I’m doing a Christmas craft show, where I’m selling a variety of things. A man and his three kids — a young daughter around four or five, and two boys around eight to ten — come up to browse. The father and one of the boys are browsing quietly, and the girl is making noises of delight. I have this conversation with one of the boys:

Boy: “Why does your stuff cost so much?”

Me: “So I can afford to buy the stuff to make them and so I’m reimbursed for the time and skill I used to make them.”

Boy: “Oh. I wish I could have this for free.”

I don’t really have a response for this, so I turn to look toward the rest of the family.

Boy: “Excuse me.”

Me: “Yes?”

Boy: “I said I wish I could have this for free.”

Me: “Yup. I heard you.”

The father then called the son over to him, gave me an apologetic look, and ushered his family away.

A few days before Christmas, my husband and I were shopping for the necessary food. We decided to split the list to make it go faster.

For some reason, other shoppers began watching whenever my husband and I met up to discuss anything.

I have an offbeat sense of humor. When the stares began to annoy me, I warned my husband what I would do if it continued.

The next time he came to me with a question, I loudly said, “No, sir, I will not go home with you to cook Christmas dinner!”

Aisle six suddenly appeared to be full of meerkats.

I’m a woman in my thirties, and I’m a school crossing guard. You know the look: I have the bright yellow vest and a big, red sign. Even better, I won a matching yellow reflective hat when I embarrassed myself during my first training demo, thus I am all kitted out. So just remember that the key color here is yellow.

Recently, some big cellular company started installing fiber optics beneath the ground near our school, drilling and destroying the sidewalks. This is at some of the corners I am posted on, so I have to dance around cones and not fall into holes. Naturally, there are lots of reflective cones, blocked off areas, and most importantly, big dudes in ORANGE vests and hard hats. Anyway, it’s a hot mess. The kids are confused, the parents are irate, and I’m running my butt off, but we’re getting through it. The rush was hectic, but we’ve found our rhythm and the crowds start to thin.

Then, this lady parks in the bike lane and halfway into one of my crosswalks and right where the dudes are digging up the sidewalk — the worst place possible. Thinking she’s just a mom trying to pick up her kids — not the way to do it — I rush over, hoping my eyes look friendly because my smile is hidden behind my mask.

Me: “Afternoon, ma’am! I’m afraid I have to ask you—”

Lady: “You are seriously bad at your job!”

Me: *Stops short* “Um, come again, ma’am?”

Lady: “I’ve been watching you and you are doing it wrong! People could get hit because of you!”

I’m beginning to panic because I am very alert but maybe I’m off my game? I start reviewing the few minutes that just passed, wondering if I made any big mistakes. I’ve been covering my three corners fine, I let cars go fine, and I managed watching cars go into a turning lane that is now used for incoming traffic without anyone dying, but I’m not allowed to direct traffic, so I am thoroughly confused.

Me: “I’m so sorry, but could you elabor—”

Lady: “I don’t want excuses. I want you to do your job! You’re supposed to let a certain number of cars go at a time! And you’re not even trying to keep the kids off the road!”

Me: “Um…”

Then, I see my late stragglers approaching. I just want to ignore this lady who isn’t making any sense. So, I begin moving away so I can cross my kids. And this lady — this scrawny, beanpole of a lady — grabs my sign. Or, she TRIES to take it, but my sign is my baby. No one grabs my sign!

Me: “Whoa, ma’am!”

Lady: “I’ll direct traffic myself!”

I start to catch on.

Me: “Ma’am, please let go of my stop sign! I’m just trying to cross my kids. I am not part of the construction crew!”

Somehow, she hears that. She also hears my kids rushing over to ask if I’m okay, calling me by my surname. Even parents are starting to call over to me to see what was going on. The lady turns white and lets go of my sign.

Lady: “You… you work for the school?”

Me: *Clutching my sign* “Yes ma’am.”

Lady: “Oh, well… You shouldn’t wear the same vests!”

Again, I’m in yellow and the crew is in orange. I look at my vest, then at two workers, and then back at my vest. I am trying to be subtle. Five-year-olds, however, are NOT subtle, and one of my kindergarteners scoffs at this lady.

Kindergartener: “Uh, lady, she is in yellow. They in orange. Even I can tell ’em apart!”

I love this kid. The lady blinks once, just once, and then spins around and runs for her car. That’s it; she just runs from a sassy five-year-old. I wish I could have given this kid a hug.

I suppose this lady could’ve been colorblind, but she still shouldn’t have tried to take my sign!

I work for a small boutique hotel, and the owner is very strict about hygiene and personal safety. All staff are required to wear masks and use hand sanitizer frequently, high-touch areas are cleaned every thirty minutes when feasible, and, of course, customers are required to wear masks in public areas and while interacting with staff. We make this very clear at every point: while booking online, while booking over the phone, and with signs at every entry point.

When people try to circumvent the mask rule by claiming medical necessity, the owner changes tactics and, for those we suspect are faking it, he hits them where it hurts: their entitlement.

I am booking a room for a lady over the phone.

Me: “…and I will inform you now before I book your room that masks are mandatory for all guests in public areas and while interacting with staff. Please confirm that you understand this requirement and you’ll be good to go.”

Customer: “Oh, I don’t wear a mask.”

Me: “Then I cannot book this room.”

Customer: “You have to. It’s the law! I know my rights! You can’t make me wear a mask.”

Me: “I can only waive the mask requirement in a case of genuine medical need.”

Customer: “Yes! Yes, I can’t wear a mask because I could die! My doctor said so. You can’t make me.”

Me: “In that case, we are happy to accommodate our medically delicate guests. For instance, we can arrange curbside check-in to lessen your exposure to our staff.”

Customer: “Yeah, great, book it.”

Me: “However, I must also inform you that in the interest of your safety, our restaurant will be available only as an in-room dining option.”

Customer: “Excuse me?”

Me: “Further, there will be no housekeeping service during your stay.”

Customer: “What?! No! Absolutely not! That’s not acceptable!”

Me: “Ma’am, in order to protect our medically compromised guests, it’s important to minimize contact as much as possible. For your own safety, we will not allow housekeeping staff in the room or expose you to strangers in our restaurant. Now, if these accommodations are acceptable to you, I will add the note to your reservation.”

Customer: “It’s not acceptable! I want housekeeping on my vacation!”

Me: “Then you must make a choice, ma’am: mask and housekeeping, or no mask and no housekeeping.”

Customer: “You can’t make me do that!”

Me: “I can. This policy was set by the owner and as it is his business; he may implement any policy that is necessary to protect our visitors and staff.”

Customer: “This is the worst customer service I’ve ever received! I’m going to tell the world about your s***ty policies!”

Me: “Oh, one more thing: if a mask impairs your breathing, a plastic face shield is acceptable for our purposes.”

She cursed at me and hung up. I booked the room she wanted a few days later to an older couple who praised our mitigation efforts, and I felt a small sense of satisfaction.

I work one summer at a local store of [Major Fast Food Company]. I work the morning shift as I have a second job in the evenings. One morning, after we have switched from breakfast to lunch, this customer comes to my register.

Customer: “Hi. I’d like [item], please.”

Me: “Certainly. Your total is $1.17.”

I turn around, grab the item and bag it, and turn back to collect his money. He gives me a $20 bill. I take it, set it across the till as we are taught to do, take out the $18.83 in change: a ten, a five, and three ones — note the order — plus eighty-three cents.

Me: “It was $1.17 and here’s your change. Eighty-three cents makes two, three, four, five, ten, and twenty.”

As I hand him his food, the customer folds the bills in half, puts the change in his front pocket, and then immediately pulls it out again. During this, I put the $20 bill under the drawer and close the till.

Customer: “Excuse me, you didn’t give me the correct change.”

He holds out the bills and shows me a one, a five, and three ones in that order.

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but I gave you the correct change.”

Customer: “No, you didn’t. You gave me a one-dollar bill instead of a ten.”

Me: “No, sir. I counted it out to you. A ten, a five, and three ones, plus the coins.”

By then, I have figured out what happened by the order of the bills. He must have had the second set of bills already in his pocket and switched them so he could scam me out of the $9 difference.

Customer: “No, you counted so fast that it looked like you gave me a ten, but you gave me a one, instead.”

Me: “Sir, if you’d like, you can give me your name and address. We’ll count out the till and if you’re right, it will be over by $9. We’ll mail the money to you.”

Customer: “No. I want my money now.”

One of the assistant managers has seen us debating and comes over.

Manager: “Hello, sir, what seems to be the problem?”

Customer: “This kid short-changed me. He gave me a one instead of a ten as part of my change. Look!”

Me: “I counted out his $18 in change. A ten, a five, and three ones. He now says I gave him a one, a five, and three ones. I offered to take his name and address and we’ll mail him the difference after we count the till.”

Manager: “No, it’s not fair to make him wait like that.”

She opened the till, took out $9, and gave it to the customer, who walked away with a happy smile and his food. She then closed the till, ran the count report, took both back to the office, and returned with a fresh till for me. She then returned to the office and counted the till. Surprise! It was $9 short.

After the store manager arrived and was told what had happened, he came to me and congratulated me for handling it correctly. I give credit to the assistant manager for not trying to blame me for her mistake. He then asked me — during the lunch rush! — to write out a description of what had happened so he could send it around to other fast food restaurants in the area.

Guess who had a discussion with the store manager about proper till procedures?

Related:
Manager, Manage! Part 4
Manager, Manage! Part 3
Manager, Manage! Part 2
Manager, Manage!