(I work in a store that sells home furnishings, and we have several different kinds of stools. Late one evening, a woman walks in, and I greet her as I’m straightening a display at the front.)

Customer: “You’re holding a stool for me.”

(While we do have a designated area for hold items, if the item is larger, we’ll leave it on the floor due to limited space in the stockroom, and to prevent employees from having to carry big or heavy pieces back and forth in case the customer doesn’t show after the hold expires.)

Me: “Sure! What’s the name?”

Customer: “It’s either under [Customer] or [Other Name].”

Me: “All right, let me check for you.”

(Sometimes if we have an item of furniture in the stockroom in a box, we can hold the box for them. I go back to check the stockroom in the event that this is the case, but I see nothing, so I walk around the floor checking the stool displays for a hold tag. I still find nothing, so I return to the customer.)

Me: “Ma’am, I seem to be having trouble finding it; could you describe it to me?”

Customer: “It’s teal.”

Me: “Let me look again.”

(I check the few stools we have matching her description. Still nothing. The customer tells me she called us ten minutes before close the night before to have us hold the stool for her, so I wonder if perhaps the closers didn’t have the time or forgot to make the hold tag.)

Customer: “Have you found it yet?”

Me: “No, it seems like there was a bit of a mix-up. Could you tell me anything else about it? How tall is it? Is it made of wood or metal?”

Customer: “I don’t remember. It’s teal!”

(I check one more time, but there’s no teal stool on hold. The customer is getting annoyed and complaining about how we need a holding area.)

Me: “Was it tall or short? We have this bar stool up here, or these counter stools?”

Customer: “No, it was shorter than that. It was a small stool for a vanity or something.”

(Thinking perhaps she was looking for one of our ottomans to use as a footstool, I go to look, but find nothing. Eventually, I notice a small silver and white footstool with a hold tag in the customer’s name.)

Me: “Ma’am, is this it?”

Customer: “Yes, that’s it!”

(She purchases the stool and walks out, satisfied. My manager, who was helping another customer, watches her leave.)

Manager: “So… that wasn’t even remotely teal.”

Me: “I have no idea anymore.”

(I am cutting fabric at the fabric counter, and I call for the next number to be served. A woman approaches with a bolt of faux fur, which is currently 40% off.)

Customer: “I would like one yard, please.”

(I scan the label on the bolt. Note: the original, non-sale price listed on the bolt is $14.99. We always let the customers know what the price is and if it’s on sale before we cut, in case they were planning on using coupons, etc.)

Me: *with my usual chipperness* “Okay, it’s $8.99 a yard, and it is on sale today!”

Customer: *suddenly scowling* “No, that’s not right. I thought you said it was on sale?”

Me: “Yes. It’s $8.99 on sale, normally $14.99.”

Customer: “It’s supposed to be 40% off!”

Me: “It is—”

(Before I can finish, she storms away, mumbling about finding the section to check the sale sign. She walks to the fur aisle, with the 40% off signs posted, and marches back, looking even more perturbed. At this point, I’m thinking perhaps she’s confused about what the original price was.)

Me: “Ma’am, $8.99 is the sale price at 40% off; it’s originally $14.99.”

Customer: *looking at me like I’ve just told her the earth is flat* “No, that’s not right! That’s too much!”

(She pulls out her phone to piddle on her calculator while I pull up the calculator on my hand-held and re-calculate it multiple times, coming up with the same figure. When I show her, she still doesn’t believe me, and smugly shows me her phone calculator.)

Customer: “See?! It should only be $5.97! You’re wrong!”

Me: “That’s not 60% of $14.99. Fifty percent of $14.99 is $7.50 if you think about it, so it would have to be more than that.”

(She starts punching numbers into her phone again. I’m biting back frustration and looking for a pen and a piece of paper to go full-on School House Rock on this lady and draw a diagram or something. Suddenly she stops and her face falls flat as she looks at her phone.)

Customer: “Oh. I see. I had, uh, just forgotten to hit the ‘equal’ button. Whatever.”

(I went on to cut her fabric without mentioning another word about it, and resisted the urge to bang my head on the fabric counter.)

(My mom works in a well-known grocery store. On this particular day, she wears her company vest to work. This conversation she has with her coworker follows:)

Coworker #1: “Hey, [Mom], can I borrow your jacket?”

Mom: “I didn’t bring my jacket. I brought my vest.”

([Coworker #1] proceeds to give her a blank stare.)

Mom: “You know, my vest?”

Coworker #1: *blank stare*

(Mom walks off for a second, and comes back with her vest in tow.)

Mom: “See? My vest.”

Coworker #1: *at this point, he is beyond confused* “But… where did you put the sleeves?”

Mom: “[Coworker #1], vests don’t have sleeves.”

Coworker #1: *blank stare*

Mom: “Would you like me to ask [Coworker #2] to get you a jacket?”

Coworker #1: “Oh, uh, sure. I just needed one because I need to go into the freezer.”

(Mom goes and asks her second coworker to get [Coworker #1] his own coat specifically for the freezer, and goes to give it to him.)

Mom: “Okay, [Coworker #1], this is your coat to keep. Write your name in it, and leave it in your car. Don’t leave it in the store overnight.”

Coworker #1: “Oh, okay. Who’s coat is it?”

Mom: “No, [Coworker #1], this is your coat.”

Coworker #1: *blank stare* “Oh. Okay.”

(Later on that same night, Mom asks me this:)

Mom: “Hey, [My Name]?”

Me: “Yeah?”

Mom: “Do you know what a vest is?”

Me: “What?”

Mom: “A vest. Do you know what it is?”

Me: *thinks I’m hearing her wrong, because this sounds like a weird question* “A vest? Do you mean jackets without the sleeves?”

Mom: *relieved* “Good girl.”

(Bear in mind, my mom’s coworker is a junior in college. But my mom did also say that he has ADHD, and you can tell when he’s on his medication due to things like this, so this whole exchange was apparently nothing new for him.)

Me: “Your total is $10.15.”

Customer: *hands me $9.40*

Me: “I’m sorry; you’re a bit short. I need $10.15.”

Customer: “I gave you $9, a quarter, and 15 cents.”

Me: “Yes, a quarter and 15 cents equals 40 cents.”

Customer: “No, it says, ‘quarter dollar.’ It’s worth a dollar.”

Me: “No, ma’am. It’s a quarter of a dollar, meaning ¢25.”

Customer: “Well, my friend told me it’s worth a dollar.”

(I still don’t know how a middle-aged American had never used a quarter before.)

I happen to work at a library that has its fair share of, well, interesting people. And by “interesting,” I mean “dangerous and unpredictable.” We have the ignominious distinction of being the only library in the area that has a full-time security staff.

One regular is a guy who likes to stalk, bully, sexually harass, and intimidate women while drunk on alcohol. Technically, people can come to my library off-their-rear-ends drunk, and we’re not allowed to kick them out unless they prove disruptive, which is beyond stupid, if you ask me. This guy comes up to me and tries to bully me into giving him a dollar to buy headphones. I tell him no, because A, not library policy, and B, he is responsible for his own personal needs. He reacts so loudly and violently that I try to call 911, but I can’t get a signal. He thinks that’s hilarious, and laughs in my face while reeking of vodka. He actually has the gall to drink it right in front of me! I finally get the guy to back off, but he still goes out of his way to be a bullying jerk the entire time.

Later, after we close, I see him hanging around outside. He keeps approaching random women who are sitting down, and shouting in their faces, still visibly drunk. Not liking where this is going, I call 911 on my cell phone. The cops show up six minutes later. I have already left so I didn’t see him get arrested.

I tell my boss what happened. He agrees we should ban him from the property for ninety days for his behavior. Two weeks later, I have the happy pleasure of serving him the paperwork. He tries to wriggle out of it, claiming his identity was stolen, but he still leaves.

Fast forward about three months. Management decides to rescind the ban, thinking he’s been punished adequately.

He thinks that he can get away with the same stuff as before, so he decides to call a little old lady a sexual slur for the fun of it, while drunk again. Only this time, the old lady decides to complain to a female police officer who happens to be in the building. The officer drags the guy by the arm to escort him out of the building. He is loudly asking what law has he broken, and using all kinds of terrible language, when he suddenly reaches into his pocket. Because she’s a cop, this ends with her wrestling him to the ground and holding him there. The whole time she’s waiting for backup, he won’t stop screaming about how he’s going to sue everyone, calling the officer all kinds of sexual and racial slurs, and causing quite the large crowd to gather, me included. I smile enormously as he sits there and suffers the full penalty for his sins.

I get to watch as ten cops — ten! — show up in six minutes.

I don’t care how much hate it gets me. I enjoy that immensely.

This time, he’s banned for a year. And if he tries to sneak in again — which is not uncommon — I will have the pleasure of reminding him what took place that day.

I don’t think he’ll try anything.