I’m finishing my shift at the checkout, and my coworker is taking over so that we don’t have to close the lane. I was about to serve an older male regular before my cover arrived.

Coworker: “Have a good night! I can’t wait to see how different you’ll look tomorrow!”

Customer: “What does she mean? How will you look different tomorrow?”

Me: “I’m cutting all my hair off tonight! Going for a new look!”

Customer: “Oh. Men don’t like very short hair on girls.”

Me: “Well, I am a woman, and I’m not doing it for men.”

Customer: “Oh. Well, I don’t like very short hair on girls.”

Me: “And I don’t like very short guys, but I’ve managed to not be an a**hole to you about it for the last few years.”

Customer: *Angrily* “I’m 5’7″!”

Me: “Honey, you’re 5’5″ on a good day, and I can see that you’re wearing elevator shoes. Okay, byeeeeee!”

The customer complained, but my manager said I was off the clock the moment my cover arrived, so there was nothing he could do. My new hair came out great, by the way!

I didn’t want to take an advanced language arts class for my senior year of high school, so I signed up for the standard English 12. I immediately knew I wouldn’t like the class as, in the first week, the teacher started a unit on basic spelling rules.

My classmates and I all knew each other reasonably well, even if we weren’t all friends. One classmate had a slightly unusual name. For this story, I’ll call her Stella, and I’ll call the teacher Mrs. Hale (rhymes with “rail”).

On the first day, Mrs. Hale called the roll.

Mrs. Hale: “Estelle?” (Pronounced “eh-STELL”)

Stella: “Here, but my name is Stella.” (Pronounced “STEL-uh”)

Mrs. Hale: “Oh, all right. I’ll make a note.”

On the second day, Mrs. Hale called the roll.

Mrs. Hale: “Estelle?”

Stella: “It’s Stella.”

On the third day…

Mrs. Hale: “Estelle?”

Stella & Her Friends: “It’s Stella!”

On the fourth day…

Mrs. Hale: “Estelle?”

Most Of The Class: “It’s STELLA!”

This went on through the whole second week until we all kind of gave up, figuring Mrs. Hale would keep mispronouncing Stella’s name no matter what we did. All except me, that is.

At the beginning of the third week, Mrs. Hale explained something to us and wrote examples on the dry-erase board. I raised my hand to point out a minor mistake she had made. She looked at it and insisted she was correct. I showed her information in the textbook to prove otherwise. She just glared at me in an “Are you finished yet?” kind of way. Clearly, I wasn’t going to win that battle, and as a student against a teacher, I was essentially powerless, but I wanted revenge anyway.

Me: “Never mind, Mrs. Hally.” (Rhymes with “rally”)

Mrs. Hale: “My name is Mrs. Hale.”

Me: “I know that, Mrs. Hally.”

Mrs. Hale: “Why are you saying my name like that?”

Me: “Because you refuse to pronounce Stella’s name correctly, even though we have all corrected you several times. So, until you can get my friend’s name right, I will intentionally say your name wrong.”

She glared at me for about a minute and then went on with her lesson (mistakes and all) as if my interruption had never happened.

I called her Mrs. Hally the entire semester. She never got my friend’s name right.

Me: “I can only take cards right now, no cash. Is that okay?”

Customer: “Yeah!”

I ring through some items, and they bring out a roll of bills.

Me: “I can only take cards right now.”

Customer: “Oh. I only have cash.”

Me: “What do you think those sounds my mouth made earlier meant?”

Customer: “What sounds?”

This call took place shortly after the turn of the century, around 2005. I was working for an answering service whose clients ranged from lawyers, plumbers, electricians, and doctors to just your everyday office.

We were not allowed to state that we were an answering service. Our company would have us answer like we were part of the company that they were calling. We would take a message and then relay it out over text pagers, emails, or personal phone calls.

One gentleman called in looking for the doctor’s office that his father had been going to. He must have thought that he was talking directly to a doctor because he started his story before I could give any more information other than the script that I read when answering for that office.

His elderly father had been on suppositories per orders from the doctor’s office. The gentleman was too elderly to apply them himself, so his son had been doing it for him. He was trying to find out if there was a place where he could buy an applicator so that he didn’t have to use his hands anymore.

At this point, he paused waiting for an answer, and I was able to tell him that I could leave the doctor that message, but I didn’t personally have access to that information.

I heard a gasping of air as I’m pretty sure he realized that he wasn’t talking to a doctor and he had just told that story to a complete stranger. The call disconnected.

Somewhere out there is a child who went below and beyond for their parents.

I work at a bank. Obviously, security is important here. I answer the phone.

Me: “Hello, you’re speaking to—”

Client: *Drunk and angry* “F*** off and listen. My card isn’t working, and I’m in a bar in Thailand waiting to get my c**k sucked. Fix it now.”

Me: “And this is a [Bank] card, correct?”

Client: “Of course it is. Why else would I ring you?”

Me: “All right, sir, but first—”

He swears under his breath.

Me: “I need your customer ID number.”

Client: “What the f*** is that?”

Me: “Your sixteen-digit number used for telephone and online banking.”

Client: “How the f*** am I supposed to know that?”

Me: “[Bank] gives this number to you when you join us. It starts with your birthday and ends with four other numbers you should know.”

Client: *Shouting* “Well, I don’t f****** know it, so just fix my card.”

I tell him that before I can fix his card, I need to identify who he even is. I ask for his sort code and account number, and he only knows the sort code. I use this to bring up the first page of his account, which gives basics but no security information. It indicates that he is bankrupt, which may explain why the card isn’t working.

Me: “Unfortunately, you will have to call back tomorrow and speak to the fraud team so they can ID you.”

Client: “What the f****** f*** do you mean ‘call tomorrow’? I need it fixed now! If you don’t, I’ll sue you — not the bank, you — for not allowing me to just access my account without any hassle. Do you know who I am? I have millions of pounds in your bank, and I will ruin you.”

Remember, he’s bankrupt.

Me: “Sir, threatening me will accomplish nothing. [Bank] has specific guidelines to protect you, your account, and those ‘millions’ of pounds.”

A heavy silence.

Client: “Did you say ‘[Bank]’?”

Me: “Yes, my name is [My Name], and I work for [Bank].”

Client: “Never mind. This is a [Bank #2] card.”