer service business cards, and as she was leaving, she screeches that “this is horrible customer service” and that “[we] will be fired by tomorrow morning”.

The manager smiled and waved as he locked the doors behind her.

It’s been three months and nothing has happened.

Not Very Closed-Minded, Part 49
Not Very Closed Minded, Part 47
Not Very Closed Minded, Part 47
Not Very Closed Minded, Part 46
Not Very Closed Minded, Part 45

All That Waiting Just To Storm Out

, , , , | Right | February 25, 2022

My store is set up where the doors to the outside open into a vestibule, and then another set of doors open into the actual store. The doors are all glass. Like any store, we have regulars who come every day. Normally, they start to wait in the vestibule about ten minutes before the store opens.

Our doors open at 9:00 am. Usually, a manager, like me, will unlock all the doors and let the customers in. We go by the clocks on the registers — or the wireless phone the floor manager has — to know when to open. 

One day, it is 8:59 am and I am heading up to the doors to unlock them. As I am walking up, a man I have never seen before is standing by the door in the vestibule, tapping his foot, and looking at his watch. He has his keys in his hand and is tapping hard on the glass with a key, pointing at his watch, and then tapping on the glass again. 

I walk up to the doors, unlock them, and greet everyone waiting with a, “Hello! How are you all today?”

Customer: “You’re late!”

Me: “I’m sorry? Late for what?”

Customer: “It is 9:01 am and you are late opening the doors!”

I check the time on the wireless phone in my pocket.

Me: “No, sir, by my clock it is 9:00 am. We opened right on time.”

Customer: “Your clock is slow! Where is the manager?!”

Me: “I am the manager, sir.”

Team members have bright-colored shirts with the store logo on them, while managers dress in business casual and have lanyards with IDs around their necks. I am wearing black pants with a blazer and my lanyard.

Customer: “What is corporate’s number?! I’ll have you fired!”

I handed him the business card with the customer service number and he stomped out the door.