(I am on a business trip to New York. At my suggestion, our group goes to a famous NYC deli for dinner, a place known for their pastrami and for their brusque staff. When the waitress comes over to get our order, this conversation ensues:)

Me: “I’ll have a pastrami sandwich, lean, and—”

Waitress: “Have you ever been here before?”

Me: “No, but I’ve been to other delis.”

Waitress: “It’s just that here, ordering the pastrami lean is considered a cardinal sin. I mean, if you want to take away all the fat and have something like jerky…”

Me: *smiling* “Okay, do it your way.”

Waitress: *mimes cracking a whip at me*

(Later on:)

Waitress: “I try to be nice to people, but sometimes I have to be a b****, and that can get me in trouble.”

Me: “Wait, isn’t being nice against company policy?”

Waitress: “Oh, I wouldn’t get in trouble with my boss…”

(My mom has anxiety issues when it comes to things going according to plan, and she loses perspective on the feelings of others and becomes incredibly inflexible. When I am 25, I volunteer to bake a flourless chocolate torte for Passover. I am home baking the cake when my mom calls me.)

Mom: “You don’t need to bring the flourless chocolate cake anymore. [Aunt] went out and bought a chocolate layer cake from [Store].”

Me: “Why did she do that? You knew I was making dessert already.”

Mom: “I didn’t know she was going to do that, so I never told her about your cake.”

Me: “Well, it’s too late; I’m already baking it.”

Mom: “No, don’t do it. [Aunt] is bringing her cake. There’s not a lot of people coming and we don’t need two chocolate desserts.”

Me: “I am currently standing over a bowl of batter that is almost ready to be poured into a pan. What exactly am I supposed to with this thing?”

Mom: “Just enjoy it yourself? I don’t know, but you can’t bring that to Passover.”

Me: “This is a fresh homemade dessert. Tell your sister not to bring her cake; she’ll understand.”

Mom: “I can’t tell her that! That would be rude!”

(Why it wasn’t rude to tell me not to bring the dessert I sacrificed study time making is a mystery to me, but I ended up finishing it and bringing it into work. My coworkers loved it. The next Passover, I successfully brought my dessert to share with my family and it was a big hit. My aunt regretted bringing her store-bought cake the previous year because she thought mine was much better and it became the traditional dessert of our family’s Passover seder until I moved away.)

Related:
The Mother Of All Anxieties
The Mother Of All Anxieties, Part 2

(I’m an employee working box office on a busy Friday night. We’ve had two R-rated movies come out and, as you can imagine, a plethora of teenagers are trying to sneak in. I’ve already had to refuse several and report them to my managers as a risk. Our box office is small and there are only three of us.)

Other Employee: “No, you can’t see that movie if everyone doesn’t have ID.”

(The teenagers halt transactions on three cash registers and leave to talk in a huddle and return moments later.)

Customer: “I want tickets for [PG-13 movie].”

Me: “Of course. Do you have a student ID for a discount?”

Customer: “Why do I need ID? It’s PG-13?”

Me: “It is. I’m asking for a student card for a discount. You won’t have to pay as much.”

Customer: “No, I don’t have it.”

Me: “No problem; it’s going to be [total].”

(They pay and somehow end up back in front of me ten minutes later.)

Customer: “I want a refund?”

Me: “Was there a problem, sir?”

Customer: “I don’t want to watch it.”

(This is code for, “I tried to sneak into a different movie and got caught.” I know this because my manager told me.)

Me: *handing him a paper with some highlighted lines for our record* “Not a problem. Can I have you fill out the highlighted section for my record and I’ll get you your refund?”

Customer: “What’s Patrón—” *as in the tequila* “—signature?”

Me: “Pardon?”

(He points to the line.)

Me: “That’s ‘patron.’” *as in a customer*

Customer: “Yeah, what’s that?”

Me: “That’s you, sir.”

(At the particular place in the college cafeteria where I like to eat, you tell the person behind the counter what you want, and they circle it on an order pad and hang it up for the cooks to see. The people who write the orders also do the cooking if there aren’t very many coworkers on duty.)

Me: “I’d like a grilled cheese on wheat, please.”

(The cook hesitates and stares at the pad for at least a minute. The longer it goes on, the more panicked he begins to look. After a while, I decide to help him out and point to where “GRILLED CHEESE” is written.)

Cook: *circling my order* “Oh, thank you! One moment, please.”

(He hangs up the order for his coworker and comes back to wait for other kids. Since it’s before the lunch rush, though, I’m the only one there, and I decide to make small talk.)

Me: “Are you new?”

Cook: “Yeah, just started an hour ago.”

Me: “You looked kind of freaked out there.”

Cook: *sheepish* “I’ve heard stories from the others.”

(I can only imagine; just a few weeks ago, a girl threw a tantrum in the middle of the cafeteria because she couldn’t get a vegan grilled cheese sandwich, which this particular cafeteria does not offer.)

Me: “Vegan grilled cheese girl?”

Cook: “Among other things.”

(Now my sandwich is done, and I have to go.)

Me: *waving* “Well, good luck with the job!”

Cook: *waving back* “Thanks! I’m going to need it!”

(About a week later, I run into him during a slow hour; he’s the only one working the kitchen, so that means he both takes my order and makes my food. I order another grilled cheese sandwich before deciding to chat some more.)

Me: “You know what would be really cool? If you guys allowed the option to put vegetables or something on the sandwiches.”

Cook: *grins* “Yeah, that does sound pretty good.”

Me: “Anyway, how’s the job been?”

Cook: *peering at me* “Oh! You’re the girl from last week!”

Me: “Um, I guess so?”

Cook: “Okay, one moment, let me get your food ready.”

(After a few minutes, my sandwich is done.)

Me: “Thanks a lot!”

Cook: “Hey, no problem. It’s always nice to see a friendly face.”

(I took the sandwich and went back to my dorm to eat. When I unwrapped it and bit into it, I discovered that he’d put diced tomatoes and onions in it! Just that little gesture made me tear up a little bit. Thank you, whatever your name is! Your special sandwich was delicious and kept me smiling for the rest of the day!)

(It’s the opening weekend of “Frozen II,” and we are being absolutely slammed. Management and corporate have forced us to cancel about half of our other movies in order to add more showtimes for the film, and they are all selling out. Our usher is so swamped cleaning so many disgustingly messy “Frozen II” theaters that he literally had a panic attack. Box office lines are going out the front door and spilling into the parking lot the entire day. And so many people are coming through concession so quickly that even with extra staff called in and an extra popcorn popper running, the concession staff can’t make popcorn fast enough to keep up with the demand, so there’s a wait on popcorn. It’s absolute chaos. I’m coming in for my mid-shift. I’ve literally just walked in the front door and haven’t even had a chance to clock on yet when someone runs up to me screaming…)

Customer: “YOU G**D*** PIECE OF S***! YOU’D BETTER F****** FIX THIS NOW!”

(I’m absolutely shocked, as this came out of nowhere and I don’t even know what’s happening.)

Me: “Um… I, um… I don’t know…”

Customer: “PIECE OF S*** C***SUCKER MOTHERF*****, DO YOUR F****** JOB, A**HOLE!”

Me: *honestly frightened* “Sir, I… I literally just got here, and I’m not even clocked in. I don’t even know what the problem is.”

Customer: “YOU F****** LIAR, SACK OF S***!”

(He literally stands there for a full minute while I wait for my shift to start so I can clock on, screaming every obscenity I’ve ever heard at me. I clock in and literally run into the back, with him trailing behind me screaming the entire time. I manage to go into the employee break-room and slam the door behind me. My manager is inside, shaking her head.)

Me: *frustrated* “I don’t know what the h*** happened, but some guy is out there losing his mind.”

Manager: “Oh, I know. That’s why I came back here. I couldn’t deal with it after five minutes.”

Me: “What’s going on?”

Manager: “He bought tickets for Frozen II for the wrong theater, and got mad we wouldn’t let him in for free here — which we can’t even do, because all the showtimes are sold out, anyway.”

(I went out only to be screamed at some more before he finally left around ten minutes later. And that set the mood for the entire day. I’ve never been yelled at or berated as many times as I was that day.)