It’s late at night in the emergency department (ED) waiting room. I’m seated near a middle-aged man who’s been groaning and holding his side and an elderly Indian woman with a young man. The young man has a bandaged-up arm, and based on the woman’s conversations with staff, she’s hard of hearing and struggles with English.

The ED staff notify us that priority patients have just arrived from a car crash.

Groaning Man: “Ugh, this is absurd! I’ve been here for hours!”

Staff: “Sorry, sir, but they’re the priority.”

Groaning Man: “But… I got here first!”

Indian Woman: “You got here first? No one cares. Emergency room! Not first come, first serve — first dead, first serve!”

Groaning Man: “But…”

Indian Woman: “You want to be first dead? Then you can jump the line!”

Staff: “Ma’am… please don’t vaguely threaten other patients.”

Indian Woman: *To the young man with her* “What’s she say?”

He translates for her.

Indian Woman: “Oh. You want it less vaguely?”

Today was my three-year-old’s birthday party at a local park. I was really nervous about this because it was kind of last-minute (for me), and I was afraid of having a party at the public park with so many people being there and others not realizing you have to rent the pavilion on the city’s page. I was afraid there would be another birthday party there and I would have to tell another mother that I already had it rented. I was sick over the weekend just thinking how awful it would be to tell another mom this! 

Sure enough, we got there, and there was a man there. I walked up explaining, and he said:

Man: “Sorry, I have my receipt.”

I could tell right then by the tone of his voice that he wasn’t going to work with me.

Me: “Okay. I’ll call the police and let them handle it.”

When the police got there, I showed them my receipt, and then they walked up to the man and talked to him. The man never showed them his phone, a piece of paper, or a receipt — nothing! I was standing about ten feet back, and an officer called me closer.

Officer: “Listen. He says he has a receipt, and I believe him. He is going to work with you and allow you to use the pavilion, but you have to be gone by 3:30.” 

I’m sorry, but as a woman, I could tell that these two male officers and the other man really thought I was just some bimbo wearing Minnie Mouse ears and holding a Mickey Mouse cake. They thought I was about to just say, “Okay,” because they wanted to take his “word” for it while I was standing there with a receipt from the city that clearly showed that I had rented it. 

Man: “Ma’am, I’m on the City of [City] board, and I’m buddies with [Other Man]. I’ll call him up! We actually rented out this entire park for $50! I mean, we are doing a fundraiser here.” 

Me: “Okay, well, can you show me your receipt for it?

Man: “I don’t know how to look it up.”

I looked at the police officers.

Me: “So, I’m standing here with my City of [City] receipt, and you’re just going to take his word, and my three-year-old doesn’t get her party?”

Every pavilion was taken with parties.

Officer: “It’s a civil matter. I’m sorry.”

Me: “I can’t believe y’all are handling it like this.” *Turning to [Man]* “Okay, we’ll call [Other Man] up!”

He called [Other Man] and put him on speakerphone. [Other Man] then explained to [Man] that he had only rented out the golf disc area at the park for the day, no pavilions. 

I rest my case.

This may have just been some birthday party for a three-year-old who’s not gonna remember it, but my kids mean the world to me. Yes, the man was doing a fundraiser, but I organize and host fundraisers and would never use it as an excuse for anything, so it kind of annoyed me. 

We ended up having a great party!

It is Friday night at a legendary fine dining establishment. Ten minutes before the kitchen closes, two people come in wanting the five-course tasting menu. The kitchen isn’t thrilled, but we will do it.

They are the only people in the dining room by the time I drop their first course, which they finish. One gets up, goes to the bathroom, and then the other.

The second course comes, but no one is at the table. Ten minutes later, they are not back. The kitchen is miffed because they want to get this tasting menu out; we are closed, after all.

Twenty minutes later, they’re still missing, and the manager has an idea what’s happening. She goes down to the bathrooms and… they’re full-on having sex! Not for long, though; she breaks them up and informs them it is time to leave, and they will not be finishing their tasting menu.

The woman leaves, and her date stays to sheepishly pay the bill, to which we add 50% gratuity in lieu of calling the police. What a night!

Me: *To my manager* “At least they weren’t a dine-and-dash?”

Manager: “More like a chew-and-screw.”

A customer comes in and hands over a memory card.

Customer: “I need all these pictures printed!”

Me: *Checking the card* “So… that’s just over 800 pictures?”

Customer: “Yes, from a vacation. Do them quickly!”

We print them, but they’re very bad quality; most are dark and out of focus. She comes in to pick them up.

Customer: “What the f*** are these?! You’ve ruined my pictures!”

Me: “We’ve simply printed the digital files, ma’am. We haven’t done anything to them.”

Customer: “You have! You’ve ruined them! They were perfect on my camera! It’s a very expensive camera, and there’s no way the pictures can be this bad!”

She ends up making such a scene (and harassing other customers) that we finally give her the money back, even though we have done nothing wrong and are out a lot of time and paper.

She calls us thirty minutes later.

Customer: “I’m at [Store across town]. They’ve reprinted all of my pictures, and they’re beautiful, in focus, and nice and bright! I will be leaving a review about your place!”

Me: “The same person who owns our store also owns that store. It would have taken them over an hour to reprint that many pictures, but I also know that their printer is down today as they’ve been sending customers to us, so they can’t have printed anything.”

Customer: “…”

Me: “…”

Customer: *Click*

This happened quite a few years ago. I grew up in a very touristy beach town, and I spent my summers making insane money in the service industry as a busgirl, server, bartender, and whatever. This was at a very nice restaurant right on the beach boardwalk — the type of place where everyone wore all black and you had to memorize and recite the specials before you were allowed out on the floor. It was also only my second bartending job, my first being a different bar run by the same people — a big dive bar in a restaurant a town away that didn’t do as well. They liked my work ethic and offered me a job at this place after the season was over.

I have to say, although I didn’t stay there for an awful long time, I LOVED working at this place. The atmosphere managed to be both high-scale and comfortable, and the owners, a lesbian couple who owned several places in the state, obviously cared deeply about the quality of what they were serving. Every last ingredient, down to the salt, was hand-picked by them, and they were both there nightly to taste-test and make sure everything was running smoothly. They were also very good to their employees.

However, I worked with this older guy behind the bar who obviously didn’t appreciate me being there and asking questions. He was a career bartender and he knew his stuff, and he had worked hard to be where he was, so I can understand him not wanting to deal with a young college student who barely knew her way around a Bloody Mary recipe.

On the day in question, we were working together during a Sunday brunch special. A group of regulars came in who were notoriously good tippers but were also loud and a little rowdy. My bartender buddy grabbed some empty bottles and high-tailed it to the back, so I wandered over to take their orders.

They all ordered your typical brunch cocktails: screwdrivers, Bloody Marys, and, of course, mimosas. Great, no problem. Keep in mind, this was the first time I’d worked a brunch, and while we were semi-famous for our homemade Bloody Mary recipe, which I also made at the other restaurant, mimosas were not on our regular menu. For a few minutes, as I gathered the drinks I knew how to make, I considered going after my grumpy sidekick to ask him what we use for mimosas, but the bar was filling up, and I didn’t want to bother him. So, when I could stall no longer, I shrugged, grabbed the only bottle of champagne we kept stocked at the bar (a $250 bottle of Dom Perignon), and popped the cork.

Cue instant regret. INSTANT. It was like I’d been in a trance, and all of a sudden I came to, cold and pale, holding my week’s paycheck in front of a lady who was eagerly surprised at the sudden upgrade. But what was done was done. As there really was no way to hide what I’d so obviously screwed up, I poured the drinks and took care of the rest of the customers.

As soon as my guy came back, I ducked out and ran to the back office where one of the owners was doing inventory. I fessed up immediately, apologized profusely, and told her I would pay for the mistake. She had this funny look on her face as she watched me go through my spiel. Then, she shrugged and just told me we’d figure it out at the end of the brunch, and she sent me back out.

I spent the remainder of my shift convinced I was going to be fired. I practiced how I would handle it. I wouldn’t cry or beg or apologize; I’d just thank them for the chance to learn from such a great group of people and tell them how much I respected their obvious devotion to their work. I’d made a huge mistake, and I was willing to deal with the consequences.

The end of brunch came. I was only scheduled to work the brunch shift, but my bartender buddy was scheduled to work the rest of the day, which happened to be a special event for a wedding party, and another few servers and bartenders started to trickle in.

The owner who’d been there called me to the back office, and I walked in to find both owners looking at me with amused expressions on their faces. I promptly forgot everything I had coached myself on and began frantically apologizing again. They stopped me and told me it was no big deal, I should use it as a learning experience, and that the rest of the staff would appreciate having a glass of Dom Perignon at the end of the night, as they planned on serving it to everyone who worked the wedding party. They assured me that I wouldn’t have to pay for it and sent me on my way.

I ended up enlisting in the Navy a few months later and put in my notice. When I told them I was leaving, they both told me I’d do great things wherever I went, that I had an excellent work ethic, and they’d be happy to hire me back if I ever ended up back in town. They’re still the best people I’ve ever worked for.