Our store allows dogs if they’re on a leash, or in the case of this customer, they’re tiny little Chihuahuas in her little Chanel bag.

I am scanning her items, but the dog doesn’t like the “beep” noise my checkout makes every time I scan something. It growls a sniveling little growl at first, but then it starts lunging and barking at me every time.

Me: “Ma’am, do you mind moving your… bag… to your other side? I’m worried your dog might… get injured by my checkout.”

Customer: *On her phone* “Oh, he’s fine.”

Me: “Ma’am, I don’t think he is, and besides, I am not fine, either. Can you put your bag over your other shoulder so that you’re between your dog and me?”

Customer: “What do you have against dogs?! This store allows dogs! Why are you discriminating against me?!”

Me: “I’m not, ma’am, but your dog is having an aggressive reaction to my checkout noise, and I am worried that it will escalate if I scan the next twenty-or-so of your items.”

The customer rolls her eyes but does as I ask. I cautiously continue scanning the items with the Chihuahua protesting. However, then, she places her bag — containing the dog — ON TO THE BELT, so that she can text more easily with two hands. There is now nothing stopping this dog from jumping out of the bag and lunging straight toward me

I stop scanning, and the customer looks up from her phone.

Customer: “Why have you stopped?”

Me: “I’ll continue when you pick your bag back up, ma’am.”

Customer: “Oh, my God! Are you serious?! He’s just a little Chihuahua!”

Me: “Ma’am, in the last few minutes, I am confident I can provide an accurate count of exactly how many teeth your dog has. Pick him up and place him behind you, or I am refusing you service.”

Customer: “Oh, my God! You’re such a cry baby! He’s just a little excitable, aren’t you, my little shnookums?!“

She reaches to pet the traumatized-looking dog, who then growls and snaps at her hand, drawing blood. The customer is shocked, and then she looks at me as I stare back at her, eyebrow raised.

Me: “Band-aids are on aisle thirteen. I’ll wait. Take your dog with you when you go.” 

She was silent after that! The dog wasn’t.

We have a customer who comes in every Tuesday and likes to leave complaints in our suggestion box. We know it’s her, as we’ve seen her leave one almost every week, and we usually only get one “suggestion” per week, usually a complaint.

The complaints are always directed to members of staff that she has shown a dislike for, and sadly, based on observation, she likes to target employees who are not white or do not appear to be Christian.

She would write things like: “The Black guy working the deli was rude to me!” or “The Arab-looking girl at the jewelry counter had a funny smell!”

Sadly, even though management knows these complaints are all ridiculous and are all from the same woman, policy is that every “suggestion” is recorded and evidence is shown that action, or at the very least, a discussion is made about it.

As a white woman I have — so far — been spared her ire, but not today. She approaches my cashier line (to note: I am the only white cashier today), but when she sees me she wrinkles her nose and walks away.

She comes back a few moments later with a manager. This is already a step up for her, as usually she would just leave a “suggestion” in the box, but maybe she was getting tired of not seeing any apparent action being taken.

Manager: “Which cashier did you say offended you, ma’am?

Customer: “I don’t want to be served by this cashier. She is obviously pregnant, but she isn’t wearing a wedding ring!”

Me: “Actually, ma’am, I am married, but my fingers swell during my pregnancy and the ring doesn’t fit.

Customer: “Oh… well, that’s okay, then.”

Manager: “Wait, you tried to get one of my cashiers in trouble because you thought she might be pregnant but unmarried?”

Customer: “It’s amoral!”

Manager: “It’s also amoral to try to get someone in trouble just because you disapprove.”

My manager then turns to me.

Manager: “[My Name], this customer tried to get you in trouble. Are you comfortable serving her?”

I look at the customer, who is beginning to realize that the manager might not be on her side.

Me: “I’m… okay with cashing her out as long as she doesn’t do it again.”

Manager: “Well, you’re far more merciful than I am.”

My manager then turns to the customer.

Manager: “I will allow you to finish your transaction here today. I will be aware of you from now on, and every complaint you send my way about an employee of this store will automatically become toilet paper.”

The customer opened her mouth like she was about to complain, but I let her know her total and then she remembered that she needed to finish her shopping. She sheepishly paid and walked out with her shopping.

It’s three Tuesdays later, and she hasn’t been back.

Once upon a time, I worked for an event production group that organized a specific convention/event that takes place in multiple states around the United States.

The event took place over three days, so most of us were on-site for five to seven days for prep and tear-down. This meant packing up and hauling out to the next location — some of us by equipment trailer caravan and others via plane.

Prior to this job, I was a Client Relationship Manager for a very large corporation. That job entailed more or less living out of a suitcase for days and weeks at a time, often flying from client location to client location within a matter of days. During my time with this job, I got really, really good at packing everything I would need without having to check luggage or deal with the consequences of losing my luggage. I’d put my toiletries in the laptop bag, I carried a pocket lanyard instead of a wallet, I had mix-and-match suits rolled up in a duffle bag to be ironed in the hotel, and I had shoes that would match everything. Not to brag, but I was something of an efficient machine when it came to packing and being prepared.

For some reason, my coworkers at the event planning group found this efficiency offensive. Traditionally, the team would load up garment bags with their professional event clothing with the equipment caravan so that it would arrive prior to those of us coming by plane. Makes sense!  

So, I carefully packed my trusty duffle bag with a blazer for each day, a clean pair of trousers for each day, and a selection of collared shirts to go with each. I threw in some shorts and T-shirts that would work equally well for lounging, sleeping, or running for take-out, undergarments, and a spare pair of jeans just in case. After all, I was only going to be gone for five days, and most of that time would be at the convention. We didn’t even have twelve hours between when we would leave the event in the evening and when we had to be back on duty.

The next day, we loaded all of the equipment and saved our bags for last. My coworkers each brought out two to three large garment bags, as well as an extra-large suitcase each. It turns out they had brought blazers and trousers for twice the amount of time that we would be gone, along with extra changes of clothes depending on what they would be doing between 10:00 pm and 5:00 am when the event wasn’t running. They also packed large bags for their toiletries and separate bags for their shoes.

I honestly didn’t think much about it — different strokes for different folks, after all — until we got to the event. It turns out my single duffle bag was the talk of the staff. The president of the company sat me down and explained to me how important it was that we look professional at all times. I agreed.

Each day, I showed up freshly bathed, professionally dressed, and well-made-up. In fact, the sample-sized conditioner I brought really agreed with my hair, and several presenters complimented me on my appearance.

And then we came home. I was hastily ushered into the vice president’s office, where she had the president on speakerphone. I then got a stern half-hour talking-to about my disregard for the company.

Me: “Wait. Wasn’t I professionally dressed each day of the event?”

Yes, they both agreed. My clothing was appropriate, and I was well-kempt in every way.

Me: “And did I conduct myself appropriately?”

Yes. There were some communication bumps due to a lack of cell phone service, but everything was resolved to everyone’s satisfaction.

However, I didn’t pack enough. The president of the company spent the whole event terrified that I would show up looking like a slob, so she was distracted from her other duties. Furthermore, it was said that after the event, I went back to the hotel, got dinner delivered, and went to bed rather than going to the bars with the other workers.

I tried to explain that I was simply really good at packing and that I needed every possible minute of our daily seven hours of downtime, but that was the beginning of the end for my employment. Ultimately, it was decided that I wasn’t trustworthy, and my judgment was questioned on absolutely everything. It got to the point that I quit for my own mental health.

Who knew that being resourceful could be a bad thing?

My partner and I are at the mall when I suddenly feel weak. We find a bench to sit down on, and I check my blood sugars, as I’m diabetic. It’s low, and I have nothing sweet on me, so my partner opts to go find something while I wait.

I’m sitting toward one side of the bench with plenty of room on the other side, even for someone who’s a bit less social. A woman comes up and tells me to move.

Me: “I need to sit, but there’s room for you, as well.”

Woman: “I don’t sit next to people. Get up. You’re just being lazy.”

Me: “I really need to sit. There’s a bench across the way if you don’t want to share.”

The bench in question is maybe ten feet away and is the same exact style as the one I’m on.

Woman: “No, you’re going to move! I want this bench!”

She stomps her foot. Literally. I can’t help but laugh a bit at this grown woman throwing a tantrum like a child over a mall bench.

Woman: “Don’t laugh at me! What the f*** is wrong with you?!”

Me: “I’m not the one demanding someone get up from a bench simply so they don’t have to share it.”

She reaches for me, but I hear a loud “HEY!” coming from someone else. We both turn to see mall security coming toward the lady.

Security: “Ma’am, keep moving. We’re not doing this again today.”

Woman: “I… Well… He laughed at me!”

Security: “Probably because your attitude is a joke. Either keep moving or we’ll kick you out again.”

The woman glared at me and then stormed off. Apparently, she didn’t like people sitting on “her” bench and would yell at people until they moved.

My partner came back with a soda, and after bringing my sugars back up, I was able to go back to browsing the mall just fine.

I haven’t seen that woman there since.

I take a call at our pizza place.

Customer: “My pizza is fifteen minutes late! I was told you might be taking longer, but this is ridiculous!”

Me: “Yes, sir, I am sorry. We are receiving a lot of orders tonight, and we’re short-staffed, so we’re trying our best with the backlog.”

The truth is that we’ve been short-staffed for a year, but it’s been difficult to retain staff and now the cracks are showing.

Customer: “Then hire more people! That’s not my problem! Get my pizza to me in five minutes or I’m demanding a refund!”

I hand the phone over to my manager, who apologizes and tries to explain the situation. As he’s listening to the customer rant and rave, something inside him snaps, and he decides he has had enough. This is the conversation as relayed to us:

Customer: “Ugh, it’s because no one wants to work anymore!”

Manager: “No, sir. At the moment, I am the longest-serving manager here, and I have been here for fifteen months. I am singlehandedly holding the store together, but I am overworked and tired of losing employees because Corporate won’t allow me to give out raises. Any raises.”

Customer: “Well, you’re fine! I was talking about—”

Manager: “My assistant manager is part-time because he found a better job and the only reason he’s sticking around at all is to help me out as some kind of favor, which I hate asking of him, but I have no other options. And I know he’s leaving soon. The other two assistant managers have said that when he leaves, they leave, as they know what a s***-storm is going to be coming our way when that happens, and we can’t retain staff because of s***ty wages.”

Customer: “Look, I didn’t mean to—”

Manager: “And as far as our drivers go, we have one closer and one other who is possibly sticking around but who also will need to leave if their current schedule isn’t honored after the mass exodus, which it won’t be because, again, I can’t hire anyone, and who expects them to prioritize this job over college?”

Customer: “I’m sorry, I was just ven—”

Manager: “You were just venting. Yes, well, so am I! The next time you walk into a place or call a place and say, ‘No one wants to work anymore,’ what you should be saying is, ‘No one wants to be a slave for minimum wage, but that’s all that Corporate is allowing us to offer, and those that are left are trying to keep going with fewer and fewer people.’ Unless you’d like to come and do twelve-hour shifts for $7.25 per hour?”

Customer: “I’ll… be sure to tip my driver when he gets here.”

Manager: “Thank you” *Click*

The mass exodus happened two weeks later. We all walked out, apart from one assistant manager who was desperately retained by Corporate with a raise, but he told us in our old chat group that, a month later, they still can’t reopen the store because they won’t budge on minimum wage.

Related:
The Great Resignation, Part 3
The Great Resignation, Part 2
The Great Resignation