Lost And Found Your Body

, , , , , | Right | November 12, 2017

(A teenage girl comes into my craft booth, who I recognize from a previous visit.)

Me: “Welcome back!”

Girl: “Did you see a cell phone anywhere?”

Me: “No, but let’s look.”

(We check all around the booth and under tablecloths, but we don’t find a cell phone.)

Me: “Have you checked Lost and Found?”

Girl: “No, but I know I used it here; I sent a picture of that necklace.”

(She leaves, upset. A while later she comes in with a man, a phone in hand.)

Me: “Glad you found your cell phone!”

Girl: “No, this is my dad’s; I’m using a find-a-phone app. The phone should be making a loud noise.”

(The man starts looking under my tables, grumbling, so I help double-check the area. The whole time, he is glaring at me.)

Man: “Well, I don’t hear it, but they’ve probably put it somewhere muffled. Where the h*** is her phone?”

Me: “I hope she finds it.”

(Suddenly he gets in my face, angry.)

Man: “Look, she had it here. You’re going to give me back my daughter’s phone.”

Me: “I don’t have it.”

Man: “I know you stole her phone. Give it back.”

Me: “Look, I’m sorry she lost it. Have you checked Lost and Found?”

(Suddenly he knocks over a display, grabbing my shirt.)

Man: “Listen, you little [gay slur]. If you don’t give me her phone, they aren’t going to find your body!”

Me: “Help! Help!”

(Luckily, one of the police officers at the event is nearby and comes over immediately. The man lets go of me when he sees the officer, but knocks over more displays. The man argues with the office, and is eventually put in handcuffs. I’m picking up my displays and assessing damages when the event organizer comes over to talk to the police and to me. When she hears the whole story, she looks at the daughter.)

Organizer: “Was it a [Phone] in a pink glitter case? Someone turned that into Lost and Found an hour ago.”

(That was it!)

Seems To Think Fifty No’s Means A Yes

, , , , , , | Romantic | November 9, 2017

(My sister’s a very sweet girl who naturally smiles as she talks, and so she tends to make friends easily, but it also causes the following to occur during her second year of college. My sister enters a classroom and sits down at one of the nearest empty seats to the door.)

Guy: “Hi, I’m [Guy].”

Sister: “Nice to meet you. I’m [Sister]. It’s really nice to meet you.”

(The class then starts and she doesn’t interact with the guy for the rest of the class. When class is over, and my sister starts to get up to leave, the guy grabs her arm.)

Guy: “Hey, are you free now? Let’s go for lunch.”

Sister: *tries to tug her arm away* “Sorry. I have another class to go to, and I’m not really interested. Sorry.”

Guy: *angrily gets in her face, still holding her arm* “Come on! You came and sat down with me, so clearly, you’re interested in me! You can’t lead a guy on like that, you slut!”

Sister: *practically rips her arm out of his grip* “I only sat next to you because it was the closest seat to the door that was free! And I literally only said hi to you and introduced myself, so I didn’t exactly lead you on. Don’t touch me ever again.” *proceeds to run out of the classroom*

(Unfortunately, he continued to have an interest in my sister. He went so far as to follow her to her next class and attempt to enter the classroom after her, and then sat outside her classroom after she convinced her professor to kick him out. When she saw him outside the room, she grabbed the nearest guy’s arm and asked him to pretend they were dating. The only bright sides from this were that he was eventually kicked out of the university for doing this with other female students, and that my sister and the guy she pretended to date became good friends after that incident.)

A Bunch Of Regular A**holes

, , , , , , , , | Right | November 8, 2017

(I operate an ice cream parlor in a small seasonal family resort. Business is slow and the shop is intended to be run by one person. Ice cream is served in the customer’s choice of a cup or in one of three different types of cones, which are stored in plain sight, right behind the ice cream freezer. A couple walks into the shop; they are my only customers at the time.)

Me: *genuinely happy, because these are the first people I have seen in a while* “Hey, guys! How are you doing today?”

(Neither of them responds; they just walk up to inspect the different flavors visible through the glass freezer. I don’t really let it get me down; this happens a lot.)

Me: “Let me know what I can get you, whenever you’re ready.”

Woman: “Cookies and cream.”

Me: “Sure thing! In a cup or a cone?”

Woman: “Cone.”

Me: *I point to each of the types of cones on display as I say their names* “Sure. Would you like a sugar cone, cake cone, or this big waffle cone for an extra 50 cents?”

Woman: “Regular.”

Me: “Sorry, which type of cone? I have this smaller sugar cone here on the left, this flat one in the middle is the cake cone, and this big one here on the right is the waffle cone that costs an extra 50 cents.”

Woman: “I said, ‘regular.’”

(She jabs her finger vaguely in the direction of the entire rack of cones from the opposite end of the counter, but I have no way of telling which one she’s pointing at. I make a judgment call based on my best guess at where she pointed and pick up a cake cone.)

Me: “Sure, would you like one scoop or t—”

Woman: “No, d*** it. Listen to me. I want a regular cone. Regular. I’m speaking English here!”

Man: *to me* “Yeah, dude. Come on, she said it three times now. Are you having a bad day or something?”

Me: “Woah, hey. Different people mean different things when they say, ‘regular.’ I’m just trying to get you what you want. Is that the small sugar cone on the left, or the big waffle cone on the right?”

Woman: *yelling* “I DON’T CARE WHAT OTHER PEOPLE MEAN! I’M AN AMERICAN AND I WANT A REGULAR F****** CONE. I AM NOT SOME [RACIAL SLUR]. I AM SPEAKING F****** ENGLISH. REGULAR! REEEEEEGUUUUULAAAAR!”

(My patience is wearing thin. I carry the whole cone rack over and put it on the counter in front of her.)

Me: “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to stop yelling. I still don’t know what kind of cone you want. ‘Regular’ isn’t one of the options, no matter what country you come from. The small cone on the left is the sugar cone. The big cone on the right is the waffle cone. Say one of those words, or point to one, or leave. Those are your choices.”

Woman: *points to the sugar cone, which is the smaller one of the two* “That one! The regular cone! We call that a regular cone in America!”

Man: “How do you work in an ice cream shop and not know that?”

(I scoop her the ice cream and try to recollect myself before handing it to her.)

Me: “There you are. Sorry about the confusion. Can I get you anything, sir?”

Man: “Yeah, rocky road on a big regular cone.”

(I guess correctly that “big regular” means “waffle,” since at least he used some sort of descriptive word for me to go by. I scoop his ice cream and ring them both up. The man pays for them both with cash, and I hand him back the change.)

Me: *in complete cheerful customer service autopilot* “There’s your change. Have a nice day!”

Woman: “F*** you.” *she grabs the man’s hand with the change, fishes through it, extracts two pennies, and slams them angrily into my tip jar* “Here’s what your customer service was worth to me!”

What A Diabeetus

, , , , , , | Right | November 6, 2017

(A customer is getting her money out of her bag. I had put in a low blood-sugar reading in my insulin pump a couple minutes earlier, and it always beeps to remind me to check it again. It beeps, and I unclip it from my waist and turn the screen on. The customer looks up and her eyes go wide.)

Customer: “Of course!”

Me: “What’s the matter?”

Customer: “This is the reason I hate this store! They hire teenagers that look at their phones all the time! They don’t even care about the customers.”

Me: “What? Oh! This isn’t a phone, ma’am.” *presses “okay” and clips it back to my waist*

Customer: “Yes, it is! Give it to me so I can report you to your manager!”

Me: “One, it’s not a phone. Two, I can’t take it off because it’s an insulin pump. I have type-one diabetes.” *shows her my medical alert bracelet* “My manager knows this.”

Customer: “You don’t have diabetes! You’re not obese!”

Me: *tries to resist the urge to face-palm* “Ma’am, I have type-one. The one you’re thinking about is type-two. Please give me the money and leave.”

Customer: “No!” *reaches for my pump, which has a tube that connects to something on my stomach*

Me: *calmly* “Please leave.”

(The customer once again reaches for my pump, and pulls it off my pants. She pulls it forward and realizes there’s a tube on it.)

Customer: “How do you disconnect the charger?”

Me: “That isn’t a charger wire, ma’am. It’s a tube. You can see it’s clear. Please let go.”

(I reach to take my pump back. The customer pulls it forwards again, and I jerk forward. A lot of the time I drop my pump, and it pulls on my stomach. It’s never torn out the thing on my stomach, but this time it’s about to. Luckily, my manager arrives before it does.)

Manager: “Let go of that right now and leave. It’s good that you hate this store, because you’re not coming back.”

(The customer places the pump on the counter and runs to the door, not taking her money or things.)

Me: “Thanks.”

Manager: “Take her money; you deserve it. I’ll put her stuff back.”

(Suddenly, I heard a beep. My manager was also a diabetic, and also had a low earlier. He pulled out his pump, which looked like mine. I heard a loud scream and the door slamming shut.)

Not Amused At The Amusement Park

, , , , , | Working | November 3, 2017

(I have just turned 16. I work in the game department of an amusement park, where we operate the games and give out prizes to the customers manually, as only a few games start when the customer puts money in. I am stationed at one of the more stressful games, where up to fourteen people can play against each other, and the winner gets a prize determined by how many people are playing. I have had several full rounds with 14 people playing, and have a big crowd waiting to play. A young couple and their son, maybe five or six years old, come up and join the next game. It’s full, and I activate all the sections, but manage to deactivate the sections that the father and son are playing on. I realize midway through the game, and talk to them after it has ended.)

Me: “I’m very sorry; I managed to deactivate your sections before we started the game. I would be happy to either refund your money, or let you play a game with just the two of you so that you are guaranteed a prize, but I cannot give you the first prize since it would only be the two of you.”

Father: “I just feel like we should be allowed to play for the first prize, since you messed up.”

Me: “I am very sorry for messing up, but I cannot let you play for the first prize as I would get in a lot of trouble.”

(I can see the mother getting angry as I apologize, and before the father can get another word in, she snaps.)

Mother: “I JUST CAN’T BELIEVE THAT THEY HIRE SUCH STUPID CHILDREN FOR THIS JOB! IT HAS BEEN A HOT DAY, AND THE LINES HAVE BEEN SUPER LONG, AND WE CAME HERE TO WIN A BIG PRIZE FOR OUR SON BECAUSE HE HAS BEEN HAVING A HORRIBLE DAY!”

Me: “I’m very so—”

Mother: “THIS SHOULD COME OUT OF YOUR PAY! YOU SHOULD GIVE US THE FIRST PRIZE AND PAY FOR IT YOURSELF, YOU USELESS B****! I’M GOING TO SUE YOU AND THIS WHOLE STUPID PLACE, YOU STUPID B****!”

(The father finally manages to calm her down and turns to me.)

Father: “We will take our money back, please.”

(I give them their money back and realize that there are several people still around the game. As soon as the couple and their son leaves, all the people that had gathered also leave. Shaking, I step out of the game booth to breathe, when a coworker comes up to me.)

Coworker: “Are you okay? I could hear her screaming all the way up at my game. You’re doing a great job.”

(I promptly start crying and ask her if she can watch my game so that I can go and breathe in the office for a second. My supervisor hears me crying and asks what has happened. As I tell her, she gets more and more angry, and asks me to come back out and see if the lady is still there so that I can point her out.)

Me: “That’s her, over there.”

(The lady obviously spots me with my supervisor and comes stomping down towards us.)

Mother: “Look, I obviously upset you earlier, so I’m here to apologize.” *steps a little closer to me* “I’ve been working in this kind of industry for several years, and you just have to suck up and get used to it. I mean, you have to just own up to your mistakes and listen to the customer.” *steps even closer, causing me to step back*

Supervisor: “Ma’am, you need to step back from my employee.”

Mother: “I’M JUST TRYING TO APOLOGIZE! SHE MADE A MISTAKE AND SHOULD OWN UP TO IT; LET ME APOLOGIZE!” *looks as if she is going to shove my supervisor.*

(My supervisor then radioed in to security that they needed to get up there ASAP, and not even two minutes later they came running. I had started crying again, and two of the security officers took me away with them to calm me down. I ended up getting a free soda from one of them, and the lady was told if she ever got within a 50 meter radius of me, they would kick her and her family out permanently.)

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