(A customer comes into our cell phone retail store holding a ziplock bag containing several pieces of a completely destroyed smart phone, and places the bag on the counter.)

Customer: “I need a refund.”

Coworker: “What seems to be the problem?”

Customer: “Yesterday, [Coworker #2] put a screen protector on my phone, and when I woke up today it looked like this.”

(He gestures to the bag of phone parts.)

Coworker: *long pause* “The screen protector did this?”

Customer: “Yes. He must have loosened the screw or glue or something. Now the phone is broken and I need a refund.”

Manager: *hears and comes over* “So, you’re saying that you placed a completely whole and unbroken phone on your nightstand last night, and woke up this morning with it looking like a truck ran over it.”

Customer: “Exactly. And it’s [Coworker #2]’s fault.”

Manager: “No. That did not happen. You are not getting a refund, because you ran over your phone. I will gladly sell you a new phone, or if you have insurance, you can file a claim if this type of damage is covered.”

Customer: “NO! I WANT A F****** REFUND ON THIS PHONE!”

Manager: “Get out. Don’t swear at me. Why don’t you leave and cool off, and come back tomorrow when we can talk about this more rationally?”

Customer: “NO! I AM A VETERAN AND I HAVE PTSD; IF I COME BACK I’LL BE ARMED.”

Manager: *without breaking eye contact, picks up phone and dials 911* “Yes, hello. I am the manager at [Store]. A customer just threatened me, and my staff. Yes, he is still in the store. Yes, I think the threat was credible. I asked him to leave, and he said he would come back armed, and that he has PTSD. Great. Thank you.” *hangs up*

Customer: *staring silently* “Did you really just call the police?”

Manager: “Yeah, they are on their way.”

(After some more ranting, the customer dithered for a minute, and then turned to leave. By the time he got to the door, a police car had pulled up out front. The guy had a history of making threats. He was arrested for breach of peace, and trespassed from our store, which is the only one for about 200 miles.)

(I work at a kindergarten. It is the first day of class, and some kids tend to cry because they don’t want their parents to leave. One tiny four-year-old girl is in my arms, crying softly. But when we get to the classroom, she suddenly launches backwards headfirst. I barely hold on to her before she hits her head. She starts screaming like a banshee, and kicks me repeatedly, so I lay her as carefully as possible on a rug. She keeps screaming, dropping on the floor, hitting her head, leaving hundreds of scratches on her own chest, and banging her head some more against a door. I try to get her to sit on a chair, but she jumps down so hard it flips and almost impales her. If I try to talk to her, she gets even more angry. We call her family, but no one picks up. And by the end of the — short, thank God — day, she is covered of scratches and bumps, but calm and laughing. I am extremely scared that I will get in trouble, though. I explain everything to the girl’s mom when she arrives.)

Mom: *laughs and smiles* “I have five kids, and they have all been like that on the first few days of school. Don’t worry.”

(This happened for one whole month until the girl and I bonded, but my coworkers and I still remember her as Demon Spawn.)

(I am at a Renaissance Faire. I have created a custom piece of artwork for a customer. He ordered it a month ago, and it features his, his wife’s, and his children’s names. As he is coming to pick it up today, I have it visible behind my counter. A woman is looking at the piece and complimenting me on it. She seems a little drunk.)

Customer: “Gah, that’s so beautiful. How much is it?”

Me: “Well, that’s a custom order; he paid [total] for it. If you are interested, I can create something custom for you.”

Customer: “Nah, I want that one!”

Me: “I’m afraid that one is paid for; it was custom made and it has his family’s names on it. I can create one for your family, or if you want to take something home today, I have a similar piece for sale over here.”

Customer: “Why can’t I have that one?”

Me: *more firmly* “It’s not for sale. It belongs to someone else.”

(The drunk woman starts crying, but goes quiet, and sits down outside my booth. Five minutes later, I am talking to another customer and hear shouting. The woman has snatched the piece from behind the counter and is trying to run away with it! She makes it around the corner with me in tow yelling, when a man steps up and blocks her way with outstretched arms. Too drunk to figure out how to get around him, she sits down and starts crying. I take the piece from her, then realize the man who blocked her path is the customer who ordered the custom piece! I hand it to him, laughing.)

Me: “I guess you had to earn this one!”

(We sent the drunken woman to first aid to get her water and help her sober up. This year, she came back to the faire far more sober, and was browsing my shop. I don’t think she remembered the previous adventure, and she ended up buying a piece that was legitimately for sale.)

(I am the operations manager for a popular department store. It’s my birthday. We have closed up, and despite working a full shift, I still got to go on a nice birthday date with my boyfriend. I get a call at two am from the alarm company for the store; they have a motion sensor going off at the store and none of the other three managers are answering their phones. I tell them to not dispatch a patrol car yet; our store is charged for that and it’s likely a false alarm. I get up, and my boyfriend insists on driving me since I had several glasses of wine that evening. We arrive at the store fifteen minutes later, and there is actually a person. She has wedged our automatic doors slightly open and is jabbing a stick into the space where the lock would be. She sees our headlights and turns around before going back to it. I get out of the car, followed by my boyfriend.)

Me: “You need to stop that.”

Customer: “No, I ordered items for pickup and I am picking them up.”

Me: “You can’t be serious. Stop this. Step away from the door or I’m calling the police.”

Customer: “Do you work here? Go get my items; they’re under [Last Name]. It should be [a whole slew of things].”

(My boyfriend is getting fed up. I’m fed up. This woman is crazy. I realize I don’t have a nametag on.)

Me: “You have just gotten me out of bed on my birthday to come down here and tell you you’re behaving like an entitled child! If you don’t step away from those doors, you’re going to have to call the cops on me, because, so help me, I’m done putting up with crazy s*** like this.”

(She looks at me with wide eyes.)

Me: “I don’t want your business. Cancel your order when you get home. I don’t want to see you here ever again; are we clear?”

(She scampered off. My boyfriend and I stopped for late-night snacks on the way home.)

I work at a drive-in fast food restaurant. We have credit card readers on every stall, but the payment doesn’t always go through on the first swipe. We often have to pull the payment screen back up or take the cards to our reader inside.

One of my coworkers was taking out orders to cars. She comes inside holding a drink and says “This lady would like to speak with a manager. She says she paid already and I tried telling her it didn’t go through but she won’t listen–”

Just then this customer throws our door open and screams at my coworker, “EXCUSE ME, YOU CAN’T JUST WALK AWAY WITH MY DRINK!” We calmly try to explain to her that we can’t give customers their orders until a payment has been received, but she isn’t having it. “I DID PAY. THE SCREEN SAID MESSAGE RECEIVED!”

“No, ma’am, that means that your order went through, not the payment–” my manager starts, but is again interrupted. “THAT DRINK IS FOR MY CHILD AND YOU KEEP WALKING AWAY WITH IT. HOW DO I KNOW YOU HAVEN’T SPAT IN IT? I WANT MY GOD-D*** DRINK!”

We try to assure her no one would spit in it but she keeps screaming, “I ALREADY PAID! I’M NOT SWIPING MY CARD AGAIN! I WANT MY DRINK! MY SON IS VERY UPSET!” (Might I point out, she had left her son in her running car to come in and scream about a drink that is currently half price at 80 cents.) Finally my manager gives up, hands her her drink, cancels the ticket so my coworker won’t come up short, and proclaims that customer as our crazy of the day.