This happened back in 2002. The Air Force Office of Special Investigations called and told me to report to their office.

When I arrived, they began interrogating me.

Investigator: “We have reason to believe you’ve been using illicit substances and spending time with [Other Airman].”

Me: “I haven’t been using anything, and I barely even know that guy.”

Investigator: “We know you’ve been hanging around with him.”

Me: “No, I haven’t. You’ve got the wrong person.”

This argument continued for about ten minutes before one of the investigators finally asked an important question.

Investigator: “Wait. Aren’t you Airman [Extremely Common Last Name]?”

Me: “Yes, but there are multiple Airmen named [Extremely Common Last Name] in my shop alone.”

In the Air Force, a “shop” is a work section or unit. There was a pause.

Investigator: “Oh.”

It turned out that they had meant a completely different person. They had seen my last name and summoned me without checking my ID or even asking for my first name.

I then had to be read into the investigation because they had f***ed up and told everything to the wrong Airman.

A guy buys some healing cream at the checkout. He is a middle-aged guy, and I’m a nineteen-year-old woman.

Customer: “I just got a huge tattoo; that’s what this is for.”

Me: “Oh, well, I hope this makes it feel better.”

Customer: “Wanna see?”

Me: “No, I—”

He pulls his shirt up and turns around, showing a large new tattoo on his back.

Customer: “Cool, right?”

Me: “Uh, sure.”

Customer: “Can you rub in the cream?”

Me: “Uh, no, I can’t do that.”

Customer: “Well, how am I supposed to do it myself?”

Me: “Let me call over Clive, the manager. He’s always massaging his husband; I’m sure he’ll know what to do with you.”

Customer: *Covering himself back up in an instant.* “Uh, no! I’m fine! I’ll use a spatula or something!” *Sprints out of the store.*

There is no Clive. But I knew the creep wouldn’t stick around long enough to find that out, just as I knew why he asked me, the only young woman in the store, for that ‘service’ in the first place…

I’m working the patio on a nice summer’s day. I’m pouring some water for a customer and, instead of saying:

Me: “The weather is nice today, isn’t it?”

I actually said:

Me: “Would you like some weather?”

The customer, looking confused, said:

Customer: “Uh, more of what we’re currently getting would be great, thanks!”

I nodded and got out of there as fast as possible to look for a hole to crawl into.

I once needed a manager to electronically sign a document. He attempts to draw his signature using his finger on the laptop’s trackpad.

Manager: “That looks terrible. It’s so sloppy.”

I recognise the model of his laptop.

Me: “You know your laptop has a stylus, right?”

A stylus is a small electronic pen used to write or draw directly on a touchscreen. I point to the slot where it is stored inside the laptop.

Manager: “It has a WHAT?!”

He pulls out the stylus and stares at it with wide eyes.

Manager: “I had no idea this was in here!”

His excitement attracts the attention of the rest of his team.

Coworker #1: “Wait, do our laptops have those?”

Coworker #2: “Where is it?”

Everyone begins excitedly checking their laptops. This produces a mixed chorus of “oohs,” “aahs,” and “wows” as we discover who else has the same feature.

It’s a fun little break from the typical office-day routine.

Then nobody ever uses the styluses again.

Customer: “Remake my drink!”

Me: “Uh, excuse me, miss, but what is wrong with it?”

Customer: “You made the wrong drink!”

Me: “You ordered a white chocolate mocha?”

Customer: “Yes! Exactly! But when you called my order out to your people, you said white mocha.”

Me: “Oh! Well, that’s just us saying things in shorthand to speed things along. White mocha is white chocolate mocha.”

Customer: “No. It’s the wrong drink because you didn’t say chocolate.”

I kindly explained to her, again, that they are the same drink. She, ever so tentatively, took the cup, took the tiniest sip, and said:

Customer: “No, it tastes weird. Can you make it for me again?”

Well, store policy says I have to remake the drink. My manager, who heard the whole thing from around the corner, comes over to me, “scolds” me for not jumping to remake the drink, and says to the customer:

Manager: “Don’t worry, I’ll make it right.”

My manager takes the cup back, runs a cleaning cycle on the Mastrena (our espresso machine), and pours her drink into a different cup.

Manager: “Here you go, ma’am, a white chocolate mocha.”

Would you believe this girl sips it, swoons, and says:

Customer: “It’s perfect!”

And then she walks away elated.