Our doctor’s office has three doctors, one of whom has just moved to this building from another clinic. The clinic used to be a bank, and has doors that open on to the street, but because there is a step and a bus stop directly in front, we have those doors locked and a sign indicating patients to use the back door, so that there is wheelchair access.
One of the patients from the doctor’s old clinic arrives for the first time at the new clinic and approaches the desk. She is rather upset.
I am sitting next to my co-worker, who is this doctor’s receptionist and I witness the following;
Patient: “Why is the front door locked? I tried and tried and I couldn’t get in! Why do you use the back door? That makes no sense!”
Receptionist: “I’m sorry you were confused, there is a sign there, and we need to use the back door to accommodate patients who can’t use stairs.”
Patient: *sighs and grumbles* “Winnipeg! Anything goes here!”
She gives her name, signs in and sits down. There is a sign asking people to please remove their footwear as the weather in Winnipeg is terrible and people wearing shoes inside makes everything a mess. This is not uncommon in Winnipeg, many clinics have places to leave your shoes. The patient sits for a few minutes, then sees the sign.
Patient: *suddenly screaming* “TAKE OFF MY SHOES?! NO ONE IS GOING TO FORCE ME TO TAKE MY SHOES OFF!! WHAT IS THIS, A THIRD WORLD COUNTRY?!?”
My co-worker and I are blown away and just sort of sit there, stunned.
Patient: “THAT’S IT! JUST CANCEL MY APPOINTMENT! I AM NEVER COMING BACK HERE AGAIN!!”
Receptionist: “Okaaaaayyy…”
The patient storms out and we cancel her appointment.
Several hours later, the phone rings.
Patient: “I MUST speak to Dr (name)!”
Receptionist: “I’m sorry, the doctor is in with patients right now and can’t take phone calls. Can I take a message?”
Patient: “I was in earlier and I left because it was so silly, why is the front door locked? I must speak to Dr. (name)!”
Receptionist: “The doctor doesn’t take phone calls from patients, ma’am. He can’t speak to you.”
Patient: “I NEED TO SPEAK TO HIM RIGHT NOW!”
Receptionist: ” You had your chance to speak with him when you had your appointment, but you chose to leave. You have been very rude. You can find yourself a new family doctor. Goodbye.”

(Canada recently eliminated pennies from circulation, resulting in some pesky rounding rules. For example: $2.47 rounds down to $2.45 when paying with cash, but $2.48 rounds UP to $2.50. This man pumped $5.03 worth of gasoline.)

Me: That’ll be $5.05.

(He hands me five dollars.)

Me: Sorry sir, but do you have a nickel.

Him: What the f***, are you serious?

(He gives me the filthiest look, like I just suggested his grandmother was a prostitute for  soldiers in the First World War. I stare at him in surprise, but he leaves without further incident and I forget about the whole thing… until he comes back the next day and pumps exactly $9.97.)

Him: I was thinking about you all day yesterday.

Me: Oh. I’m… flattered?

Him: Don’t be. There’s your three cents.

(He slams a ten-dollar bill onto the counter. I process the transaction.)

Me: Thank you sir, and have a nice day. I probably won’t think about you at all.

(An elderly man approaches me as I am straightening the bread shelves. He is a semi-regular who lives in the nearby apartment complex.)

Him: Hey, I got a problem. I got nothing to eat.

Me: I’d be happy to help you find something.

Him: I don’t have any money until Thursday. Can I have a loaf of bread and I’ll pay you then?

(It’s currently Monday. I’m honestly very conflicted at this point, but I don’t have the spare cash to buy it for him and I know management will be upset if I give it to him for free.)

Me: I’m really sorry, sir, but we can’t give items on credit like that. Really, if I had the money I would help you myself, but I’m afraid I can’t let you have it. I’m sorry.

(Right in front of my eyes, he picks up the loaf of bread anyway and starts walking away. I am easily able to take it from him, however, and he doesn’t resist in any way. Still apologizing, I put it back and keep an eye on him as he leaves the store.)

Him: Fuck you. You don’t have to fucking follow me out.

Me: Have a good night, sir.

(At this point, I feel truly awful. Eventually the incident is forgotten until months later, when the same man comes in and approaches the sales counter.)

Him: I wonder if you can help me out.

Me: Sure! How can I help you?

Him: I need cigarette papers.

Me: Sure! We have [brand name], [brand name] and [brand name].

Him: Okay, but I have to come back tomorrow with the money.

Me: …Um, why don’t you come back tomorrow and buy the papers?

Him: So you’re not going to help me out?

Me: I’m sorry, sir, but you have to pay upfront.

Him: Well, fuck you then!

(My friend and I are walking down the street when an old man suddenly collapses in front of us.)

Me: “Sir? Are you all right? SIR?!” *no answer*

Friend: “Call 911!”

Me: “On it.”

(The ambulance arrives in less than five minutes. Sadly, the old man has died. He had a massive heart attack and was probably dead before he hit the ground.)

Me: *suddenly realizing* “Wait a minute. [Friend], don’t you know CPR?”

Friend: *looking shifty* “Yes. Why?”

Me: “Why didn’t you do anything for him?”

Friend: “Because he looked gross. I didn’t want to catch anything. Besides, he was dead already; it wouldn’t have done any good, anyway.”

Me: “…”

(We’re still friends, but I lost a lot of respect for her that day.)

(When I am a teenager, my mum takes me clothes shopping in the local mall. I find a top that I like and go to pay for it.)

Mum: *spotting the manufacturer’s label on the top* “Oh, my God!“

Me: “What’s wrong?”

Mum: “There’s a typo in that label!”

Me: “Typo?”

(I read the label, which looks just like any other manufacturer’s name to me.)

Mum: “Yes! It’s a reference to [obscure centuries-old British folk song], but there should be an apostrophe.”

Me: “Um, okay.”

(I hand the top to the cashier.)

Mum: *to the cashier* “Doesn’t this store know anything? That label has a typo!

Cashier: “…”

Me: “Mum, she doesn’t care—”

Mum: “Well, she should! Hasn’t she heard of [obscure centuries-old British folk song]?”

Me: “Of course she hasn’t! And even if she has, she won’t care! No one cares! And even if she did care, what do you think she could do about it?”

Mum: “Hmph.”

(The cashier looked grateful. I love my mum, but she picks the weirdest things to get upset about.)