My manager is an old-school Southern Belle trapped in a man’s body. He walks right up to a customer, causing a fuss at my checkout, and says:

Manager: “Now, ma’am, what could possibly be causing such an upset over here that means you can’t play nice?”

Customer: “You’re the ones not playing nice! Why do you never carry dresses in my size! I always have to be told to order online! Why do I even bother coming in!?”

Manager: “Ma’am, I understand how that can be frustrating, but that’s not the fault of poor Clarissa here. Now we’re a small store in a small town, and we can’t have every size in store for every item. We need to—”

Customer: “—I don’t care! It’s your job to have what I want, and I want it now!”

Manager: “Y’all have not been through kindergarten, have y’all? That’s where I first learned the world ain’t givin’ me everything I want when I want it.”

Customer: “…I’m not about to be infantilized by some Southern—”

Manager: “—Y’all throwin’ around big words like that but don’t understand something as simple as the world not revolving around you?”

Customer: “You—”

Manager: “—Ma’am! We’re almost done here, so keep your face-scrunch muscles coiled up like that a lil’ longer. Now you can order online through sweet Clarissa here, you can go home and do it, or you can leave. Those are your options and your only options. Shouting at us is not one of those options.”

Customer: “You think I’m going to give this company any of my business after being spoken to like that, then you’re delusional as well as incompetent!”

She leaves, and my manager does a deep sigh.

Manager: “She sure knows a lot of big words for someone who doesn’t understand jack s***.”

Related:
Calling The Manager (Southern) Bell

It is September 12, 2001. I work at a call center for a retailer. I get a call from a caller who provides details about a purchase he made in South Carolina:

Caller: “Yeah, my weed trimmer was in the Twin Towers and got destroyed by terrorists. You need to replace it under warranty.”

Me: “Uh… your weed trimmer was… in the World Trade Center?”

Caller: “Yup.”

Me: “Sir, you’re calling from South Carolina, and this weed trimmer was purchased in South Carolina.”

Caller: “Yup.”

Me: “What would a weed trimmer be doing in an office building?”

Caller: “Doesn’t matter. It was in there. It needs a replacement under warranty.”

Me: “So… you were in New York City yesterday? And today you’re in South Carolina?”

Caller: “Nope. I’m still in South Carolina. Only the weed trimmer had gone to New York.”

Me: “I’m… gonna need to consult with my manager.”

Caller: “Whatever.”

I tell my manager what this guy is trying to pull, and we both just stand there trying to process it for a moment.

Manager: “I want to get angry at this person’s willingness to use a national tragedy to get a few bucks.”

Me: “You want to? But are you?”

Manager: “Nah, as this guy hasn’t read his warranty carefully. True, we replace it if it’s damaged through no fault of his own… but only if he brings the damaged item into one of our stores.”

Me: “Oh!”

Manager: “So tell him to go to that collapsed pile of buildings and bodies, that’s still smoking by the way, and start digging. That’s the closest we’re going to come to telling this pr**k to f*** off without getting fired.”

I went back and told the caller that. He swore at us and hung up.

Today is a big sales weekend for the store. The boss is giving our cashier group a pep talk, or what he thinks is a pep talk.

Boss: “It’s going to take all hands on deck, people! I want everyone giving 110% effort!”

Me: “Am I getting 110% pay?”

Boss: “Ha ha.”

Me: “No, seriously, am I?”

Boss: “Of course not.”

Me: “Then you shall get my standard effort.”

Boss: “Fine, I’ll expect 100% effort—”

Me: “—Now, just wait a minute. You need to take into account inflation.”

Boss: “What are you talking about?”

Me: “I’ve been here for nine years. When I was hired, I was on $7.25 an hour. I’m now on $8.90 an hour.”

I open an inflation calculator page on my phone.

Me: “$7.25 with nine years of inflation is now worth $9.79. My $8.90 an hour is under inflation by 89 cents. As a percentage, I am 9% under inflation, so you will get 91% effort from me.”

Boss: “If you put as much effort into your work as you did the math, you might have gotten more pay rises!”

Me: “Sorry, I don’t have time to listen to managerial empty promises until my wages match inflation and I have 100% effort capacity.”

The boss no longer gave us any percentage effort-based pep talks. He also tried to get me into trouble with HR for openly discussing wages, which HR reminded him was illegal, and nipped that in the bud.

My coworkers also asked me to calculate how much under inflation their salaries were based on their length of employment, and most were horrified. I think I helped prompt a few to finally quit this crappy store and find better-paying positions.

I’m a rather short woman, and so I regularly have trouble reaching for things on the top shelf at stores. Usually, I ask someone nearby to help me if that’s a problem, but today the store is nearly deserted due to terrible weather outside, and so the only people in the aisle with me are a mother close to my height and her young son. The mom wouldn’t be any better at reaching things than I would, so I have to do my best to reach on my own.

Son: “Mom! She’s too short!”

The son is pointing at me excitedly as he says this. I know kids tend to shout out whatever is on their mind, but even knowing that, I feel a little self-conscious being called out for practically climbing the shelves. The mom turns to see me and seems to recognize that.

Mom: “[Son], you shouldn’t shout about someone being short. Instead, why don’t you ask her with your quiet voice if she wants help?”

Son: “We can help! If you want…”

I’m not sure how to respond since I don’t see how he or his mom could help anyway.

Me: “I’d usually ask someone taller, but there isn’t anyone to ask right now, so I’ll manage.”

Son: “I’ll help! Mom, grow time!”

The son waits until his mom turns to him and then turns around to face me, putting his back to his mom with his arms lifted. He’s grinning with clear excitement.

Mom: “Okay, fine. Voltron, assemble!”

She picks her son up and raises him up to sit on her shoulders. The son then eagerly guides her forward and, with his newfound height, plucks the box I need and hands it to me.

Me: “Well, that’s a smart way of reaching things! Thank you, young man! You’re a gentleman.”

He puffed his chest out in clear joy at this. The mom and I worked our way down the aisles at roughly the same speed so they were nearby often enough for me to see her doing this same routine with him any time she needed something high up, even for things on the second-from-the-top shelf she could have reached on her own if she really tried. 

Seeing the son’s clear excitement at the process and the mom’s amused indulgence of it, I got in on the game and occasionally asked him for help just to give him an excuse to grow again. I, of course, made sure to praise him for helping whenever I did; he clearly loved the praise.

My favorite part was his mom’s various superhero-esque catchphrases she came up with each time she had to put him on her shoulders to help either of us.

Mom: *As Rita from ‘Power Rangers’.* “Make my monster grow!”

Mom: “Wonder [Last Name?]! Duo powers activate, form of giant T. rex!”

Mom: “Antman GROOOOOOWWWWWW!”

Mom: “With great height comes great responsibility.”

My husband and I own a mobile marine (boats) repair business. We do not have a shop; we repair boats dockside or in a person’s backyard.

We get a call late one night from one of our regulars, a nice man with a pretty big boat.

Regular: “Oh, hey [My Name]. I know you repair boats in the water or backyards, but umm… can you help with one on the side of the road?”

Me: “Oh, no. Are you broke down? We can do trailer repair.”

Regular: “Well, not exactly, trailer repair.”

Me: “Okay… what exactly do you need repaired?”

Regular: “Well, I was hauling it down to the sea, and about a hundred miles into the trip, a state trooper pulled me over and asked, “Sir, were you pulling a boat?””

Me: “Um… WERE?!”

Regular: “Yeah, so apparently it came off the trailer about twenty miles back, and I never realized it. It has a huge hole in the hull from where it hit the road at about fifty-five miles per hour. The upside is the State Trooper said he wouldn’t give me a ticket for littering.”

We were able to help get it back on the trailer and off the highway. It was a total loss, but no one was hurt, so he wasn’t too terribly upset.