(I work in quality assurance at a call center. I suffer from hyperacusis, which means that my hearing is sharp enough that it actually qualifies as a disability. I even have a letter from my doctor on file, saying that I need sound-cancelling headphones, but for some reason, HR has been dragging their feet about that part. Without them, it’s very hard to filter out what the people on the call are saying from what the people all around are saying. It wasn’t so bad at first, because the company was fairly new and there weren’t that many people in the office. But, as more agents were hired, the ambient noise got worse. I’ve even tried finding some on my own, but there is only one brand that works with the particular system this company used, and they are $400. As if that wasn’t bad enough, after five months, my desk was moved to the section near the elevators and break room, which is the noisiest spot on the whole floor! Several complaints and reminders later, and several occasions where I came in on Saturday or during times when the rest of the staff were gone, just because it was quieter, I still don’t have the headphones. It’s becoming kind of a running joke with the people nearest me, because they can see how frustrating it is. Then, one Wednesday, I arrive at my desk just in time to hear the director — whose office is on the other side of the floor — yelling at someone:)

Director: “WHAT THE H*** WERE YOU THINKING?! NO, GET OUT! YOU’RE FIRED! GET YOUR STUFF AND GO!”

Me: *IM-ing one of the assistant managers, whose desk is closest to the director’s office* “Who just got fired?”

Assistant Manager: “Somebody just got fired?”

Me: “Yeah, I could hear [Director] yelling.”

Assistant Manager: “I didn’t hear a thing.”

Me: “It sounded pretty bad!”

Assistant Manager: “His door is closed. You can hear him from there?”

(The special headphones arrived the next day.)

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(I’ve worked at a local grocery store for two years, mainly as a cashier. I have just gone through a string of irate customers and am feeling mentally exhausted. Then, a kindly old man I recognize as a regular customer pulls up in one of the mobile carts. My smile changes from a forced one to a real one at the sight of someone friendly. He comes in late, usually, so I have plenty of time to scan him through, as well as bag his items for him, while having a pleasant conversation. He is known for pushing tips on those who help him. I’ve just finished bagging the last item and have placed it on the mobile cart.)

Me: “There you go, sir. Have a great day! I’ll send someone out to get your cart once you are finished.”

Customer: “Thank you, young lady. Here, this is for you.”

(He pulls a dollar out of his pocket and tries to hand it to me.)

Me: “Sir, you know we can’t accept tips.”

Customer: “Oh, come on. You all work really hard and deserve some extra money.”

Me: “Sir, this is really kind of you, but I must decline.”

(He then threw the bill at me — it landed on the bagging area — and drove away laughing maniacally.)

(I’m a senior in college and my friend is telling me about a summer job she had at a popular fast food chain. She’s known for having wild stories but I think it’s safe to say this one takes the cake. The fast food chain is connected to a gas station so it’s typical that they have someone buy beer next door, drink it in their car, and then come to them for food. This guy comes in at seven in the morning, clearly drunk.)

Customer: “What do you have?”

Friend: “We’re serving breakfast right now, sir.”

Customer: “Do you have any bourbon?”

Friend: “I’m sorry, did you say–?”

Customer: “Bourbon. You got any?”

Friend: “I apologize, sir, we don’t sell that. We do, however, have breakfast at the moment.”

Customer: “Can I get your number?”

Friend: “Sir, how old do you think I am?”

(A lot of people think she’s very young due to how short she is, the uniform they have to wear, and her not wearing any makeup.)

Customer: “Fourteen. So can I get your number?”

(At this point, my friend gets the manager to take over and he serves him and he leaves. They think that’s the end of it. Wrong. A few hours later, some employees and customers both complain of a guy stumbling around in the parking lot. Unfortunately, he’s on the gas station’s side so they can’t do anything but talk to them.)

Manager: “That guy out there, he’s causing problems. Can you call the police?”

Gas Station Owner: “No. He’s our best customer and always buys the most stuff from us.”

(So, nothing is done about the weirdo guy. He goes behind the building and they think that’s the end of it… until a couple of hours later when an employee goes to clean the men’s bathroom.)

Employee: “Um… there’s a guy passed out in the bathroom… in his own puke. We should probably call an ambulance.”

(My friend’s work ended up calling the paramedics. The intoxicated man was taken out on a stretcher with, you guessed it, alcohol poisoning.)

(This is during the Beanie Baby craze of the mid-90s. The one store in our small town that sells these fuzzy toys is getting a new shipment which is said to contain a few special releases — one of which turns out to be the new Princess Bear released in honor of the late Princess Diana — and the usual group of customers line up before the shop opens that morning to be sure of getting one. The store only allows each customer to get two of a new release, as supplies are limited. I have a dental appointment scheduled for later in the morning, so Mom agrees to just let me skip school and come with her. While we wait, we chat with the other customers and everyone is generally friendly and excited. But there’s one woman who keeps inching her way up the line. She’ll talk to someone for a few minutes and then turn to talk to the person in front of them and step forward. A couple of minutes later, she’ll start talking to the person in front of them and step forward again. Everyone has noticed and is annoyed by it, but no one wants to call her out and risk an altercation.)

Mom: *leans down to whisper to me* “They’re going to open any minute now, and I’m going to deal with her. Go get our Beanies and wait for me by the postcard racks.”

(Mere seconds later, the door is unlocked, and as we’re the first in line, Mom opens the door… and then steps aside to hold it open for the rest of the line, effectively blocking this woman from going inside. She stands there holding the door until the last little old lady has hobbled in, and only then steps aside and gestures the line cutter to enter. By this point, everyone else has gotten their toys and gone to check out. There’s only one of the Princess Bears left, and none of the other new release. The woman is furious, but the staff are polite yet unsympathetic; they saw her cutting the line, too.) 

Mom: *joins me in browsing the antiques while we wait for the line to fade* “And that’s how you handle line cutters. Did you get the bears?”

Me: “Yup. And they let me have yours, too, so we can each buy two of them.” 

Mom: “Good. Pick yourself out a couple of postcards for your collection, and then we’ll check out.”

(While I’m dithering over the postcard selection, the final customer is helped and leaves, and one of the employees comes over with a small box in her hands.) 

Employee: “I saw what you did there, ma’am, and it made my day. I wasn’t sure you’d be able to get your Beanies, though, so I set some aside for you.”

Mom: “Oh! Thank you, but my daughter already picked up my share. I know we’re only allowed two each for new releases, and I don’t want to be greedy.”

Employee: “Ma’am, I’ve seen you come in here time and again, and greedy is the last word I’d ever use. Besides, don’t you have more kids at home?”

Mom: “Yes, actually. I have five in total.”

Employee: “Well, then, I think we can waive that rule just for today. Here you go! That should make six of each design: one for each of the kids, and one for you!”

(We thanked her profusely, purchased our toys and postcards, and went on our way. It was only later that my mom actually looked at her receipt and saw that she was given the employee discount, too. We brought chocolate for that sweet employee the next time we came in and became quite good friends until we moved away the following year.)

(I’m at my mechanic because my battery died right as I was going to work. These guys may be the best mechanics ever, always doing good work in little time. In this case, even though I drove in with no warning, they’re getting me a new battery installed in less than an hour. I hear the following side of a phone conversation:)

Mechanic: “No, I’m sorry, we won’t be able to help you with that.”

(Pause.)

Mechanic: “Because that’s too much weight for us to put on our lifts.”

(Pause.)

Mechanic: “Yes, you’re correct, [Previous Manager] did sometimes do that, which was a misuse of the equipment and resulted in burned-out motors and people’s cars stuck in the air in our bays.”

(Pause.)

Mechanic: *rolls eyes* “Because we cannot take our standard lifts and put your motorhome on them!”