(I work in the kitchen of a tourist town restaurant. In the summer, buses of 50 or so senior citizens come from all over to eat and enjoy the view. We know about their arrival well beforehand and we have a prepared menu for them, which includes salad, their choice of steak or fish entree, and a dessert. Since it is summer, the restaurant is full already and the kitchen staff are a little stressed. Having the seniors’ food prepped and ready to go makes the whole process easier. A waitress comes down with six steak dinners on a serving tray. The kitchen is very busy, so she shouts to get noticed.)

Waitress: “Hey, boss, I have six orders of steak for the senior bus that need to be fish, instead.”

(The boss, who is also the head chef, slams something on the counter and yells back at her.)

Boss: “What the h***?! They get what they pre-ordered! We don’t have time to remake orders for them for no good reason!”

(The waitress, who is also pretty frazzled, slams down the tray.)

Waitress: “You want a good reason? I’ll give you a good reason! These poor old people forgot their d*** teeth and can’t eat their d*** steak! Now can I get six fish dishes, please?!”

(I have never heard a place go so quiet so quickly in all my life. Props to my boss, though, for saying, “Now that’s a d*** good reason,” and making them the fish.)

(There is a regular who always makes a big deal of making her order and spelling out her name in a very slow, condescending tone. When I am resolved to leave for another job, I finally have had enough of it.)

Customer: “I’ll have the [usual]. That’s the [uuuuuuuuuusual], okay? And that’s for Pam. That’s Peeeeeeeeeeeee, Ayyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Emmmm—”

Me: “Hold on; slow down. B?”

Customer: *huffily* “AHEM, PEEEEEEeeeeee! Ayyyy—”

Me: “Whoa, whoa. D?”

Customer: “PEEEEEEE—”

Me: “G?”

Customer: *turning red* “P!”

Me: “Steve?”

Customer: “NO, it’s PAM!”

Me: “Oh, Pa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-aaam.”

(She glared at me, snatched her ticket without another word, and moved on down the line. The next time she started in, I played dumb again and wrote down her name as “Pem” with a backwards E.)

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(I work as a cashier at a chain craft store. One day a woman comes in with a return of a single plastic dog figurine — which we do not carry at our location — without a barcode, and with a receipt that does not match at all.)

Me: “Ma’am, do you have another receipt? This one does not have the item on it, and the dog does not have a barcode for me to scan.”

Customer: “That is the receipt. I know it is.”

Me: “But none of the items on this are even close; you have ribbon and a book on this receipt. I really need the correct receipt. We do not even carry this item at this location, so I can’t even get a barcode to look it up.”

Customer: “I WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK TO YOUR MANAGER!”

(My manager happens to be on the register next to me because we are pretty busy, and has heard the whole thing. She comes over and looks at the dirty, untagged dog, and at the receipt, and tells her the same thing I did.)

Customer: *shrieking* “I BOUGHT THIS FROM ANOTHER [STORE]! YOU GUYS ALL CARRY THE SAME STUFF! YOU HAVE TO TAKE IT BACK!”

Manager: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have no proof that you bought this here, and we do not even carry it at this location.”

Customer: “LOOK AT THE RECEIPT! IT IS ON THE RECEIPT!”

Manager: “The item does not match any of the items on the receipt.”

Customer: “THIS IS THE ONE THEY GAVE ME WHEN I BOUGHT IT!”

Manager: “Then you should bring it back to them, and I’m sure they’ll take care of you.”

(She continues to insist loudly over and over that my manager has to take it back because she bought it at a different location of the same store. Turns out the store she bought it at is a whole five minutes away. My manager finally caves and manually refunds the book on the receipt, since it is a similar price. All the while, the woman continues shouting at her.)

Manager: “Here you go, ma’am. Have a nice day.”

Customer: “I HOPE YOU HAVE A BETTER DAY, AND DON’T TREAT YOUR OTHER CUSTOMERS LIKE THIS!”

Related:
Refunder Blunder, Part 39
Refunder Blunder, Part 38
Refunder Blunder, Part 37

(I am standing in an ice cream shop where I am the only other customer besides a mother who is perusing the flavors with her young child. There are two girls behind the counter, one of whom is fixing my order.)

Mother: *pointing to the colorful confetti one that attracted the kid’s attention* “How is the birthday cake flavor?”

Employee Helping Her: “It’s disgusting.”

(The other girl elbows her, and she tries again.)

Employee Helping Her: “Um, I mean… It’s disgusting how delicious it is. It’s nauseatingly good.”

I am going down the steps from my porch and misstep, and end up breaking my leg in three places right near my ankle. It is a Friday night, so I can’t get an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon until Monday.

When I go in for my appointment, I first see a nurse assistant with a very unique name. We talk about how it happened and my medical history. And because I’m female, she asks when my last period was. It has been almost a year. I’m on continuous birth control, despite not being sexually active, because during that time of the month, my migraines and fibromyalgia get to the point where I can’t function. She then goes to get the doctor, and from the room she has taken us to, we hear an argument break out over “who cancelled the appointment of the broken ankle girl.” I still don’t see how that’s possible, considering we made that appointment only an hour earlier. I end up being seen by another doctor with more of a specialty in what I need, so it works out and I forget about the weirdness.

Fast forward a week to when I can finally have surgery. I’m in the hospital gown, have an IV in, and I’m being asked the same questions again and again: spell my name, what’s my birth date, etc. Finally the nurse looks at me funny and looks at my ankle splint — which has a ton of padding and is massive — and tells me, “I know it seems obvious, but I need you to tell me what you’re here for.” I tell her to fix my ankle. She nods and tells me that that nurse assistant — I remember her unique name — had put me down as coming in for a hysterectomy. I’m not sure if she was trying to — inaccurately — note in my file that I’d had one because I hadn’t had my period in a year, or somehow managed to screw up why I was seeing an orthopedic surgeon when I had three broken bones. But I guess that will forever be a mystery.