It is Sunday, about twenty minutes before closing. A woman comes rushing in, looking a bit frantic, and beelines straight toward me.

Customer: “I need [list of items we have either run out of or have in low supply].”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I think we only have about two of those items still in stock.”

Customer: “What?! But my kid needs it for his project at school tomorrow! Why are you sold out?!”

Me: “Because two hundred other kids from the same school are doing the exact same project.”

Customer: “But… why?! You should have more, then! Go check the back, you lazy bum!”

Me: “We don’t have any more, ma’am. I know because based on conversations with multiple parents, this particular project was assigned three weeks ago, and we assumed that, since the completed project itself is due tomorrow, any parent who would need these supplies would have purchased them ages ago so their kid would have time to make the project.”

Customer: “Are you implying I’m a bad parent?”

Me: “No, ma’am, I’m saying your child either told you late or you forgot until now, but either way, you’re taking that out on me. We do not have what you’re looking for, and we close soon. I wish you the best of luck!”

Customer: *Sarcastically* “Do you really?”

Me: “No… not really. Goodnight!”

This story is from twenty years ago, at a time when mobile phones could be used only for telephone, texting, and playing “Snake” — no Internet, GPS, or other fancy things.

I had this friend who lived on “Pablo Neruda Street” — in a city that also had a “Pablo Picasso Street”. Every single time he tried to order food for delivery, he explicitly had to say: 

Friend: “Deliver to Pablo Neruda Street — Neruda, not Pablo Picasso.”

And despite this, the delivery guy would always call him back, saying: 

Delivery Guy: “I’m on Picasso Street…”

Well, except once. The one time the delivery guy got the correct street name… he got the city wrong.

When I was in elementary school in the mid-1990s, my friend lived in the upstairs portion of a duplex that was owned by the woman who lived downstairs. She was the definition of the neighbor from Hell. She constantly called them about being too noisy or lied about what they were doing. She would call the parents at work to complain about the kids ([Friend] had two siblings), which hilariously backfired a few times when the kids were at sports practice after school or something and the parents called her out for lying. 

I went to their house a number of times and witnessed that the slightest noise resulted in [Neighbor] banging on the ceiling with a broom. They knew that previous tenants hadn’t lasted long, and their theory was that [Neighbor] was purposely awful in order to drive people out of the house, which meant breaking their lease, meaning she could keep their deposit.

I wasn’t there for the glorious final straw, but I wish I had been.

[Friend]’s mom was pulling a casserole out of the oven when the dish slipped out of her hand and hit the floor. The dish shattered, which splashed hot casserole on Mom’s feet and legs and caused some of the glass to cut her. There was an immediate banging from the floor below, at which point [Friend]’s dad had had it. He told the kids to start stomping and don’t stop. [Friend] told me they stomped throughout the house for twenty minutes straight (surely an exaggeration, but you get the idea) and had a lot of fun doing so. 

When Dad finally told them to stop, he went downstairs and told [Neighbor] what had happened with the casserole dish and that her reaction was unacceptable. Instead of coming to check on them after hearing such a big crash and someone yelling in pain, her banging on the ceiling was irrational. He told her that from then on, if she ever did it again, he was going to tell the kids to start stomping again.

She was good for a couple of days, and then she banged again, which started the stomping, after which Dad went downstairs and told her he wasn’t joking; it WOULD happen every… single… time.

Apparently, they had stomped so hard and for so long that they had shaken the popcorn off the ceiling. Popcorn ceilings were pretty popular in houses built in the 1970s, and I know from experience that the stuff is a nightmare to clean up.

At some point shortly after that, [Neighbor]’s son came to visit, and she must have complained to him. The son went to talk to the family and apologized, basically saying:

Neighbor’s Son: “I know my mom is awful and that you guys aren’t bad. You’re actually much better than other tenants we’ve had. I have talked to her, and she will not bother you anymore.”

After that, the relationship didn’t become friendly, but it at least became strained ignorance of each other, which was better than what it had been.

I’m driving a school bus full of high school students, covering for a coworker who’s out sick. As I glance in the student mirror, I see two students throwing something. (Spoiler, for those concerned: it ends up NOT being any sort of bodily fluid or other human excreta.)

I pull the bus over to the shoulder of the road, turn off the engine, and take the keys out of the ignition so I can walk back to where they’re sitting to investigate. As I’m doing this, I see another student touch her hair and remark in a disgusted tone that this has happened “again”. 

I can now see that she’s using her hands to wipe MAYONNAISE out of her hair. I grab a roll of shop towels (essentially very thick paper towels — all our buses have some on board) and give her a few as I walk to the students who threw it. I hand the roll to them.

Me: “I am not moving this bus until you clean up the mayonnaise from the seats and floor.”

One student sighs and reaches for the towels, but the other scoffs at me.

Student #2: “Really? You’re serious?”

Me: *Still holding out the towels* “Yes. I didn’t think I’d have to tell high schoolers not to throw condiments on the school bus, but here we are. You need to clean up your mess, and I’m not moving the bus until you do. I’m paid by the hour; take your time.”

The other student looks like he is about to argue further, but the rest of the school bus quickly shuts him down with calls of, “Come on, I want to get home!” and, “You shouldn’t have done that anyway!” and so on.

Both boys get the mess cleaned up in a couple of minutes — using all the towels in the process — and put the dirty towels in the bus trash can. When they’re back in their seats, I start the bus and get everyone home. I hear a few students commenting that they’re surprised I was actually watching their behavior, and they are relieved that I’m not putting up with nonsense.

I also drive that same route the following morning. When the two students who threw the mayonnaise get on, I greet them with a smile.

Me: “Good morning! Is all food securely stored in your backpack?”

Students: *Resigned* “Yes.”

Me: “Fantastic. Thank you. I brought two new rolls of shop towels. I assume I won’t have to give you any, though.”

They behaved for me. I hope they continued to when their regular driver returned!

Related:
A Big Mayo No No, Part 9
A Big Mayo No No, Part 8
A Big Mayo No No, Part 7
A Big Mayo No No, Part 6
A Big Mayo No No, Part 5

We close the tills at least ten minutes late every day because people don’t respect closing times and the fact that we employees also want to go home. In my mind, at closing time, as a customer, you should already have checked out and be out the door. I guess our customers don’t feel the same way.

A customer shows up after both the doors and tills have closed.

Customer: *Begging* “Please let me in! I just need baby formula! My baby is starving!”

Manager: “The store and tills are closed, but I can go get some formula for you myself and you can pay at the customer service station by the exit. I can meet you outside with the card reader.”

Customer: *Still begging* “No, please, just let me in! I’ll be quick.”

Manager: “Tell me what formula you need, and I’ll meet you at the exit in less than a minute.”

Customer: *Suddenly less desperate* “So, you’re not letting me in?”

Manager: “Not tonight, no.”

Customer: “F*** you.” *Storms off*

Huh, I guess she didn’t need formula so urgently after all…