I’m visiting my cousin and his wife for the first time since they moved out of state. I stop by a small sandwich shop on the way to my cousin’s house to get lunch.

Cashier: “Okay, that’ll be $11 plus tax.”

Me: “And how much is that altogether?”

Cashier: “It’s $11 plus tax.”

Me: “I know, but how much is it altogether?”

Cashier: “$11 plus tax.”

Me: “I know there’s tax, but how much? I’m from Minnesota, and I’m not familiar with the tax rate in Pennsylvania.”

Cashier: “It’s $11… Plus. Tax.”

Me: “How much with tax included?”

Cashier: “Eleven. Dollars. Plus! Tax!”

Me: “How much tax?”

Cashier: “What part about ‘$11 plus tax’ don’t you understand? Stop wasting my time and get the f*** out!”

Just then, the owner comes to the counter from the kitchen.

Owner: “Again? Really? Go to the office. Wait for me there.” *To me* “I’m sorry about that, hon. Your total is $11.66.”

She also gave me a free cookie as an apology for the cashier’s behavior. I stopped at that sandwich shop again for another sandwich on the way back to the airport. The cashier wasn’t there.

Related:
Taxing Taxing, Part 6
Taxing Taxing, Part 5
Taxing Taxing, Part 4
Taxing Taxing, Part 3
Taxing Taxing, Part 2

This happens in the late 1980s when the price of a stamp is about 25 cents. I am a customer behind the rude customer.

Rude Customer: “I’d like one stamp, please.”

Postman: “Certainly, that will be 25 cents.”

The rude customer puts a $100 bill on the counter.

Postman: “Do you have anything smaller?”

Rude Customer: “This is legal tender; you have to take it.”

Postman: “Yes, sir!”

The postman goes in the back, and then comes out and puts ninety-nine Susan B. Anthony dollar coins on the counter.

Rude Customer: “I don’t want all of these!”

Postman: “You have to take them; they’re legal tender.”

The rude customer then had to shove all the coins in his pockets, and he left with his pants falling down.

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My father owns a check-cashing business in the 1970s, and my wife and I both help out at times. One afternoon, my wife is working the only open window. A woman comes to the window.

Woman: “You’re not going to cash my check, you b****!”

Normally, cursing at the employees will get you sent away. [Wife] is somewhat taken aback but decides to see what she can do. She answers the woman back in the same tone.

Wife: “How do you know I’m not going to cash your check? Give me that check!”

The woman hands her the check.

Wife: “Now give me your ID.”

The woman hands over her ID.

Wife: “I’m going to show you what I think of you! I’m going to cash your check! Sign here on the back!”

The woman picks up the check, signs, and hands it back again.

At this point, my father, who has been sitting in the back of the shop adding up yesterday’s accounts, notices the volume and comes up.

Father: “Is anything wrong?”

Wife: “No, nothing’s wrong.”

The customer agrees. [Wife] counts out the correct amount of money.

Wife: “There! See, I told you I could cash your check!”

The woman looks relieved.

Woman: “Thank you, I’ve had a really bad day and I guess I was just in a horrible mood when I came in. I feel so much better now.”

She smiled and went away. Another satisfied customer.

A few years back, a minor earthquake hit the military installation in the USA I was at. The epicenter was a considerable distance away, and all we felt was a one-time, minor jolt. This was not a typical earthquake area at all. I knew immediately what it was since I’d been stationed in Japan. I did not expect any damage, nor was there any at any location near us. I’ve felt worse jolts from controlled detonations, honestly. Unless a building was already falling down, there wasn’t going to be damage. Damage usually comes from back-and-forth or worse, waves in the earth.

I was not amused to see everyone doing everything you are not supposed to do in an earthquake: panicking, running outside, etc. I kept my people calm and collected and we went back to work. I was even less amused when we got an “emergency” call from the airfield control tower demanding we send out a structural engineer to certify that their building was safe after the quake. Now, I’ve seen fourteen-story control towers or temporary structures where that this might have been warranted but this one was maybe two stories tall and solidly built. My apartment block was higher.

We told them that we were not sending out damage assessment teams and asked if they could see any damage. Their response was to threaten to close down the airfield and that we could explain to the wing commander why his aircraft couldn’t land. We asked if they could see any damage. No, of course not.

Of course, the real explanation to the wing commander for that closure would be that his tower panicked, failed to follow any of the disaster checklists, and frankly needed to pull their heads out of their butts because such a reaction in combat will get you or others killed. The military trains for combat and other emergencies. Their reaction was not acceptable. And, if there hadn’t been planes on their way in, that is exactly the answer I would have happily given to them or the wing commander.

We didn’t have a structural engineer, and since our enlisted men and women whose jobs it was to do damage assessment and were extensively trained on that were plainly were not good enough, so we sent out our very-near-retirement mechanic. He was seventy-five if a day and used a walker. He showed up, eased out of his car, got his walker out, shuffled ten feet toward the building, and slowly looked it up and down. He told the evacuated personnel that he certified it was safe, shuffled back to his car, and left a pretty embarrassed-looking group to go back to work. 

I don’t know what happened to the lieutenant who was the shift lead and who made the call. I do know I never saw him again.

A seventy-something-year-old woman with claw-like hands, over-processed hair, and too much cosmetic surgery finds out at a cocktail party that I am a literary agent. Uh-oh.

She comes up and puts a claw on my arm. “I understand you’re an agent. I wrote a romance novel. It’s 700,000 words long. It might need some editing, but would you like to see it and maybe represent it?”

I tell her my specialty is business books, and that yes, she really does need to cut it down because the average romance novel is about 55,000 words. Trying to be polite, I tell her it is quite a feat to have written so much.

She says, “Oh, no. It was channeled to me by angels. I wrote it in just sixteen days! Why don’t you take a look, and perhaps you’ll change your mind about working with me? It’s very good.”