(The UK has passed a law requiring customers to pay for plastic bags. They don’t have to pay for paper bags. Our store changed from paper to plastic about two months prior to this story.)

Me: “Would you like a bag for 5p?”

Customer: “I’ll take a paper one.”

Me: “I’m sorry, we actually only have plastic ones in now.”

(The customer looks suddenly furious.)

Customer: “I got one yesterday. I want a paper bag.”

(I know this is a lie because I worked all day yesterday, and I’ve not seen a paper bag since we changed to plastic.)

Me: “Unfortunately, we switched to plastic a few months ago. Would you like one for 5p?”

Customer: “This is ridiculous! I got one yesterday! I’m telling you I got one yesterday!”

Me: “Okay, I’m sorry, but—”

Customer: “I’m going to go on your website. I’m going to see why you don’t do paper anymore since I got one yesterday. I’m going to go on your website!”

(The customer continues on like this long enough for a queue to build up behind her. It’s been a long day and I’m tired, so I interrupt her repetitive rant.)

Me: “I’m sorry. I don’t have paper bags right now. You’re welcome to look behind the cash desk but I assure you, you won’t find any because we switched to plastic two months ago!”

Customer: “What’s your name?!”

Me: “My name is on your receipt and customer service’s number is below that. Have a nice day!”

(The customer storms off. We aren’t actually required to give our names to customers but I figured there was no harm in it. She’s going to ring customer services on an individual because my company doesn’t sell paper bags anymore, I doubt I’ll lose my job over this. She must be really short on cash if she can’t afford 5p.)

(I’m a cashier at a huge grocery store that sells everything. When we ring in a customer, right below their total on the receipt it shows the current time. One day as I’m ringing up a seemingly nice older lady, I accidentally read the time out loud rather than her total. Quickly realizing my mistake I correct myself.)

Me: “Oh, haha, I’m so sorry, ma’am, I accidentally looked at the clock. Your total is 105.27, not 12:43.”

Customer: “ARE YOU F****** KIDDING ME?! You should be paying more attention! I want to speak with your manager immediately!”

(Mind you, she had not paid me or taken out her money. I literally corrected myself within ten seconds. I call my manager over anyway.)

Manager: “What’s the problem, ma’am?”

Customer: “THIS F****** DUMB-A** WAS TOO BUSY PAYING ATTENTION TO WHATEVER ELSE AND SHE READ ME THE TIME BY ACCIDENT INSTEAD OF MY TOTAL.”

Manager: “Leave.”

(The customer proceeds to try walking out with groceries she had not paid for.)

Manager: “No, ma’am, those can stay here.”

Customer: “Well, my f****** bad. I figured with that service I shouldn’t have to pay for this s***. What’s your corporate number?!”

Manager: “It’s on our website. Have a nice day.”

(The customer left, complaining to every single person she saw on her way out.)

This happened while I was working at a friend’s mom-and-pop pizza place. We were running short of ones and change so I had to run to the bank next door to get some.

Understand that this particular bank was — as a teller there once mentioned to me — used as a training site for new teller hires for all the local company locations. Since it was in a down-scale neighborhood, it tended to have more than its share of “problem customers,” so if you could handle yourself professionally there, everywhere else was a breeze.

Anyhow, I’m standing in line and the lady in front of me says she wants to withdraw $50 from her checking account. But she doesn’t have any checks with her. Or the account number. Or any ID. And despite claiming “she banks here all the time,” no one working there recognizes her.

When the lady teller tries to politely explain why she needs to go home and return with at least an ID, cue the five minute screaming rampage about how “racist” the bank, the teller, and everyone else working here is, and the only reason she can’t get “her” money is because she’s [race]. Throughout this the teller remains perfectly polite, but adamant that she can’t do what the lady is requesting.

Finally the screamer storms out, and I get to do my business. The teller looks a bit frazzled, so as we’re talking I compliment her on staying calm, and tell her she did exactly the right thing. In fact, that if she HAD allowed the “customer” to perform such a sketchy withdrawal, I would have worried about how secure MY account there was.

(It is a busy night, and I have a long line of customers. A man wants to exchange a hat he has bought, for a t-shirt. He does not have his receipt.)

Me: “I will need to see photo ID for the no-receipt exchange.”

Customer: “I don’t have it on me. Why? That’s so ridiculous.”

Me: I’m sorry, but it’s just company policy.”

(The man’s wife, who has said nothing the entire time, produces her driver’s licence for me so that I can process their transaction.)

Customer: “You can go on the cameras and see that I didn’t grab it off the shelf!”

Me: “I believe you, but it’s just part of my job. It’s policy.”

(I have to look up the return price in the computer system for his hat, since there is no receipt for proof of purchase. The return price is the last sale price within the past 60 days.)

Me: “So, because you don’t have a receipt, I have to give you the return price for the hat. It’s the last sale price from the last sixty days. The return price is $22.49, which is only about $8 less than the actual price.”

Customer: “But the tag clearly says it’s $30! Just give me $30 back!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but unfortunately, because you don’t have proof of purchase, I can’t. I don’t know if you bought the hat for $30, or if you bought it on sale, or if it was even more than $30. So I have to use the last sale price.”

Customer: “But I KNOW that I paid $30!”

Me: *trying to be as calm as possible* “I’m sorry, but I can’t just go based on what you think you paid for it. I have to give you the return price. Again, it’s just policy.”

(The man proceeds to throw the hat at me across the cash desk, to which I give him a warning look of disapproval. By now, I am losing my patience, but I am trying to stay calm in the hopes that it will diffuse the situation.)

Customer: “This is f****** bull-s***!”

Me: “Excuse me?!”

(I call for my manager because, at this point, I have had enough. The other customers are in disbelief at the man’s language. I suspend his transaction and wait for my manager to come to help.)

Customer: “Why are you not ringing me through? I just want an exchange!”

Me: “I will not ring you through. My manager will be happy to help you, but I am not.”

Customer: “Why the h*** not?”

Me: “Because I do NOT appreciate you swearing at me and disrespecting me when I am trying to help you. So now you can either wait for my manager to help you, or you can leave.”

Customer: “This is bull! I’m going back to [Other Store Location] because they never mentioned this. They will help me, unlike you, you worthless, good-for-nothing!”

(The man decides to leave, and as he does so, he decides to continue to swear at me about how I didn’t want to help him. The other customers told me that it was good to see me stand up for myself and that it was unfair that I was treated like that. My manager, who was with a customer, finally comes up, and my customers and I fill him in about the situation.)

Manager: “That just goes to show you: if you disrespect those who are trying to help you, they won’t!”

(My mother had gestational diabetes when she was pregnant with me and my older brother. It is basically a form of diabetes that only affects pregnant women if their bodies cannot produce enough insulin due to the pregnancy. She needed to use insulin and a meter to manage her blood sugar. While she is getting used to the meter and insulin, an old friend wants to go out for lunch together to catch up. By this point in her pregnancy she is visibly pregnant, and this is the first time my mother needs to take her insulin with her in public. They go to a local family-owned diner and catch up. My mother checks her blood sugar while her friend steps out to go to the bathroom. She decides she needs insulin and takes the needle out of her purse, when suddenly:)

Waitress: *snatches needle and throws it on the floor* “What do you think you’re doing?! YOU. ARE. A. MOTHER. Don’t you care about your child? Don’t you have any shame, you junkie piece of s***?”

(My mother is speechless. Some other patrons notice the commotion and start watching.)

Mom: “I’m not an addict; this is my insulin. I’m diabetic, and I need it because—”

(Suddenly a man appears. He seems to be a manager.)

Manager: “[Waitress], don’t bother. She’s diabetic. So she isn’t pregnant, she’s just obese.”

(By this point my mom was panicking. She needed her insulin, everyone was staring, and the waitress and manager were hurling insults at her. Fortunately, her friend came out of the bathroom and saw my mother crying. After shooting the waitress and manager a dirty look, she went over to the table, took my mother’s hand, and led her out of the restaurant. My mother’s friend refused to pay the restaurant anything and helped my mother prepare another shot in the car before they went home. My mother was so embarrassed that she didn’t want to talk about what happened to anyone. She didn’t even tell my dad until years later. My family moved to a different town after my brother was born, so we don’t know if anything happened to the diner or its staff.)

This story is part of our Diabetes roundup!

Read the next story in this roundup!

Read the Diabetes roundup!