While driving home, I get stuck waiting at the railway crossing near the station of my little hometown. The station is to my left, the train has just stopped there. From my right, over a grassland, two preteen boys are biking toward the crossing. I mostly notice them because I am a bit worried about them knowing to look out for the train. They do; they lie down on the grass just under the bank, probably to watch the train from below. They’re nearer than I’m really comfortable with but safe enough.

Once the train is gone, one of them runs up the bank and puts something on a rail. Then, he looks around and adds two rather large stones — about the width of the rail itself, as far as I can see from where I am sitting in the third car from crossing. Then, he grabs his bike and goes to join his friend standing near the crossing; they obviously want to cross both the railway and street.

Seeing these actions, I roll down my right window. With half a dozen cars in each direction, they won’t be able to cross the street before my car reaches them, so I will be able to tell them off.

Only… the first car stops at the crossing. I don’t hear what is said, but one of the boys runs back to the rail and swipes the stones off. The cars in front of me drive away.

Wait, but he left the first thing. It’s not a stone but something colourful; maybe it’s soft, but still, I’m not going to take any chances.

I stop by the boys and shout for them to get the last item, as well, while the first car from the opposite direction has also stopped and is honking. The boys go and get the third item, as well, and we all drive on.

Somebody got a triple dose of being raised by the village today. And I got my belief that I am living among decent people confirmed.

For decades, my wife and I kept extended warranties on our appliances such as our refrigerators and washers. Whenever we booked a repair from the company that we purchased the appliance from, they always asked which time slot I wanted: either 8:00 to 12:00 or 1:00 to 5:00. No matter which time slot I chose, it seemed that I was the last stop in the time slot I chose, so I’d wait over three hours for them arrive.

We had a new refrigerator that needed a third repair within the first year we purchased it, so it qualified for the lemon law, and we were entitled to a new appliance at no cost. Per procedures, they sent a technician for this repair, and after looking at my fridge, he ordered parts for this repair to be sent to our address.

In the meantime, we received our brand-new replacement fridge, so the service representative called and asked if they could pick up the parts for the repair that had already been delivered to our home.

Me: “Sure. On Friday, I will be home for thirty minutes between 8:00 and 12:00, and for thirty minutes between 1:00 and 5:00. So, what time period would you like?”

The line went silent, and then she hung up. They never picked up the parts, ever.

I had a similar interaction to the one in this story with my senior-year English teacher. She hated me. She once pulled me aside after class to accuse me of doodling the entire time. We were reading “Hamlet” at the time, and even though her interpretations of everything were always way off, I knew that if my answers didn’t match hers, I’d be “wrong”. So, I made a point of taking copious notes that day.

This was in 2000 or 2001, so the days of black notebook paper, which I was using. She couldn’t read it, but she could tell she’d been wrong, and she looked like I’d made her eat s***. She very grudgingly let me off with:

Teacher: “Well… as long as you can read it.”

Me: *Happily* “I can!”

And I mentally flipped her off on my way out the door.

Related:
When You Wish They’d Cool Off A Bit

I live with my mother, and I cook for both of us most of the time. However, on this particular evening and after a long day at work, neither of us has the will to cook, so we decide to order sushi. I open the take-out app on my phone and select the options we want. It’s 7:00 pm, and the order will arrive around 7:45 pm, so we wait.

Around 8:00 pm, nothing has arrived. I call the restaurant, and they tell us the driver just left with our order; he should arrive in around twenty minutes. We wait some more.

At 9:00 pm, still no food. I call the restaurant again, and they say the driver is two streets away. Fifteen minutes later — yes, for two streets — the delivery guy is at the door. He gives me our order without an apology for arriving so late, and he leaves.

I check the bag, and our desserts are missing. Again, I call the restaurant.

Restaurant: “[Restaurant], good evening!”

Me: “Good evening. I called you twice tonight to enquire about our order for [our address]. We finally received it, but we are missing the desserts.”

Restaurant: “Our apology for the inconvenience. We’ll remove the price of [desserts] from your next order.”

Me: “When will the delivery person arrive with them?”

Restaurant: “Look, we’re not gonna send him out again just for some desserts.”

I start to lose my cool.

Me: “No, I disagree. I paid for those desserts, and I want them delivered.”

Restaurant: “We understand that you paid for them, which is why we’ll remove the price of the desserts from your next order.”

Me: “No. The delivery we expected for 7:45 pm arrived an hour and a half late, we were missing items, and now you’re telling me you’re not going to send what was missing? There won’t be any more orders from our end.”

Restaurant: “Well, you did order from [Delivery App]…”

Me: “Are you saying it’s my fault?”

Restaurant: “No, that’s not what I meant.”

Me: “Do you really think it’s acceptable? The order arrived more than an hour late, half of the order is missing, you are refusing to send the rest of the food I paid for, and I am somehow responsible for this whole fiasco because I ordered through [Delivery App]. Is that what you are saying? And you expect me to order from you again?”

Restaurant: “Sorry, ma’am, but there’s nothing I can do.”

Me: “Wrong. You can send what’s missing.”

We went back and forth, and they ultimately refused to send the rest of my order. I placed a scathing review on the page of the restaurant.

Another hour later, the delivery person called me. He had forgotten the desserts in the back of his car, and he offered to deliver them.

The desserts were ice cream mochis — left in a car on a hot summer evening for an hour. I declined.

I’m managing the self-checkout section. A grumpy-looking older gentleman gets all up in my face. He’s carrying a single loaf of bread.

Customer: “I’m in a hurry, and all your cashiers’ lines are too long!”

He says nothing more and just looks at me expectantly.

Me: “Well, we have no line on the self-checkouts, sir. I can help you if—”

He cuts me off and immediately scans a loaf of bread. He then thrusts a $5 bill at me.

Customer: “Take this and give me my change.”

Me: “Unfortunately, this self-checkout doesn’t—”

He cuts me off again and tosses the bread at me.

Customer: “Then I don’t want it.”

Me: “Sir, if you’d let me finish, this particular self-checkout doesn’t take cash, as indicated by all the signs. The one at the end here does take cash, so I could—”

Customer: “This is taking too long. I’m in a hurry!”

Me: “Sir, the lines at the regular checkout are being cleared in five minutes. If you let me help you, I can get you checked out in less time than that. If you truly cannot spare that long, maybe right now is not a good time to come and buy bread.”

Customer: “Are you telling me to go away?!”

Me: “No, sir, I am telling you to ‘hurry along’.”

He stormed out without his bread. I hope he learned patience!