Our convenience store is located in a part of the country where we legally have to ask for ID for every alcohol purchase, with no exceptions.

Most customers are fine with this, but a few don’t seem to understand that the minimum-wage checkout clerk isn’t the one making the rules here.

Me: “Can I see your ID real quick for those beers?”

Customer: “Are you kidding? I’m almost sixty!”

Me: “I know, it’s silly, isn’t it?”

Customer: “Silly? It’s d*** inhumane is what it is! I should not need to show you my ID at my age to buy some g**d*** beer!”

Me: “Sadly, our government thinks otherwise.”

Customer: “And you just go along with it, huh? Like a nice little sheep?”

It is at this point of the conversation — and sadly, there are many “at this points” with these kinds of people — that I point to a sign that our manager has recently put up.

Sign #1: “Don’t be a d**k to the cashiers when they ask you for ID. They have to ask you for ID.”

Customer: “But I’m old enough to—”

Me: *Points to the next sign*

Sign #2: “We don’t care if you were around to see Adam and Eve show up. Everyone gets ID’d — no exceptions.”

Customer: “But why are you being such a b—”

Sign #3: “It’s not the cashier’s fault, so don’t take it out on them. Anyone that does so will get kicked out at said cashier’s discretion.”

Me: “Want to finish that sentence and let me use my ‘discretion’?”

He showed me his ID and scowled out with his beer.

I flew back to the States this week and experienced this firsthand.

I am disabled from a stroke nearly three years ago. I usually walk with a cane except at places like airports, malls, or any place with slick, shiny floors, where I use a rolling walker. It’s just easier to navigate.

Right before boarding my first flight, there was a huge gaggle of folks blocking where you enter to get your ticket scanned and go onto the jetway. That was annoying. Several of them told me to go wait by the gate desk, so I did. They were entitled, not allowing me near the gate entry point, but that’s not the focus of this.

I went up to the desk and apologized to the gate agent for deviating from the plan.

Gate Agent #1: “No big deal. You can pre-board from here.”

Now, the pre-boarding. Look, I would LOVE to be the last one getting on the flight because I have no real love for sitting on the stupid plane for thirty to forty minutes before take-off, but I know I am slow because of the balance issues and have no desire to hold up anyone behind me, so I pre-boarded and gate-checked the walker. I got scanned and got down the jetway.

Gate Agent #2: “Please hold where you are; the cleaning team is still on the plane.”

While I was waiting, a couple around my age (I’m in my early sixties) came up behind me. Neither had a visible disability, but that’s okay; many disabled people don’t look disabled.

As we were standing there waiting to board, the wife called over my shoulder to the gate agent.

Lady: “Can I move forward? I’m more disabled than she is.” *Gesturing to me*

Gate Agent #2: “Sure.”

This entitled lady literally pushed me so hard that I fell right there on the jetway. The gate agent helped me up but said nothing to the lady and her husband who were now in front of me.

I decided it wasn’t even worth it to say anything to these idiots. Who pushes someone clearly disabled just to get on a plane first? I was stuck behind them for long enough that the regular passengers started boarding and I was scrambling to get settled in.

I work at a popular retail chain. I find a sweater left somewhere, and I hand it to my manager.

Me: “Someone left a sweater.”

Manager: “Okay, leave it with the go-backs.”

Me: “I think it was a customer’s; I don’t think it’s inventory.”

Manager: “Just leave it there anyway, and when I get to it, I’ll check.”

I just shrug and do as I’m told.

At the end of the day, I notice that the sweater has ended up in the go-backs. I inform my manager.

Me: “This sweater is dirty and has stains; it’s clearly used. It should go in the lost and found.”

Manager: *Walking past me* “I am literally not paid enough to care.”

I just sighed and put the sweater into the lost and found drawer.

On a Tuesday night, a manager was called up to the register for a return. It was a teenage boy returning a pressure washer that his dad had bought a couple of hours before. He had the receipt, but it was for a 3100 PSI unit; the box said it was a 3600 PSI unit. We’re talking about a difference of $300. And when the box was opened up, there was an old, used pressure washer in it, and it was a brand that we did not even sell.

The manager refused the return. It turned out that the father had ripped the shelf label off for a 3100 PSI unit but taken a 3600 PSI unit up to the register and told the cashier to scan the label, which he did.

The father called several times demanding his money back, and it culminated on Thursday night with him cussing out the manager in front of two policemen who issued him a criminal trespass warrant, and he got a letter from our corporate office saying that he was no longer welcome in any of our stores across the country.

My aunt told me this story recently, and I knew I had to share it. My cousin has extremely high special needs, and he needs nearly twenty-four-seven care and supervision. The neurologist’s office — the receptionist specifically — has been giving my aunt the runaround, not letting her speak to the doctor directly, and finally, the receptionist drops this gem.

Receptionist: “The doctor has recommended a psychiatrist. This is outside of his specialty. Once [Cousin] is seen by the psychiatrist, we will discuss the next steps.”

Aunt: “You’re sending my son to a shrink? He’s having seizures and rage episodes again!”

Receptionist: “Behavior issues are not in [Doctor]’s area of study.”

Aunt: “I don’t understand. I was told the raging was part of his seizures. Can I speak to the doctor?”

Receptionist: “No. Your son needs to be seen for his behavior issues before [Doctor] will see him.”

Aunt: “His seizures can cause behavior changes. It’s one of the signs I needed to look out for. This is seizure behavior, and [Cousin] is non-verbal. He won’t be able to speak to a therapist!”

Receptionist: “Once the psychiatrist works with him, the doctor will be willing to discuss further treatment. Until then, we will not schedule any appointments for [Cousin].”

So, defeated, [Aunt] takes [Cousin] to the recommended psychiatrist, already knowing what will happen. She gets them both checked in, gets [Cousin] settled, and then explains the situation to the shrink, whose jaw gets lower and lower the more she explains to him.

Psychiatrist: “I… am so sorry. I am completely baffled.”

Aunt: “Yeah. Me, too.”

Psychiatrist: “If you don’t mind waiting, I’m going to call them and get to the bottom of this.”

Aunt: “Take your time. I’d love to know what they were thinking, too.”

After the call…

Psychiatrist: “Okay, I’ve spoken with the neurologist’s office. I told them in no uncertain terms that a non-verbal autistic child with a diagnosed seizure disorder and autoimmune encephalitis wouldn’t benefit from traditional therapy in any way. I can’t help him, I don’t know anyone in my field who could help him, and I can’t believe they even made you take this step. He has neurological conditions that need to be treated by a neurologist.”

Aunt: “I tried to explain it to them, but they insisted. I figured they had to hear it from you.”

Psychiatrist: “Well, they definitely heard it from me. I won’t be charging you for this, and I would like to offer you some free sessions. This must be beyond stressful for you.”

Aunt: “I— Thank you. I think I could use it.”

And that’s the story of how my aunt’s new therapist had to explain to a neurologist’s office that seizures aren’t a psychological issue. My cousin is currently on a waitlist for a different neurologist.