I was second in line at the register. The cashier was a young woman, maybe five years younger than me, and clearly new. The man in front of me was giving her a hard time about everything. Going too fast or too slow, not putting things in the right bags, putting the bags beside each other in the wrong order, and so on.

At the end of the transaction, she was visibly frazzled.

Cashier: “Here is your receipt.”

He takes it and throws it on the floor beside the cashier.

Cashier: “Okay. Your change is $38.19.” *Laying it out in front of him.* “That’s 20, 30, 35, 36, 37, 38. And ten cents, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19. Have a nice day.”

Man: “Where is my receipt?”

Cashier: “Oh. You said you didn’t—”

Man: “—I said I do want it! Idiot.”

The cashier turned to reprint the receipt, and the man slid the $20 bill into his pocket.

Cashier: “Okay, here is—”

Man: “You shorted me $20! Are you f****** stupid?”

Cashier: “N… no. I counted it back to you. I… I—”

Man: *Mocking.* “I… I… I… Do you see $20 here?”

Cashier: “But I—”

Man: “Give me my money!”

Cashier: “Okay, sir. I will get a manager to open the drawer.”

Me: “Hey, have them count it too.”

Man: “Mind your f****** business, b****!”

Cashier: “I, um… I—”

Man: “—Just give me my money!”

Me: “I’ll go get you a manager.”

I left the line to find a manager and tell them what happened. While we walked back to the register, the manager called loss prevention to check the camera nearby. The man was gone by the time we got back… And so was my cart.

The person who was behind me pointed at my cart, now making its way down the store on its own. Another employee met me as I chased the cart and returned it to me.

I saw the same cashier a few weeks later. She remembered me and thanked me for standing up for her, saying that was her first day on her own and she would have been written up for her drawer being short.

Related:
Some People Just Want To Watch The World Burn, Part 41
Some People Just Want To Watch The World Burn, Part 40
Some People Just Want To Watch The World Burn, Part 39
Some People Just Want To Watch The World Burn, Part 38
Some People Just Want To Watch The World Burn, Part 37

I work at a real estate office. The street-side windows of our office show off a lot of the housing deals in the area, including the listing price. Some older guy has been standing outside for a while. At first, he was glaring at the listings, but then he started glaring inside at us.

We try to ignore it at first, but when he starts making actual clients uncomfortable as they walk in, we send out the boss to talk to him. The boss stands by the doorway so we can overhear the conversation.

Boss: “Can I help you, sir?”

Guy: “Yeah! You can tell me why all these homes are half a million f****** dollars!”

Boss: “They reflect current market rates, sir, but we do have some homes that are cheaper. Were you interested in—”

Guy: “—F*** no! My son kept telling me he couldn’t afford a house like I did at his age, and he told me the prices! I didn’t believe him, so he told me to walk past here and take a look! I can’t believe you people! How can you sleep at night charging so much?!”

Boss: “As I said, sir, these prices reflect the current housing market. They’re influenced by a lot of factors, such as inflation, supply—”

Guy: “—It’s because you’re f****** selling to all the immigrants! [Non-current president] let millions of illegals in here and let them take up all the houses! Houses that should have gone to my American son!”

Boss: “Sir, if a buyer is approved for a mortgage, then it’s not for us to discriminate based on where they came from, but I can tell you right now that if they’re not an American citizen but have been approved for a mortgage from an American bank, then they are definitely here legally.”

Guy: “You people and illegals are the reason why the country is so f***ed! My son can barely afford groceries because the government is giving all the money to these illegal freeloaders to feed their f****** birthright citizen babies!”

Boss: “Sir, if the government has to step in to support these people, how are they also able to buy up all the half-a-million-dollar houses?”

Guy: “Because you won’t sell to real Americans! F*** all of you!”

Boss: “Sir, engaging as this conversation has been, I need to ask you to move along now.”

Guy: “I ain’t going nowhere until you sell my son a house!”

Boss: “Sir, please leave now, or I will be calling the police.”

Guy: “Do that and I’ll call ICE and have them come down here and deport your a**!”

Boss: “You call your people, I’ll call mine. I’ll be going inside to dial 911 now.”

By the time my boss has made it to his desk, the guy has stormed away. Thankfully, he hasn’t come back, but my boss called the police anyway, who came by to look at the camera footage and make a note of the incident.

I really feel sorry for that son and hope he can move out soon!

I’m the waitstaff manager in a high-end restaurant. A guy comes into the place, his date in tow, without a reservation, and immediately he’s being a jerk to the Front of House when being told we’re full.

Customer: “I know I don’t have a reservation, but I’m rich, and I’m gonna spend a lot of money tonight, so you do what you need to do to get me a table.”

He’s smirking at his date as he says this, but she remains unimpressed. Front of House can tell he’s going to be a problem, so they call over the restaurant manager, who manages to squeeze out a two-top in an undesirable part of the restaurant. This guy, of course, acts like he just won the f****** lottery.

I’m given the pleasure of being his waiter, and he’s obnoxious from the get-go.

Customer: “What’s your most expensive champagne?”

Me: “Well, we don’t have any sparkling wine from the Champagne region of France, but we do have a nice selection of—”

Customer: “—Did I ask for a lesson on where Champagne is from? I asked for the most expensive bottle!”

Me: “That would be the [Sparkling Wine], which is $750.”

Customer: “Pfft. That all? I have socks worth more than that. Fine, whatever, I guess that will have to do.”

I fetch them their bottle and ask if they’re ready to order food. The guy hasn’t even opened the menu.

Customer: “Your most expensive steak.”

Me: “All we have left is the ribeye.”

Customer: “What? No tenderloin?!”

Me: “We’re usually a reservation-only restaurant, and a lot of the beef cuts have been reserved already.”

Customer: “How s***ty. You work for a real s***ty restaurant. I only came here because I was told you’re one of the best. Not looking good, is it?”

Me: “In my opinion, we’re a fantastic restaurant, sir.”

Customer: “Well, your opinion doesn’t matter, does it, because you’re you and I’m me. I probably spend more in one day than you make in a year. How does that make you feel?”

Me: “You’re correct, sir. You are you, and I am me, and I am incredibly happy that I will never, ever, be you.”

His date made a sound for the first time since arriving. She laughed. A loud snort laugh. This infuriates the guy, who demands my manager.

Me: “I am the waitstaff manager this evening, sir. I was assigned to wait on you since we’ve learned to recognize the customers who need special attention. Now, will you start to behave like an adult this evening, or shall we bring you the bill for the wine and call it a night?”

His date, laughter subsiding, finally speaks.

Customer’s Date: “Let’s call it a night. As hilarious as this has been, I’m done. I’m only here as a favor to your dad, but I don’t think I can handle another minute of this. I’ll make my own way home. Bye.”

She leaves as the guy calls her a flood of obscene names across the restaurant.

Me: “And we’re done here. Please pay for the wine and then be on your way. I’ll waive the gratuity we normally charge to speed things along.”

Customer: “I’m not paying for your s***ty wine and s***ty service! You made my date leave! You’re never going to work again when my dad is through with you! He’ll shut this whole place down!”

Me: “Am I calling the police, sir?”

He stares me down for a few seconds, then swears at me and storms out. My Front Of House has already taken down his car details before he even leaves, and I call the police. They arrive; we give them the CCTV footage as well as the car details.

One of the officers comes back a few days later to tell us that the guy is the son of some big-time lawyer, and this is not his first time having the police called on him. 

Some intern from a law firm came by that same evening with a credit card to run through the $750 bottle of wine, plus a healthy tip for “anyone who had to deal with my boss’s manchild of a son”.

I try to be patient with people and tend to let them finish what they’re saying before I speak. Unfortunately, this can lead to them talking over me.

I’m finishing up some go-backs in the produce section of the store I work at, when a customer approaches me:

Customer: “Hi, can you help me find something?”

Me: “Yes, what are you looking for?”

Customer: “I’m looking for—” *His phone starts ringing.* “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

Me: “That’s alright.”

I think it’ll just be a short call, or he’ll tell the caller to call back in a minute. And then he answers on speakerphone.

Customer’s Dad: *Yelling.* “ARE YOU SURE THOSE ARE YELLOW ONIONS?!”

Customer: *Tiredly.* “Yes, Dad, that’s what the sign said…”

Customer’s Dad: *Still yelling.* “BECAUSE THOSE LOOK LIKE SWEET ONIONS!”

Customer: “I can go back and check the sign again…” *Turns to me.* “Anyway, where are the [Brand] hotdog buns?”

I open my mouth to answer, but before I can say anything:

Customer’s Dad: *Still yelling.* “[BRAND] HOTDOG BUNS? WHAT THE H*** ARE YOU GETTING THOSE FOR?!”

They continue arguing for a while, and I’m already mentally checking out because I didn’t sign up to be in the middle of whatever this drama is.

I try to jump in whenever there’s a pause in the conversation, but the dad keeps resuming his tirade before I can get more than two words out. Eventually, the customer turns and walks away, I guess assuming I couldn’t help him.

I return to the front of the store and bag for a few minutes before a coworker approaches me.

Coworker: “Hey, this guy needs help looking for something, and I can’t leave the register. Can you help him out?”

Me: “Sure!”

I walk around to see who it is, and it’s the same guy as before. As soon as he sees it’s me, he turns around and walks back into the aisles without asking for help. My coworker gives me a “WTF?” look, and I tell him about the interaction from before. 

In the end, I just felt sorry for the guy. It would’ve taken me less than ten seconds to help him, and I knew exactly where the buns were. But his dad, who wasn’t even in the same room, could not stop yelling over both of us. I do hope he found what he was looking for, but I can’t imagine living with that all the time.

I work at a thrift store that takes donations from 9 AM to 5 PM, six days a week, and frankly, it’s way too much crap to handle, so production gets in at 7 AM to try and clear a physical space to put things. I put up a gate as soon as all the staff have arrived to keep people from driving up to dump their crap or having to argue with them that it’s only 8 AM and we don’t take donations until 9 AM.

Last week, I was just inside the donation door and heard honking, so I opened the door and looked down the side of the building, and there was this lady in a beat-up minivan on the other side of the gate, laying on her horn at 7:45 AM.

I walked down, and she rolled down the window and commanded me to move the gate so she could “dump this s*** off”.

Me: “Sorry, ma’am, we don’t take donations until 9 AM, but you’re welcome to come back then.”

She flips out, starts calling me names, and continues to command me to unload her van FULL of s*** immediately because she has to get her kid to school… who’s screaming and crying in the back because mom is a psycho.

Me: “We don’t accept items until 9 AM, and it’s on the sign right next to you.”

Woman: “Then get someone else out here to f****** help me!”

Me: “I can’t help you if you can’t tell the time or read.”

I then walk back to the donation door and go in. 

The store manager gets in about 10 AM. About ten minutes later he pages me into his office so that I can listen to the voicemail message she left at 8 AM on the store’s number. 

She is off her hinges, saying she was there at 9 AM, and how I was so rude to her and said all this other crap I didn’t say.

Store Manager: “What actually happened?”

Me: “She came in at 7:45 AM and immediately started cussing me out for not emptying her truck for her.”

Store Manager: “Yeah, I had a feeling that was the case, considering she left a message at 8 AM saying that you were rude at 9 AM.”

He calls her back on speaker with me in the room and informs her that her license plate and name has been taken note of and she is permanently banned from the property.