I need to stop at the grocery store after work. There’s a Chinese takeout/delivery right next door, so I decide to call in an order. My plan is to get what I need from the store and then walk over to get my food. The girl who answers the phone doesn’t have an accent; we should have no trouble understanding each other.

Me: “Hi. I’d like to place an order for takeout.”

Waitress: “Go ahead.”

Me: “I’d like the General Tso’s platter.”

Waitress: “The what?”

Me: “The General Tso’s platter? You know, as opposed to the small portion.”

Waitress: “Are you sure you called the right place?”

I’m thinking I totally screwed up and called a pizza place or something.

Me: “Oh, I’m so sorry. Is this not [Restaurant] Chinese?”

Waitress: “This is [Restaurant], but not [Restaurant] Chinese.”

Me: “Oh… I’m sorry.”

I was so dumbfounded by the exchange that I hung up without trying to order again. When I arrived at the grocery store, I walked over to the restaurant. The neon phone number in the window matched what I’d dialed on my phone.

I went in and ordered from a boy at the counter with no problem. While I waited, a girl came out of the back to talk with the boy who took my order; she was the girl I’d talked to on the phone! I’m still not sure what happened.

I’m at a Mongolian-grill-style restaurant with my family; I’m about fifteen or sixteen. While we’re eating, a family comes in with three children. The children in question immediately begin to terrorize the entire place by running around, screaming, chasing each other, pounding on the fish tank, throwing chopsticks and napkins, tripping up the staff, etc.

The parents are entirely oblivious, and most of the other patrons are near breaking point. Eventually, I finish my current plate of food and decide to go for a second plate.

My Brain: *To me* “Look out! There to the left, incoming child on a collision course. At the current course and speed the child will impact in about five seconds. He’s at ramming speed, so I recommend evasive action before he hits us!”

Me: *To my brain* “Naw, we’re okay. That kid will probably dodge out of the way. Maintain heading. I’m hungry.”

My Brain: *To me* “Sir, I highly recommend evasive maneuvers; we’re two seconds away from collision and he’s not veering off!”

Me: *To my brain* “Too late; brace for impact!”

The child runs headfirst into my elbow, almost knocking the plate out of my hands. He runs off crying. A few minutes later, I’ve returned to the table with my food. My family overhears this from the other table.

One of the parents is trying to comfort the child, who is incoherently crying.

Parent: “Oh, it’s okay, sweetie. What happened; did you hit a table?  Yeah, you have to be careful in restaurants because the tables are all over the place, okay, kiddo?”

My Sister: “I bet that table is feeling pretty proud of himself, isn’t he?”

I’m still referred to as “the table” in situations that involve rampant children.

I’m running the register one day. I’ve been recently promoted to front-end manager, and my grandma promised to come by to take me to lunch to celebrate. I’m helping one of my other cashiers with a return when I see her come in.

Me: “So, you’ll have to hit this button and select cash for the return.”

Cashier: “Oh, okay!”

Customer: “I don’t want you—” *pointing to me* “—touching my money!”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: “No d*** [gay slur] should even be working here!”

I realize I’ve left my pride pin on my uniform.

Me: “Ma’am, my orientation has nothing to do with my job or my ability to do it. You need to also be careful with your language as there are kids here.”

Customer: “YOU’RE A F****** [SLUR]! WHY DID [STORE] HIRE YOU?!”

My manager comes over. While she’s straight, she’s also super supportive of me and my other LGBT+ coworkers.

Customer: “You! Manager! Fire this [slur]!”

Manager: “No.”

Customer: “But she’s—”

Manager: “She is one of my best employees. She has done nothing wrong that I have seen to deserve even getting written up.”

Customer: “But—”

Manager: “You, however, have screamed at her, used vulgar language, and refused to listen. You will get your refund, leave, and not come back to this store.”

Customer: “I’ll call corporate!”

Manager: “Do it. Our cameras have recorded the entire thing.”

The customer glares at me. The cashier quietly hands her the refund, and the woman storms out the door. On her way out, she sees my grandma, who’s watched the whole thing. She turns to her.

Customer: “THERE’S A [SLUR] IN THERE!”

My grandma gives her a look.

Grandma: “Yeah. My granddaughter and her girlfriend both come to my house just about every weekend.”

My manager let me take an extended lunch break.

As always, I’ve put on my mask before exiting my car and entering the store. I see a shopper without a mask.

Me: “You forgot your mask.”

My voice, even masked, is naturally loud. I’m not yelling, but I can be heard by every nearby shopper.

Mask-less Moron: “I don’t have to wear one in here, right?”

Me: “Technically speaking, no.”

I pause for an instant.

Me: “BUT…”

I gesture to the ten masked shoppers around us who are giving the Mask-less Moron death glares from a proper physical distance.

Mask-less Moron: “Uh… um… I think I left my wallet in my car.” 

Mask-less Moron proceeded to vamoose very quickly.

This story is part of our Anti-Masker roundup.

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This happens to a coworker of mine in the last week of April this year, when all the lockdowns are making people crazy.

He’s a very tall black man, 6’7” and fairly broad, although his height makes him seem skinnier than he is. He is walking down one of our aisles, taking some merchandise to be stocked, when he notices a small woman ahead in the aisle seemingly imitating a football quarterback with her hunched posture, arms out wide, wildly darting, backward, back and forth down the aisle while staring at him.

After about half the length of the aisle, roughly fifty feet or so, she stops and yells at him:

Customer: “N***a, haven’t you heard of six feet?!”

She then turned and practically sprinted down the aisle in the opposite direction of him.

Not only was he more than ten feet from her when she started freaking out, but he wasn’t going to be stocking anywhere near her. Our employers are making us wear medical-grade face masks while at work, and if we refuse, we get sent home. The crazy thing is that she was so worried about social distancing, but she wasn’t wearing a mask or gloves while she dug through merchandise.