Our hotel is having issues with non-guests from the apartment complex behind us taking up parking spaces, so the hotel hired a towing company to place a boot (wheel clamp) on unauthorized vehicles. For context, we would give guests and people visiting guest parking slips to put on the dashboard of their vehicles. Also, the booting company was charging $125 to remove the boot.

[Boot Guy] comes into the hotel around 12 AM and states:

Boot Guy: “I’ve been sitting in the parking lot for the past hour. You’re probably going to have about eight people come in here before the night’s over.”

Me: “I’m good with it. There are signs around telling them not to do it, so that’s on them.”

Boot Guy: “Call me if you need me.”

Two hours later…

Booted Person #1: “There’s been some kind of mistake. There’s a boot on my car.”

Me: *Not even going through my normal spiel.* “Well, if you’re not a guest, then there wasn’t a mistake. This is private property.”

Booted Person #1: “Where else was I supposed to park?!”

Me: “At the apartment complex.”

[Booted Person #2] walks in and says:

Booted Person #2: “Why is there a boot on my car?”

Me: “Like I was telling [Booted Person #1], parking here is for guests only.”

Booted Person #2: “How are people supposed to know that?”

Me: “There are two signs in the parking lot saying so.” 

I know this because I previously checked the parking lot before coming in one night on a general principle.

Booted Person #2: “So what happens now?”

Me: “You can call that number on that paper you have in your hand and work it out with the boot company.”

Booted Person #1: “What if I don’t have the money?”

Me: “That’s between you and the boot company.”

[Booted Person #3] comes in:

Booted Person #3: “The hotel booted y’all, too?”

Me: “We didn’t, the boot company did.”

Booted Person #3: “But y’all hired them.”

Me: “We did.”

Booted Person #2: “You need to call them and tell them to take this boot off.”

Me: “That’s not going to happen.”

Booted Person #3: “So this is how y’all treat people? This isn’t good business.”

Me: “Our guests are more than welcome to park here.”

Booted Person #1: “So there’s nothing you can do?”

Me: “It’s out of my hands at this point.”

Booted Person #2: “This is bull-s***!”

Booted Person #3: “That’s f***ed up!”

Me: “Y’all have a good night.”

I’m taking drive-through orders. When customers pull up at the order window, there is a large menu screen on both sides of the car.

Customer: “How much is [combo]?”

Me: *Looking at the menu to make sure the price is clear.* “$7.85.”

Customer: “And [other combo]?”

Me: *Looking at the same menu in front of the customer.* “$7.95.”

Customer: “Is there an upcharge for a milkshake?”

Me: *Still looking at the same menu.* “Yes, thirty cents, as it says on the menu right here.”

Customer: “What are the milkshake flavors?”

Me: “They’re all listed right there on the menu.” *Points to the exact spot.*

Customer: “You expect me to be able to read?!”

I say with that chipper customer service smile:

Me: “Considering you drove here, yes! Let me know when you’ve made your selection!”

She doesn’t say anything in response but instead drives past the speaker and to my cashier’s window, where she now has no menu to look at.

She orders a basic combo meal. I punch it in and radio over the headset to tell the crew that the order I just input is out of sequence to the rest of the line. The customer scowls hard (but surprisingly doesn’t say anything).

This was clearly a lady with a higher class of job and education than I. She just wanted to be walked through the process instead of putting in the effort of choosing for herself.

At the liquor store where I work, we are required to ID everyone – and I do mean EVERYONE – who wants to purchase alcohol, and anyone who comes in with them. Failure to do so is a fireable offense, bottom line. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they look like; if Jesus and Noah and Methuselah walked in and Methuselah didn’t have an ID, and I sell Jesus and Noah their drinks, I’m fired.

In comes a VERY wrinkled fellow with the most gorgeous head of grey hair I’ve ever seen, complete with a well-trimmed beard. He strides into the store, picks out a few drinks with the most practiced of ease, brings them to the counter, and starts pulling out cash to pay with.

Me: “ID, please.”

Customer: “Are you f****** kidding me?!”

Me: “Sorry, store policy. I cannot sell alcohol to anyone without an ID, or I’m fired.”

Customer: “Are you f****** kidding me? Look at me, I’m obviously old enough to drink.”

Me: “Then you can show me an ID, and we’ll be good to go.”

Grumbling, [Customer] storms out of the store. I set the drinks aside in case he comes back in (not the first person who’s done this), and sure enough, he arrives with his wallet.

Customer: “Here. Here’s my f****** ID.”

I don’t have words for the bafflement I feel when I look at the ID, and this guy is freshly sixteen as of yesterday. I look between him and the ID for a couple of moments, and it’s the same wrinkled, grey-haired fellow in the photo as is standing before me.

Me: “…I’m sorry, I can’t sell this to you.”

Customer: “You f****** liar! You said you’d sell me the drinks if I brought the f****** ID!”

Me: “And you said you were old enough to drink, so I think we’re even.”

[Customer] swears at me a couple more times and storms out of the store, and I leave the drinks aside to be put away later.

I’m still trying to figure out if it was an exceptional makeup job and fake ID, or if I’d just gotten a visit from Benjamin Button.

I work in a large bookstore and stationery store.

Customer: “Do you have cards?”

Me: “What kind of cards?”

Customer: “Just cards!”

Me: “I’d need to know what type of card you’re looking for—”

Customer: “—Just cards! Jesus Christ, why do you retail yuppies always try to make yourself sound so important by overcomplicating things!”

Me: “Okay, so do you want playing cards? Note cards? Index cards? Greeting cards? Craft card? Trading cards? And if so… baseball, football, basketball, hockey, police, Pokémon, D&D, Magic—”

Customer: *Walks away.*

I used to drive a metered taxi in NYC. I pick up a passenger in Lower Manhattan who needs to get to southern Brooklyn.

Passenger: “How much should this cost?”

Me: “Probably around sixty dollars and about forty-five minutes. That will include the toll through the Hugh L. Carey Tunnel.”

Passenger: “Can’t you just take the Brooklyn Bridge?”

Me: “The traffic there is crazy at this time of day.”

Passenger: “How much is the toll?”

Me: “About seven dollars.”

Passenger: “Nope. I’m not paying seven dollars to the government.”

Me: “Okay, but the toll route is the reason it’s only forty-five minutes.”

Passenger: “Can we take the bridge?”

Me: “We can, but it’ll take a long time.”

Passenger: “Do that.”

Me: “I should warn you that’ll probably turn a sixty-dollar ride into something closer to a hundred and twenty.”

Passenger: “No way! How?”

Me: “Because the meter is still running when we’re sitting in traffic. You’ll spend far more avoiding the toll than paying it.”

Passenger: “It’s the principle. I don’t want the government to win.”

Me: “It’s your money.”

So off we go. About an hour later, we’re barely on the other side of the bridge.

Passenger: “How much are we at now?”

Me: “About sixty-five dollars.”

Passenger: “Already? Well, hurry up!”

Thirty minutes later:

Passenger: “How much now?”

Me: “Ninety-three.”

Passenger: “Ninety-three dollars?! This is ridiculous.”

Me: “I did estimate around one hundred and twenty.”

Passenger: “Well, I didn’t think you meant it! This is insane. Forget it. Just forget it! Just take me to the nearest subway station.”

Me: “You don’t want to continue?”

Passenger: “No! I’ll take the train.”

Me: “All right.”

I drop him off at the Jay St-MetroTech subway station.

Me: “One hundred and seven dollars.”

Passenger: “For that?!”

Me: “But you did save seven dollars in tolls!”

He pays and then storms off toward the station, having spent over a hundred dollars to avoid paying seven.