(I’m a cashier. I would describe myself as tall and blond, and I have only one hand.)
Customer: “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a celebrity?”
Me: “Once in a while. Which one are you thinking of?”
Customer: “One of the guys from Home Alone. Hmm…”
Me: “Oh, which character?”
Customer: “One of the crooks.”
(I am a travelling manager for a clothing store chain. I fill in after managers have been transferred to other stores. I cover the next three to six months while a new manager is sourced to the store before moving on to another one myself. One of the key parts of my job is turning the stores around. Nine times out of ten, the previous manager is being relocated for not following policy. This means I often have to start enforcing rules that might have previously been ignored. I’m working at one store which has had its entire management staff fired. Two church ladies walk in together.)
Customer #1: “Can I return an item from layaway? I’ve decided that I can’t really afford it.”
(The item is a dress she wanted to wear for Easter church services, and while it’s very nice, she’s found something cheaper. I agree to this, pull up her ticket, and start working through the return.)
Customer #1: “How long have you been here? Are you the new manager?”
(I explain the issue, dodging around why the previous management team were fired, and hand her back her money. [Customer #2] steps up at this point.)
Customer #2: “I also want to return my dress on layaway.”
(The process begins again. This time, however, I see that there’s going to be a snag. The company has a policy where you can place something on layaway for up to 60 days. During the first 30 days, any item on layaway can be returned for the full price you paid. From 31 days forward, you pay a restocking fee. On the 61st day, regardless of how much you have paid, the items will be restocked and your money — minus the fee — set aside. Problem one: [Customer #2] is thirty-five days in, four days past the cut-off for a full return. Problem two: [Customer #2] only put the minimum down, which, with tax, works out to about five dollars and some change. Problem three: The minimum restocking fee is five dollars. I realize this, and try to explain to the woman.)
Me: “Uh, there are some problems, just so you know. There will be a restocking fee.”
Customer #2: “Oh, that’s quite all right. I know, I read that little card of yours.”
Me: “You’re sure? I mean, it’d probably be better to pay it off and return it then.”
Customer #2: “Sweetie, I’m a lawyer; I read all the fine print.”
Me: “Well, if you’re sure.”
(I do the return, with the system forcing me to do the restocking fee automatically. It then tells me to give her all of seventy cents in change back. I hand her a card that she must sign to acknowledge that I’ve done the return. She signs it with a flourish and then holds out her hand. I drop the coins into it.)
Customer #2: “What’s this?”
Me: “It’s your return.”
Customer #2: “It’s not enough.”
Me: “It’s what you get back, after the restocking fee.”
Customer #2: *changing her tune 180-degrees* “No one told me about a restocking fee!”
Me: “You signed the paper, right under the bold black letters that warn it. You also signed the layaway ticket saying you’d read and understood the policies.”
Customer #2: “No one reads those things! I want my money!” *her voice rising at this point* “Give me my g**d*** money!”
Me: “I can’t. You signed the paper, and you said you were a lawyer and understood there would be a fee.”
Customer #2: “F*** your restocking fee! I thought it’d only be a few cents.”
Me: “The contract you signed notes the minimum fee is five dollars.”
Customer #2: *screaming and yelling* “I’m calling the police! You’re cheating me, you thief!”
(She whips out her phone and calls 911, claiming she’s just been robbed. It doesn’t take long for two police cars to pull up and the officers to head in. They try to sort out what’s going on, at first thinking I am a witness, until the woman screams that I robbed her. I calmly explain the contract to the officer, and show where she signed off on it. The police tell her that she signed the paper saying she understood and accepted the fee, so no crime was committed. What’s more, they tell her that it isn’t something to waste their time with a false 911 call for, so she is going to be getting a ticket for that. All the while, the lady is screaming at the police, and then at me.)
Customer #2: “You smug little a**, standing there with a smile on your face. You’re happy for yourself, aren’t you?”
Me: “I’ve had better days.”
Customer #2: “Always with the smart comments. Got anything else to say?”
Me: “Have you considered Jesus Christ as your own personal Savior?”
Customer #2: “F*** Christ!”
(With that, she stormed out, while the officers stood around dumbfounded. I never saw her in the store again, though the pastor stopped by about a week later to apologize for the actions of one of his flock.)
This is one of those weird cosmic coincidences. Five or so years ago I was driving home from work and noticed a homeless girl, probably in her early 20s, standing at the exit of an underpass. It was the middle of a Phoenix summer in the afternoon, so this girl was braving near 115-degree weather, which is hot enough to cause heat stroke. Her shirt was in tatters, held together with safety pins, and she only had a rough-looking bag slung over her shoulder.
As I didn’t have any food or cash on me, I pulled over and talked to her. It turns out she’d been kicked out of her home by an abusive now-ex boyfriend, who had destroyed all of her belongings out of spite. I offered to get her some healthy food from a nearby grocery store, which she gladly accepted. In the end, I got her some healthy-ish meals that wouldn’t spoil easily — lots of dried fruits and unsalted nuts — vitamins, a new shirt, and tampons, as the poor girl had been without for several months. She was immensely grateful, and refused any further help from me. She went about her day, and I quickly forgot the incident.
Fast forward a few years later, and one of my roommates was in a horrible car accident. When I rushed to the hospital, guess who the EMT who got her in the ambulance was?
That girl helped save my roommate’s life, and I’ll forever be thankful to her for it.
Just goes to show you that kindness really can save a life!
This story is part of the second Heatwave roundup! This is the last story in the roundup, but we have plenty of others you might enjoy!
18 Chill-Inducing Stories About Freezing Weather And Those Who Can’t Handle It (And A Few Who Can)
Read the next second Heatwave roundup story!
Read the second Heatwave roundup!
(I am running a sample table at a store, serving an artichoke dip. A young girl around 12 and her mother walk up to my stand.)
Me: “Hello! Would you like to try some artichoke dip? We are serving it with some really good crackers today.”
Young Girl: “Is it hot?”
Me: “Oh, no, we serve this cold.”
Young Girl: *rolling her eyes* “I mean is it hot, hot. Like spicy.”
Me: “No, it’s not. It’s just cream cheese, artichoke hearts, and some different seasonings.” *there is really nothing even remotely spicy in any of the ingredients*
Young Girl: *grabs a sample, barely licks it with the end of her tongue, screams, and throws the sample on the floor* “That is so hot! You liar! Liar!”
Mother: “How dare you hurt my baby?! I’m going to report you! You should have a sign that warns people when food is spicy!”
Me: “Sorry, but it’s really just cream cheese and artichokes. We do give warnings when something has anything spicy in it.”
Mother: “Are you calling my daughter a liar?”
Random Customer: “I am. Your daughter is a brat. Stop giving this lady a hard time and control your kid. This is not remotely spicy. Has she never eaten food before or something?”
Mother: “How dare you?! I’m going to report you, too!”
Random Customer: “You want to report a fellow customer? Let me know how that works out for you. I’ll be standing here ready to tell the manager exactly what really happened if you try to report this lady.”
(The mother took her daughter and stormed away, throwing another sample on the ground in the process. To my knowledge, she never reported me.)
(I am pouring salt onto the freshly-made fries for a woman on our front counter, which she watches me do the whole time.)
Me: “Here are your fries. Would you like anything else?”
Customer: “What’s that spray you put on the fries?”
Me: *looks back at the fry station, trying to figure out what she’s talking about* “Spray?”
Customer: *points at the salt shaker and looks back at me* “That stuff I watched you put on it.”
Me: “It’s salt?”
Customer: *pulls a fry out and takes a bite, staring at me the whole time* “It’s good.” *stares at me a few more seconds, then snatches her bag and leaves*
