I’m working as a cashier at a new gas station. I’m from Utah but have come to Idaho to help my grandparents for a few months. I’m on my lunch break and a customer starts a conversation.

Customer: “You look pretty young to be working here.”

Me: “Well, I’m twenty and I actually already have my bachelor’s degree. I’m just working here while I help my grandparents.”

Customer: “Oh, you went to [Local University]?”

Me: “No, I’m from Utah and went to school down there. I majored in English, but if I hadn’t, I would have majored in bioengineering.”

Customer: “Oh, I guess I just stereotyped you. I assumed that since you were from Utah you were Mormon, but if you were going to do bioengineering, I guess not.”

I didn’t say anything, just sort of smiled and walked away. I’d never heard of such a thing. For the record, there are plenty of Mormons who are in scientific fields.

It’s early afternoon in our deli and we’re swapping out the morning hot food, which is now old and dried-out, for fresh new food. One of the closing shift guys is particularly put off by the appearance of the morning food.

Coworker: “This food looks like it was cooked in King Tut’s sarcophagus.”

Me: “Yeah, I know. Wait… In King Tut’s sarcophagus? Like they buried him with a hotplate in case he gets the royal munchies in the afterlife?”

Coworker: “Yes. Exactly.”

Me: *Shrugging* “That’s as good an explanation as any, I guess.”

After that, the employees in our department started referring to any item of old and dried-out food as an “ancient Egyptian special.”

All of our tickets are a low flat rate of $5 before noon, so there are no extra discounts for things like seniors, military, etc., until the prices go up later in the day. It’s 11:00 am, and I’m helping a customer with a Southern accent who is buying tickets to an 11:30 show.

Customer: “Three tickets to [Movie]. And two of those are military.”

Me: “I apologize, but there’s no military discount at this time of day. But you’re getting the early morning matinee pricing, so the tickets are actually already at the cheapest price they could possibly be.”

The customer immediately snaps into an ugly mood.

Customer: “Pfft! F****** northerners! We know how to respect our heroes down south! You’re what’s wrong with the country! D*** Yankees hate the troops! [Politician] will sort you out!”

He carried on for quite a while about this before walking away still grumbling. It took everything in my power not to mention to him the fact I’m an army veteran… and that I also would have the good manners not to complain about not getting additional discounts when tickets are already the cheapest they could possibly be.

Our local grocery store is having a sale on packs of batteries, so I pick some up. The way our store is situated, batteries are at the customer service desk with the cigarettes so that they cannot be shoplifted easily by teenagers.

When I get home, however, my batteries are nowhere to be found. I drive back to the store with the receipt and tell the customer service desk what happened. Amid jeers from the people in line behind me, the employee at the desk finally relents and gives me the batteries.

The next time the store has the sale, the same thing happens. This time, I call the store and mention that the same thing happened last time. The manager gets on the phone and says that the teller forgot to put the batteries in the bag and they’ll be waiting at the customer service desk if I can come back in to get them. So, I make a fourth trip to the grocery store.

This time, I realize that the employee must be doing it on purpose.

On another occasion when they have a sale, I make another trip to buy batteries and only batteries. I march up to the customer service desk.

Me: “I want to buy batteries.”

Employee: “You have to come up here after you’re done with your shopping and pay for it with the rest of your order.”

Me: “I’m not buying anything else.”

Employee: “No, I can only sell batteries after you finish buying your other things.”

I grab a jar of cherries and go back to customer service.

Me: “I’m done shopping. I want to buy batteries. And no bag.”

Employee: “I have to put it in a bag.”

She pulls a pack of batteries off the wall and puts it in a bag with the cherries and my receipt and hands it to me. This time, I take no chances, suspicious of the requirement that I buy something else and put it in a bag. I plop the bag right onto the desk in front of her and pull out the jar of cherries and the receipt and set them next to the bag; sure enough, no batteries. I turn the empty bag upside down.

Me: “So where are the batteries?”

Employee: “Oh, here they are; I set them under the counter for a minute and forgot to put them in the bag.”

The receipt had a customer service survey that I filled out, detailing the problem with buying batteries in the store.

The next time I went to that grocery store, there was a long line leading from the customer service desk which was unstaffed. I don’t know if they fired her or if she recognized me coming and was simply hiding, but I finally bought batteries without issue.

My family owns several shops on the boardwalk in our town and has for many years. Working at these shops is a common job for high-school-aged kids as it’s basically like any other retail job and has the perk of being right there on the beach. The downside is that kids that age aren’t exactly the most responsible, so when these kids call out of work, we tend to fill in when we can as a family.

I work at a nearby hospital most of the time but am working in the bathing suit shop that night since I am free and no one is available. A woman storms up to me, quite out of breath.

Customer: “This is ridiculous! Where are your bathing suits for women?”

Me: *Waves around the shop* “Everywhere?”

She responds slowly, as if she’s talking to a small child.

Customer: “Women, not kids.”

I realize that she’s shopping for herself. We don’t stock anything above a sixteen, and while I’m not an amazing judge of sizes that aren’t close to my own, this woman is much larger than a sixteen. She’s currently wearing a one-piece suit with a sarong.

Me: “I’m sorry, we have women’s suits up to size sixteen. The front suits on a rack might look small, but as you look behind them, there are larger sizes.”

I’m fairly certain most retail stores work this way. I’m usually an eight and I rarely find my own size at the front of a rack anywhere.

Customer: “Women’s sizes start at a sixteen, you skinny b****!”

I’m… not skinny? I’m an eight, though admittedly reasonably tall. I’m still rather insecure about my body. This touches a nerve.

Me: “Well, I’m a woman and I’m an eight. I don’t think we’ll be able to help you; you can leave now.”

I motion to the door and she slaps my arm down. I’m startled and realize there is no one else in the shop should she become more violent. She’s still quite out of breath and she’s grown red in the face with anger.

Customer: “I’m tired of entitled little girls like you thinking that you can walk all over real women just because you starve yourselves! You’re a f****** joke!”

She is waving her arms, stomping, and generally behaving like a child.

Customer: “I should be able to walk into any store and find an outfit off the rack and I CAN’T BECAUSE OF B****ES—”

She’s cut off mid-rant. For a minute, I think she’s just taking a breath to keep yelling at me. I’m already reaching for my phone to call the boardwalk station to get some police down here to escort her out when she places her hand on her chest.

This woman has literally raged herself into having a heart attack in my shop. She drops to the ground and I hit the speaker on my phone. When the boardwalk station answers, I request an ambulance. I wind up doing CPR on her for a minute before EMS arrives.

My coworkers call me “skinny b****” now, so all she accomplished was giving me a nickname.