My manager is talking to an angry woman at the front of the store. Her voice gets heated, so they step outside on the sidewalk, where I see this woman literally stomp her foot, shout some more, and point at the CCTV cameras we have above the door.

I then see the manager escort the woman into his office, where I hear her grumble for a few minutes before shouting again and storming out. My manager comes out of the office, laughing.

Me: “What was all that about?”

Manager: “So last night we had some underage girl from the college try to buy liquor with a fake ID. She’s the mother, and she came to tell us that we made a mistake.”

Me: “So she wasn’t underage?”

Manager: “Oh, she definitely was. Y’see, the girl’s ID was fake, like hilariously fake, so I confiscated it. The mom came by to tell us it was real, so I showed her the footage from last night.”

Me: “The footage of… you turning her away?”

Manager: “This mother just watched footage of her daughter try to use a fake ID, have that fake ID confiscated, then of her daughter insisting it was real, call the police herself, ha, I even let her use our phone, to do it, waiting outside for them, seeing he cops arrive, talking to her, then to me, taking one look at the fake ID, and then putting her in handcuffs.”

Me: “Oh… wow. I shouldn’t have taken yesterday off! Sounds hilarious.”

Manager: “Yeah, the mom didn’t really have an argument after all that. She left to go bail her daughter out now. That’ll be an interesting car ride home…”

CORRECTION: A typo has been corrected.

I work at a boat rental in the warmer months (paddle boats, kayaks, and canoes) and we require an ID for many reasons, one being that the minimum age to rent a boat is fourteen. 

Last year, some girls around that age came up to us without any ID because barely any teenager under sixteen in Germany has an ID anyway. They didn’t even have a student ID because schools stopped making those.

Girl: “Wait! I have an E-scooter!”

Me: “Okay… and you have ID in the scooter?”

Girl: “No, but they only give those to you if you’re fourteen and up!”

Me: “I’ve seen nine-year-olds on those things. They don’t prove anything!”

Girl: “It proves if I can ride a scooter, I can ride a canoe!”

Me: “If you injure yourself on the scooter, you hurt yourself. If you injure yourself on our canoe, you hurt me, as I will be fired. Nice try, but no.”

Girl: “Well… I hope you get fired anyway you… you… dictator!”

All the girls stormed off, calling me various incarnations of an authoritarian despot, which hits harder in Germany!

We had a father and daughter come in. Regrettably, it was pretty busy, so nobody ID’d them on the floor while they were shopping. I had seen the girl just prior to arriving at the checkout, picking things out.

When they arrived, I asked her for ID.

Father: “Oh, I’m buying it.”

I think anyone who works in liquor knows/hates those words, as it means you’re about to get into a big argument. Working in this industry, you sort of get hardened to people getting upset as you’re constantly refusing people, dealing with alcoholics, and thieves. In 99% of situations, it doesn’t affect me one bit, but the parent/child combo approaching my reg still sets me on edge. They are, by far, the worst kinds of customers.

Me: “You may be buying it, but as she was picking it out herself, I’d need to see her ID as well.”

She looked panicked, so I already knew she wasn’t eighteen.

Father: “She’s… seventeen.”

Me: “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to sell any of this to you today.”

Father: *Angrily.* “I don’t understand, I’m buying it though.”

I give him a quick run-down of secondary supply laws, i.e., that I can’t sell to an adult who is intending to provide alcohol to a minor.

Father: “I don’t understand.”

I go into a bit more depth, point out the signs we have on the wall (he refuses to look), and give him the name of the legislation and suggest he can Google it if he’d like.

Father: “BUT I DON’T UNDERSTAND! THAT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE!”

Of course, he understands; he simply does not like my answer.

Father: “Fine, I’ll just send her to the car, and I’ll buy it on my own.”

He still ‘can’t understand’ when my answer is no.

So then he gives me the ‘Parent Special’: offering a million and one hypothetical situations in which he could purchase the alcohol.

Father: “So, I’d be able to buy it if she stayed in the car? What if you didn’t know? What if I had come shopping with my eleven-year-old? What if we went to a different store? What if I came back tomorrow and bought the same thing?”

Etc., etc., etc.

Me: “AND WHAT IF YOU COULD FLY? You could grab the items and float away before I had the chance to stop you! We’re not in any of those situations. We’re in this one, and I can’t legally serve you.”

The daughter tries one more:

Daughter: “But then how am I supposed to buy my friend a present for her eighteenth?”

We all know there are ways. Ask your father, he’s great at coming up with alternative scenarios. But instead, I give the answer I’m allowed to give:

Me: “Well, minors can’t buy alcohol, so legally, you can’t.”

Daughter: “BUT I DON’T UNDERSTAAAAND.”

Sensing I’d still be there today if I didn’t put an end to the conversation, I did the only thing that ever makes them leave; I picked the items up, put them back in the cart, curtly apologise/restate there’s nothing to be done, then casually walked the f*** away from them with their products.

The customer in line ahead of me is trying to buy a few bottles of vodka.

Cashier: “Can I see some ID, please?”

Customer: “Why? I’m way over eighteen.”

Cashier: “I’m following Challenge 25 rules. You look under 25, so I have to ask for ID.”

Customer: “I’m just aging well because I’m Black. You’re just assuming I’m young because you’re racist!”

The cashier just sighs, gets her phone from out of her pocket, and shows it to the customer. The customer tuts and storms out, leaving the vodka behind. I step up as the cashier moves the vodka out of sight.

Me: “What did you show her that made her storm out like that?”

The cashier gets her phone out again and shows me her wallpaper background. It’s her, on her wedding day, with her beautiful white dress and her beautiful Black husband.

I’m dealing with a woman who’s furious that I’ve refused to serve her group because one of them looks underage.

Customer: “My daughter is eighteen! Eighteen! I should know, I’m her mother!”

Me: “She doesn’t have ID, and she looks underage. Without ID, I can’t serve her. It’s the law.”

Customer: “Are you calling me a liar? She is eighteen. You have no right to refuse us!”

As she’s winding up for another round, the side door opens, 9:30 PM sharp. My own daughter comes in, still in her school uniform, backpack on.

Daughter: “Hi Mum! Just letting you know I’m home. Going upstairs.”

On her way through, she spots the girl that the customer is defending and waves.

Daughter: “Oh! Hi!”

I look at my daughter, then at the girl.

Me: “…You know her?”

Daughter: “Yeah. She’s in my class.”

The room goes very quiet. I turn slowly back to the woman.

Me: “Right. You and your fourteen-year-old ‘eighteen-year-old’ need to leave. Now.” 

She tries to sputter something, but it’s over. They scurry out without another word.