Acting Like A Big Baby

, , , , , , | Working | January 23, 2018

(I am working the registers when the entire checkout is halted by two women screaming at each other.)

Coworker: “I can’t believe anyone would want to f*** you. You’re a whale. A fat f****** cow!”

Customer: “I’m pregnant! How could you be so mean?! I never did anything to you. I was your friend!”

Coworker: “Friend?! Ha! And honey, if you’re pregnant, then I’m the Queen of England. Now, f*** off!”

(My coworker then pushed the customer. She was actually heavily pregnant and lost her balance, tumbling hard onto the floor. My coworker then tried to walk around the counter towards the customer, but was quickly grabbed by the manager and one of the stockroom staff, who then threw her out of the shop. An ambulance was called and they took the customer away. We later learned after my coworker’s dismissal that she and the customer were friends in school, but instead of going into acting, my coworker ended up in retail, while her friend — the less popular of the two in school — went on to become a doctor. I guess one got jealous of the other’s success.)

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You’re Just Shopping, They’re Just Trippin’

, , , , , , , , | Right | January 20, 2018

(I work in a large retail chain in Australia. As it is currently summer here, my long work pants are really hot. I’m in the store I work in, after my shift — so, still dressed in uniform — looking for a suitable skirt to buy and wear on my shifts and not boil my legs. A lady approaches me.)

Customer: “Could you help me find [pants] in size 12?”

Me: “Of course. Let me check the tag.”

(I find the pants quite quickly and show her we have sizes 6-22 — in Australian sizes this basically means there would be a pair to fit the vast majority of people — while handing her size 12.)

Customer: “And what about the top I asked for?”

(I’m certain she said nothing about a top to me, and she refuses to “repeat” herself. I tell her that in that case, there’s nothing more I can do for her and continue my own shopping. She doesn’t say anything but follows me around for the full ten minutes it takes me to find a suitable skirt. It’s pretty creepy.)

Customer: “Carrying that handbag, you almost look like you’re shopping!” *laughs*

Me: “I am shopping.”

Customer: *laughs*

(I’m apparently hilarious without even knowing it.)

Customer: *whining* “I really need that top!”

(I directed her to speak to my manager at the fitting rooms. She demanded my help. I repeated that my shift was finished, I really was just shopping, and I was helping her out of the goodness of my heart and without being paid. She complained to my very short-tempered manager about my “conduct,” and the manager reaffirmed that I was shopping, not working. This set off the ultimate conundrum in the customer’s mind and she got more and more agitated until she was removed by security for attempting to cut people with disposable razors. It was the craziest thing I’d ever seen. My coworkers and I still lunge at each other with [packaged, completely harmless] disposable razors for a joke.)

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Offering A Knuckle Sandwich

, , , , , , , | Right | January 18, 2018

(I am a very petite female. I am the customer at a coffee shop I frequent often. The employees are very nice and most of them know me by now. I purchase a sandwich and a drink, set up my laptop, open the sandwich, and begin to work. A few minutes later I go to the restroom, leaving behind my items, only to come out to a man in his mid-40s eating my sandwich, right next to where I have been sitting. I hate confronting people and would have brushed it off, but it is just too weird.)

Me: “Excuse me. Are you eating my sandwich?”

Customer: “No, this is mine.”

Me: “I took a couple bites out of it, and there’s lip-gloss on the bite marks on ‘your’ sandwich.”

Customer: “Get your own! You young people are always taking things away from the more deserving!”

Me: *now confused and embarrassed, as everyone in the shop is staring* “Sir, that’s my sandwich. You can have it. It’s no big deal; it’s just a turkey sandwich. But I’m not the thief, here.”

Employee: “Wait. Sir, did you take this woman’s sandwich?”

Customer: “No. I’ll fight her for it!”

Employee & Me: *at same time* “You want to fight for it?!”

(There is moment of silence as the other customers and employees look back and forth between my five-foot frame and the man’s six-foot frame. The other customer looks around for a moment, then grabs my sandwich and runs out.)

Employee: “Do you want another sandwich?”

Me: “I don’t think I’ll ever eat a turkey sandwich again.”

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Those On Last Shift Get The Last Word

, , , , , , | Right | January 17, 2018

(The store I work at is closing at the end of December. I’m particularly stressed about it, since the same thing happened to my previous job only a few months before, and I am still trying to find somewhere else to go. This is, of course, the perfect time for my least favorite regular, a forgetful old lady with two dogs, to come in.)

Regular: “Oh, hello! Why do all these signs say, ‘Everything must go’?”

Me: “Well, the store is closing soon, so we’re liquidating. Just so you know, because of the generous discounts, you can’t use coupons anymore, and all sales are final.”

Regular: “Oh, okay. So, what are the sales?”

(There are sale signs posted on literally everything, all within about two feet of each other, so I point them out and explain and let her go on her way. She and her dogs stay for hours, and she keeps piling things on the back counter like it’s her personal cart. I remind her each time that she is not allowed behind the register and she continues pushing past me. Eventually, she finally checks out, a process which takes almost half an hour because she’s forgotten the sales and I have to explain them to her again multiple times. She also haggles on every item and gives me a ton of “no”s, but then asks me to hold them for her until tomorrow. Finally, she leaves, because she claims her dogs are getting overwhelmed. I think that’s the end of it until she actually comes back the next day, bag and receipt in hand.)

Regular: “Um, hi, I think it was you who helped me yesterday? I don’t know. I bought this pin.”

Me: “Yes, that was me. What about the pin?”

Regular: “Well, you see, on my way home, I was messing with it a little bit, and one of the stones fell out.”

Me: *ready for the crap-storm* “Oh, that sucks. I’m sorry.”

Regular: “You’re not going to ask me if I want to return it?”

Me: “No, because as I explained yesterday, all sales are final and we can’t accept any returns.”

Regular: “But it’s broken!”

Me: “It’s not broken because of us, so we can’t do anything about it. It broke after you left the store because you mishandled it.”

Regular: “Fine! God! Let me see my holds!”

Me: *pulls out the basket we set aside for her yesterday*

Regular: *stats pulling out items one by one and throwing them at me* “Then I don’t want this! I don’t want this! I don’t want any of this!”

Me: *getting beaned in the face by a sharp pair of earrings* “Then don’t buy them, and leave the store now.”

Regular: “How dare you?! I’m going to have you fired!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’ve effectively already been fired; all of us have. Our store is closing.”

Regular: *on her way out* “Good! You’re the reason they’re closing your store!”

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Making A Mad Dash On The Dash-Cam

, , , , , , | Friendly | January 15, 2018

(I drive heavy goods vehicles for a company that primarily delivers farm equipment. Due to the nature of who we deliver to, we often wind up on roads that aren’t, strictly speaking, designed to accommodate vehicles that are 60 feet long. As such, a certain degree of understanding from anyone coming the opposite direction is needed, since my vehicle generally takes up so much of the road that passing is only possible via them staying in an entrance to a field, or the rare dedicated passing spot that small rural roads sometimes have. I have just completed my delivery to a large farm and I am leaving the site, followed by several vehicles from said farm. I am roughly halfway between the farm and the passing point when a twenty-something woman drives past the passing point at speed and continues down the lane to come to a stop barely five feet in front of me. I know, given the size of my vehicle and the numerous vehicles behind me, that I can’t possibly get out of her way, so I simply wind down my window and wait for her to make a move.)

Woman: *getting out of car* “You need to move.”

Me: “The lane’s too tight for me to manoeuvre to the side, and I can’t back up because there’s vehicles behind me. You’re going to have to back up to the passing point.”

Woman: “I don’t care how hard it is for you; I’m not moving, so you’ll have to.”

(Knowing that sooner or later someone in the vehicles behind me will come along to back me up, I opt to just stare her down rather than trying to argue with her.)

Woman: “Well? Come on! I have to get moving! Get out of the way. I own the f****** farm! I have right of way. Move, NOW!”

(After another couple minutes of this, someone from the convoy behind me finally comes up to support me, and it’s clear he has little love for the stroppy woman in front of us.)

Farm Man: “[Woman], what are you playing at? There’s a line of cars behind this lorry. We aren’t all backing up for you, so back yourself up to the passing point.”

Woman: “I’m not moving. I own the farm so I have right of way!”

Farm Man: “Your uncle owns the farm. You don’t even live here; you just show up to ride horses a couple times a week. We aren’t all moving for you. Back up.”

Woman: “I’ll just tell [Uncle] and get you fired if you don’t move.”

Farm Man: “There’s over a dozen people in this queue. Apart from this guy here in the lorry, all of us work at the farm. Good luck with that.”

(With this, he turns and walks back to his car, and the woman, finally realising an entire convoy isn’t going to whisk itself out of her way, gets back into her car and starts backing up. The distance back to the passing point is perhaps 1/4 of a mile with a couple mild turns; even reversing slowly it should take no more than two or three minutes to make it back. I slowly follow after her, keeping about 50 feet away from her at all times. All seems to be fine until she arrives at the first bend in the lane. After several failed attempts at getting round it in reverse, she seemingly loses all patience, slams on the accelerator, and crashes backwards through a wooden fence, all captured by my dash-cam. Before I’ve even pulled up to where she crashed, she’s out of her car and screaming at me that I have destroyed her car.)

Woman: “You f****** a**hole! You’ve crashed my car! You can f****** pay for repairs, you c***!”

Me: “You managed that all by yourself; clearly you aren’t injured, so I’ll be on my way now.”

Woman: “Don’t you dare drive off. I’ll have your job, you b******! I’ll report you to your boss!”

Me: “The company phone number is on the side of the cab. I do have dash-cam footage of you putting yourself through that fence, though, so maybe think twice before you ring up. Goodbye.”

(I then drive off past her, ignoring the further ranting, and noting with a certain amount of satisfaction that not one of the vehicles behind me makes any attempt to stop and help her. About an hour later my boss rings me.)

Boss: “I’ve just had a complaint about you from a very angry woman saying you threw her out of her car and crashed it backwards through a fence because she wouldn’t get out of your way. Care to explain it for me?”

Me: “She managed it all by herself. I never even left the cab, and I certainly didn’t fling her from her car. I’ll be back at base in about four hours. You can check the dash-cam footage, but there’s no way anyone could say it was any fault but hers.”

(I got back to base. My boss had a look at the footage, concluded that the accident was no one’s fault but the woman’s, and proceeded to rip her a new one on the phone about abusing his staff and making fake claims against them. She did then try to go through insurance about it, but again, once they’d seen the footage, they shut her down. I do have to wonder, looking back, how self-entitled someone has to be to first demand that an entire convoy of vehicles move for you, and then somehow blame me for her own shoddy driving when she backed through a fence, and THEN be so full of themselves to fabricate a story about it even after I’d warned her that all of it was recorded by my dash-cam.)

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