I work at a restaurant on the beach in Florida. A customer parks their car out front and enters the building.

Me: “Would you like to sit inside or outside today?”

Customer: *Literally having just walked in from outside* “Well, what’s the weather like?”

When I was in college, I picked up a job at a clinic; the doctor was a naturopath and a chiropractor. I didn’t really have the training, and mostly my job description was to scan patient files and upload them to an online site so [Doctor] could access stuff if he got a call while on vacation or if he was at his other location.

Because there were a TON of files to upload, and I had received no training on what they wanted me to do, I created my own process. Basically, I’d scan everything in, save it to a folder on the desktop, and then upload it to the correct patient file. I’d drop everything I’d scanned into a box at my feet, which was out of sight and out of easy reach of anyone not behind the counter, which barely had room for me and the receptionist. When the box got full, I’d go shred everything.

I kept things in the file on the desktop because the online system was free and a pain in the a**. I’d keep them accessible for when [Doctor] got annoyed and needed something right away. Don’t ask me why they thought a free system was going to function the way they wanted it to.

[Doctor]’s wife frequently came into the clinic, both to bring their kids in for appointments and just to check in on things.

One time, after I’d been there almost a year, she came in before my shift, and she needed to get onto my workstation for some reason. The workstation had a shared credential, so she logged on and saw my folder. When I got to work, she cornered me.

Wife: “Why do you have a folder on your desktop with all the documents?”

Me: “Because the online site is difficult to view things, so it’s just in case [Doctor] wants something right away. I showed him where it is if he needs it when I’m not here.”

Wife: “I don’t like that. It means that anyone can view those documents.”

While that was technically a valid point, I refrained from pointing out that everyone could technically see it on the website, anyway, if they knew what they were doing. And while they could, it was only if they knew the path, because I did have it nested under a few different ones; while the folder said, “Documents,” on the desktop, the actual files were under one that said, “Patients,” or something, and it was four levels deep.

Then, she moved on to what else I was apparently doing wrong.

Wife: “And why is this box here?”

Me: “That’s where I drop stuff once it’s been scanned. Then, when the box gets full, I go shred it.”

Wife: “Anyone can view these. Why is it sitting out here like that?”

Me: “It’s not out in the open; it’s around the corner and under the desk, there’s a lid on the box, and [Receptionist] and I are the only ones who work up here.”

Wife: “You need to be scanning everything and then shredding it as soon as you’re done. And delete that folder. You can’t save anything on the desktop.”

I didn’t bother to point out that that would take me five times as long since the shredder was a massive hunk of a beast and wouldn’t fit in our area to move it, which would have been the only logical way to make her request work in a way that didn’t involve a huge time sink.

I just sighed and changed things up to the way she wanted. A couple of weeks later, I got yelled at for taking so long to update files.

[Wife] kept trying to cut my hours and my paycheck was barely covering gas or bus fare to and from the clinic. (I was part-time, and when I started, I worked Monday through Thursday for about four hours a day; by the time we got to this, she’d cut me down to twice a week at four hours a day and wanted me to consider only working once a week.) And I kept getting in trouble for doing what she wanted. As a result of both of those things, I turned in my two weeks’ notice.

[Wife] happened to be onsite the day I gave my notice. She took one look at the letter I’d typed and said:

Wife: “Well, since you don’t want to be here anyway, you might as well just go home.”

The scary thing is that that wasn’t the worst job I’ve had.

A woman calls on a night when it is just me and a manager, so I serve as an order taker, sandwich maker, and delivery driver.

Customer: “I want an Italian club but without the spicy meat.”

The Italian club normally has salami, capicola, and ham.

Me: “You might want to try the ham and cheese, as it’s cheaper and can still be made like an Italian.”

Customer: *Bellowing* “No! I want the Italian. And no mayo!”

Fine, whatever. It truly doesn’t matter to me, and her spending more means my guaranteed delivery money will be a bit more anyway, so I make her ham and cheese with Italian-style toppings and deliver it.

When I return to the shop, the manager is on the phone, and he beckons me over. He puts it on hold.

Manager: “This woman says we gave her the wrong sandwich. She ordered an Italian, and she says you made her a ham and cheese with mayo.”

I explain what she told me earlier, so the manager proceeds to have an identical conversation with the woman. However, due to corporate policy, we have to make and deliver another sandwich. This time, we decide to throw some salami on it, hoping it isn’t too spicy for her.

When I get there, she proceeds to open and take apart the sandwich in front of me, pointing out things as if they were key evidence at trial.

Customer: “And this sandwich still has mayo!”

She says this while pointing at oil-and-vinegar dressing.

She then finds the salami, tastes it, and literally begins crying

Customer: *Through her tears* “Too spicy.”

Me: “Ma’am, you have two options: you can keep either the ham sandwich or the one with salami.”

Enraged, she calls my manager, who tells her the same thing.

Me: “So, which sandwich do you want?”

Customer: *Meekly* “I’ll keep the ham and cheese.”

I begin walking back to my car.

Customer: “Wait! Aren’t you going to refund me the difference in price between the two sandwiches?”

That was the only time I ever laughed at a customer to their face.

I am a shift lead at my store, meaning I am responsible for training new cashiers and making sure they are up to standard.

Today, I have been asked to watch one of our newer cashiers. She seems like she is very competent, but there have apparently been some questions about her checking IDs.

So far, there have been no issues. She’s been polite, efficient, and generally on point. Then, it happens. A customer comes to pay, and their items include bottles of wine. The customer looks to be in their early twenties, so the policy says to check ID.

Cashier: “Can I please see your ID for the wine?”

Customer: *Fumbling for their ID* “Yeah, sure. It’s been a while since anyone’s asked me for that.”

The customer pulls out a card and shows it to the cashier. At once, I notice an issue, but I stay silent to let [Cashier] do her job.

[Cashier] glances at the card before pressing the “confirmed” button.

Cashier: “All right, thank you. You can insert your card when you’re ready.”

This is when I step in.

Me: “[Cashier]! Please take another look at that card.”

[Cashier] looks at the card again and realizes that the customer accidentally provided what looks like a work ID, with no birthdate or identifying information, instead of a government-issued ID.

The customer realizes their mistake.

Customer: “Oh, I’m sorry about that. I must’ve stuck that card in the wrong place.”

They then provide their actual ID, which confirms that they are, in fact, old enough. I let the cashier finish the transaction but immediately tell her to close down and follow me to the office.

I grab the manager on duty and inform them of the situation.

Manager: “[Cashier], what were you doing? You clearly weren’t actually checking ID. Why?”

Cashier: “Well, I just figured that they must be telling the truth because they gave me an ID.”

Manager: “They didn’t give you an ID. You don’t seem to understand the consequences of selling to someone underage. This will be a write-up, and you’re going to have to be retrained. “

Cashier: “That’s not fair! I didn’t actually break the law, so you can’t punish me.”

Manager: “That certainly isn’t true. You have two choices: accept the write-up and retraining, or we let you go right now.”

She reluctantly accepted the former but was let go a few months later when this happened again.

I work at an ice cream store where we mix ice cream flavors and toppings on an ice-cold slab. I get a call from a customer.

Customer: “Do you have any strawberry shortcake ice cream?”

Me: “We can make it.”

He then asks for all of our prices for each size. I tell him and he hangs up.

A few hours later, a man comes in and immediately asks:

Customer: “Do you have strawberry shortcake ice cream?”

Me: “Yes, we do. It usually is made with sweet cream ice cream with strawberries, yellow cake, and whipped cream.”

He asks for the prices of each size, and I tell him the prices… AGAIN.

Customer: “So, what’s in it?”

I tell him… AGAIN.

Customer: “Can I get something instead of yellow cake? Do you have anything pink?”

Me: “Um… well, we have raspberries. And sprinkles have some pink in them. Or strawberry sauce to go along with the strawberries in there.”

Customer: “Okay, the strawberry sauce sounds good.”

Me: “All right, sounds good. So, you want sweet cream with strawberries, strawberry sauce, and whipped cream? Would you like the whipped cream on top or mixed in?”

Customer: “Actually, do you have any cake I can put in instead of the strawberry sauce so it’s more like a strawberry shortcake?”

Me: “You mean yellow cake?”

Customer: “Yes!”

I just stood there, slowly said, “All right…”, and made his ice cream.