(I walk into the thrift store where two older ladies are working and there’s an old man who just hangs out all day. They are talking very loudly about a very mild kerfuffle that got blown way out of proportion that happened at a local high school involving pro-[American Politician] posters. They have apparently not noticed or cared that anyone has walked in.)

Lady #1: “–and so this little [expletive] kept tearing down the posters, and the school won’t do a thing! It’s disrespectful.”

Lady #2: “They’re always like that, and the teachers are always protecting those types. Why, my granddaughter got in trouble for telling one of those Hispanic boys to stop insulting the teacher. And walking around with Brown Pride shirts!”

(I am starting to get uncomfortable, as well as mentally calling bull on her claim given the area’s demographic makeup. Then, they go back to complaining about the poster incident when the old man pipes up.)

Man: “You know, that boy should be hung by the neck for showing such disrespect!” 

(The ladies made noises of agreement — and I immediately left and haven’t been back since.)

Me: “All right, sir, you get one free refill on the large popcorn; just bring up this receipt with the bag.”

(Thirty minutes later, the customer comes up to the counter with the receipt but no bag.)

Customer: “I’d like my other popcorn, please.”

Me: “Sir, I need the bag for the refill.”

Customer: *pissed off* “Well, fine, just charge me for a new one, I guess.”

Me: *proceeds to charge him*

Customer: “And when I bring you the first bag, I get a refund for this one, right?”

Me: “I can’t do that, sir; you can’t have two bags of popcorn and only pay for one.”

Customer: “WELL, FINE! HOW ABOUT I DON’T F****** COME HERE ANYMORE?!”

(The customer storms off into his theater.)

Me: “Please don’t.”

(I was working at a store, pushing in carts from the corral. I had gone back outside for my second set of carts, when an SUV whips around the corner and into the fire lane. The driver stops the car, gets out, and glares at me.)
Me: “Ma’am, you can’t park there. It’s a fire hazard. Please move your car immediately.”
Lady: “MANAGER. NOW.”
(I go get my supervisor.)
Manager: “What seems to be the-”
Lady: “YOUR EMPLOYEE HERE WAS LEAVING DURING SHIFT! I DEMAND THAT YOU FIRE HIM!”
Me: “Oh, I see. I was getting carts at the corrals.”
Lady: “BULLS**T YOU LYING LITTLE F****T! I’LL BET YOU WERE SNEAKING OFF TO SEE YOUR BOYFRIEND! I’LL KILL YOU FOR BEING A H***SPAWN! COME HERE!”
(The woman literally lunges at me, attempting to grab me. I was taught self-defense from my father, who was a prison guard for several years, as well as the army. I end up interception the woman’s arm and pinning her to the ground.)
Lady: “HOW DARE YOU! GET YOUR FILTHY GAY SELF OFF OF ME! I DON’T WANT THE AIDS YOU HARBOR!”
Manager: “Ma’am, I’m going to make him let you go. If you don’t leave in 10 seconds after that, I’ll see to it that he kicks you across the parking lot.”
(The woman continued to scream for several seconds, then got in her car and sped away.)
Me: “Can I have my break?”
Manager: “Take an extra 15 minutes.”

(My father and I are shopping at a well-known supermarket the week of Thanksgiving, and on our way out, Dad is looking for a place to park one of the electric carts he now uses regularly. We end up near one of the crane games with the plushies and the company employee is filling it up. It’s my first time seeing the machine open.)

Me: “Oh, look! I always wondered how they filled those up!”

Employee: “Well, there you have it.”

Me: “That’s very cool! Oh, look, Dad! It’s a candy corn!”

(And indeed it is a plush candy corn, with cat ears and tail, arms and legs, and a smiley face on it. The employee takes it out and hands it to me, so I show my father. I try to hand it back, but she tells me to keep it.)

Employee: “It’s left over from Halloween. We’re getting rid of it anyway.”

Me: “Thank you very much!”

(I’ve never been good at the crane games, so getting that toy, cheap as it may be, was a real treat for me and made my whole day. Many thanks to that kind employee!)

The restaurant I work at has an “Indecisive” section of the menu with two items: Chef’s Choice and Chef’s Special. Chef’s Choice is just an excuse for the kitchen to use the most underused dish; if the fried chicken isn’t selling well that day and it looks like we’ll have extra at the end of the day, that’s chef’s choice. 

Chef’s Special is fun. The chef starts a timer, runs out, and asks the customer questions about their food choices for two minutes. He then dashes back and makes what he guesses to be the perfect dish for them. To keep the kitchen running, he only does this once an hour and we have markers for people who want to order it to form a queue. There’s a countdown clock we display for the next time he will do a special. 

Keep in mind, this is a free service. The chef does it because, and his exact words, “Cooking the same things all the time gets boring. I’d have to change the menu every other month or so to keep my interest. Getting to do this three or four times a day really lightens things up,” so he doesn’t charge customers who essentially keep him doing what he loves. It’s a real treat to see him do this. You can really see the passion he has for cooking for others when he does and the customers love it. Sometimes we get customers who are angry about it, but generally because we only allow people to join the queue when the clock hits five minutes. 

The worst one I’ve seen, though, is an entitled woman who comes in with her party at about ten minutes to go. She refuses to let anyone order — not even appetizers — before the timer hits five because she doesn’t want food coming out at different times. She ends up being third in the queue and loudly attacks the two people in front of her because, “It’s my birthday and I deserve to get the special!” This is not uncommon to experience; people give up their spots for anniversaries or birthdays all the time. The other two relent and finally, it’s time for the chef to come and ask questions.

Now, let me start by explaining that this is an ordeal. The chef has a little public kitchen that he set up for it. The wait staff help prep the area before he comes asks questions so that it works seamlessly. Most patrons will stop eating for the three minutes just to watch the questioning and most stay to see what was made. The chef even keeps a score card on the wall with wins/losses for the month for all to see. It’s his own personal game, and everyone loves it. 

It comes time for questions. He starts the same way I’ve always seen him start: “Do you have any dietary restrictions?”

“Um…” 

That’s it. For ten seconds, all she has said is, “Um…” And bless that man’s patience, he waits the ten seconds and then moves on with other questions. Despite his best efforts to move it along, after two minutes all he’s gotten out of her is, “I like sweets.” Now, I’ve seen this man do some amazing things, but I have no idea how he’s going to accomplish this.

The chef comes back out with a bowl full of ice and water, and a cookie. He puts them in front of this woman and says, “Here! Ice soup and a cookie for the dumba** who wasted everyone’s time! Kindly f*** off and get out of my restaurant”