From Sam, November 2009 (One of RHU's earliest posts about Mistaken Identity):
Little did you know, your bank teller is no better off than you, dear retail slave.
OK, of the 9 rings of hell, my bank job puts me on one of the outer, less torturous neighborhoods of Hell, but it's still Metro Hell.
My bank, you see, is located inside a [Insert Largest Retailer Chain Here]. That mean's OUR customers are Wally's customers.
I could rant all day about them--the 500 lb. ones rolling around on those poor electric scooters, the backwoods apes who never bathe... but truly, honestly, the worst part of my job?
The bathroom. I have to use the public bathroom. I cannot tell you how many times I've walked in and turned right around without pause because the stench or something I witnessed was too much to tolerate.
And I don't blame the staff--I know they clean it at least 3 times a day! Would you like to even guess how many people walk in and out of there without washing their hands? There's a reason their toilets are the kind that flush automatically--I'm certain they'd never get flushed otherwise.
Just yesterday I witnessed a woman put her hands in the water at the sink, and instead of then reaching for some soap to wash, she cupped her hands, bent over and started drinking.
The worst, though, was last week. My uniform shirt color changes daily. One day of the week, the shirt is blue. Not even the same color blue that the employees wear, but blue. I went to the bathroom. When I finished, and opened the stall door, there were 3 old ladies standing outside the door, huddled together, waiting for me.
I thought for a second I was about to be mugged by some weird Old Lady Mafia. I froze, since I couldn't exit with them standing there, and waited for whatever it was they had for me.
"You're out of toilet paper!" one hollered, as she pointed toward a southward stall.
"AAAAND paper towels!" accused another.
Ever so slowly, I reached up and pointed to the logo on my shirt, and then at my nametag, also sporting a bank logo.
"I don't work for [Retailer]."
"Oh, we thought you did." They continued to stand there, as if I were still expected to remedy their paper product problem.
"So... can I leave?"
They rolled their eyes and huffed as if it were unbelievably rude of me not to help them, but ultimately parted enough for me to squeeze by, but stood there and watched as I washed my hands, and then used the hand dryer to dry them. I could hear them muttering about it as I left.
---Sam in Indiana