(The grocery store I work at is tiny, and the aisles are very narrow; if you stand with your arms out, you can easily reach both sides. When it’s busy, it’s nearly impossible to get around without having to squeeze past someone. The customer in question is standing on one side, but examining the opposite shelf, so I have to walk in front of him to get by, although I keep as far as possible from his person.)

Customer: *in the most outraged voice possible* “Kids these days! Aren’t you going to say, ‘Excuse me’?!”

(I am restocking pasta, and my arms are full enough that I have to tuck my chin over the load so I won’t drop it. I literally can’t say anything, and his viciousness kind of shocks me. I try to shrug it off. About five minutes later, I have to walk in front of him again.)

Me: “Pardon me?”

(I am very soft-spoken, and the store is crowded, so I guess he doesn’t hear me. His reaction is to take his canvas bag and SLAP me with it, like hitting a dog with a newspaper.)

Customer: “Someone need to teach you some manners, kid!”

(Apparently “manners” is hitting someone until they’re polite enough for you! I did behind-the-scenes work until he left so he wouldn’t take it in his head to give me a timeout.)

(I’m teaching at a summer theatre camp, and the first group I am working with is a group of about 20 seven- to nine-year-olds. It’s a lot. I’m somewhat new to working with kids. It’s in day one and we’re about to have an afternoon snack. Per training, I’m discussing not sharing snacks and why, before we go outside.)

Me: “It’s very important to remember to keep your snack to yourself! Can anybody tell me why?”

(I choose one kid with their hand up.)

Child: “Because it’s mine.”

Me: “Yes! This is true! Your parents packed a snack that’s for you, and not for everyone here! Also, you never know if someone may be allergic to—”

(Mid-sentence, I watch this girl kick an unsuspecting kid next to her, square in the face. Very lightly, but still IN THE FACE.)

Me: *without missing a beat* “NO. NO. You and I are going to talk about this in a second, but let me finish this first.”

(I continue on about snack safety. I finish and check that the child who got kicked is okay, and the camp assistants then begin to lead the rest of the kids in a line out to the playground.)

Me: “[Kicking Girl]!”

(I do that “come here” motion with my finger, like my parents use to do to me before giving me the business. The girl looks down at the floor.)

Me: “You can’t kick people in the face.”

Kicking Girl: *looks away and sighs* “I’m just trying to have a good time.”

(I am a banquet server at a large “public ivy” college that is particularly known for its high economics rating, because they’re usually cheap and/or selfish, and cater to their donors instead of their employees. On this day, I am catering to the president of the university, his wife, and the donors and retirees of the university, and they have pulled out all the stops. Having encountered them before, I know it is mandatory not to serve my guests until the president and his wife has been served, or else the president’s wife will pitch a fit; she’s not known for being a pleasant person. We take our trays of food out, and I wait patiently as my coworker goes to serve the president of the university, then his wife.)

Wife: “Excuse me, miss?”

Coworker: “Yes, Mrs. [Wife]? Is there something wrong?”

Wife: “Yes, you should know something.”

(I watch in horror as she then THROWS her plate of food to the floor — the plate alone was worth more than $50 — and it shatters into a million pieces as food goes everywhere. Her husband, the president, doesn’t react.)

Wife: “You always serve the lady first! LADIES ALWAYS COME FIRST!”

Coworker: *stunned silence* “I… I’m sorry, Mrs. [Wife]. Would you like me to bring you out another plate?”

Wife: “NO! You’ve ruined this entire dinner! I’ll be talking to the head of your department! You will never work here again! I hope you kill yourself, you uncultured pig!”

(The wife then crosses her arms and pouts. As my coworker walks away to get a broom, one of the donors at my table nudges me.)

Man: “Is she always like that?”

Me: “Yes, I’ve encountered her before. She told me that my dreams of being a writer are stupid and I should expect nothing more of myself than working at [Fast Food Place], because I’m too incompetent for anything else.”

Man: “Well, if that’s the case…”

(He proceeds to hand me two $50 bills, which is almost half of what I make per paycheck.)

Man: “Split that between yourself and the young woman who served [Wife]. You both are lovely young ladies, and I promise to you both that [University] won’t get a penny more from me until that wretched woman is gone!”

Me: “Thank you, sir.”

(The president’s wife proceeded to sit and pout for the rest of the evening and refused everything we brought to her. Less than a week later, Mr. [President] announced that he was stepping down at the beginning of the spring semester. Needless to say, all of catering had a party on that day, happy to finally be getting rid of that horrible woman.)

It’s the lunchtime rush at the drive-thru. A group of giggling teens orders a large Hi-C drink. The driver pays and drives up to my window, accepting the drink.

There is a scream of, “Fire in the hole!” and the cup comes flying toward my window like an orange grenade.

I slam the window shut before the drink arrives. Upon impact, the drink bounces off the window and the lid comes flying off.

The now lidless cup ricochets back at the car and ends up in the driver’s lap, with about 90% of its contents exploding all over the pristine interior and soaking at least the driver and her passenger.

They stare, dumbfounded at how their “prank” has backfired, and resulted in a sticky mess all over their car interior.

I smile sweetly and gesture for them to move along, alerting my manager in case they decide to come in and complain.

They don’t. They just drive off with stunned expressions still on their faces. My one regret to this day is that we didn’t have a camera to capture the incident.

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(A patron approaches me at the circulation desk in our public library.)

Patron: “I have something awkward to tell you.”

Me: “I won’t judge. I promise.”

Patron: “Well, you might.” *she shows me a heavy coffee table book, “Selfish,” Kim Kardashian’s selfie book* “The pages are all stuck together, and I thought you should know I found it like this.”

Me: “Well, it’s in no condition to circulate.”

Patron: “The thing is—” *lowers her voice to a whisper* “I know this smell and it’s a man’s… you know.”

(It took a moment to register, before I nervously called over my more senior coworker for moral support. We chucked the book because it was clear the damage was done within the library, since there was no way we would check a book out to anyone in that condition, nor would we return it to the shelf like that. Neither of us could be sure the sticky stuff was what the patron suggested it could be, but we were taking no chances there.)