I am an assistant manager at a BBQ restaurant. One day, a man and his son came in and spent a very long time looking through the menu. Eventually, the father came up and started asking me about ingredients because his son was allergic.

At some point, the boy, who was probably about six or seven, handed me a laminated card that listed all his allergies. It was a lot. I don’t remember exactly, but I know eggs, gluten, and pork were on there, as well as a couple of seasoning things, like onions.

There was no way I was remembering this, and I didn’t know what the seasoning blends were off the top of my head, so I asked to borrow the card so I could go check. He agreed, and off I went.

It turned out that a lot of our seasonings and sauces used at least one thing the boy was allergic to, and the allergy to pork took over half our menu options away on its own. I spent roughly ten minutes checking basically everything to see what we could serve him safely.

I occasionally went up to update the family on what I was doing. The father seemed mildly surprised that I was going out of my way to figure this out.

Eventually, I did figure out what I could serve the boy. Because one of his allergies was meat, I switched out every piece of my cutting board, wiping the table for good measure as pork grease gets everywhere.

The father thanked me profusely for being so accommodating. He had apparently had trouble finding a restaurant that served something his son could eat that wasn’t just essentially under-seasoned or extremely boring.

They quickly ended up becoming regulars, and I would see them at least once a week. Since the boy already knew what he wanted (and what was safe), it was much faster. I still cleaned the heck out of the cutting station and made sure anyone else I saw serving them did the same, but that usually took less than a minute.

The boy kept telling us this was his favorite place to eat, and the father added that it was extremely reassuring to him, watching me automatically start to change everything out when I saw them come in; sometimes he worried the extra precautions were too annoying to deal with, and I was always very cheerful about it.

Eventually, they stopped coming in. I think they moved, but I’m not certain. I missed that family.

A while back when my health was better, my mother and I routinely walked to a nearby strip mall to dine and buy groceries. My mom, who is capable of walking short distances, couldn’t make the mile-long walk on her own. For this, she used an electric wheelchair.

Federal law considers these devices a part of the person’s body, and state law specifically describes individuals in motorized assisted devices as pedestrians. As a result, if there is a sidewalk, she must use it, while those on skateboards, bicycles, and other modes of transportation are actually forbidden from doing so at all. Furthermore, since her chair is pretty much “wheel legs” by law and not a form of transportation, she is not required to have any form of vehicle insurance to use it.

During one particular trip, my mom and I found the disabled ramp to the strip mall’s side not so much blocked by an illegally parked vehicle as actually occupied by it. Some person had simply driven his very nice car and placed it directly on the ramp itself. This presented a problem for my mom: we had no phone, and it was unreasonable for either of us to wait for this car to just go away. She decided to try to go around the car — arguably not the best choice, but there weren’t many choices here — and turned down her wheelchair speed to make it easier.

She hit a bump, her chair jerked, and she dinged the corner of the car’s bumper.

Apparently, the owner of the car was inside the restaurant we were going to enter. Since the ramp was in plain view of the seating area, he saw it happen, and we were approached by a very well-dressed and angry individual who began to scream at my mom for dinging his car. Among the many things he shouted, the one that stuck out the most was, “I bet you don’t even have insurance!”

My mom is perfectly capable of handling herself, and if she had wanted to, she was almost certainly capable of making this guy back down into a corner by out-screaming him. Furthermore, other members of my family are highly prone to this exact type of behavior, and from my experience, I know that the best thing I can do is stand back and let things take their course. That said, I wasn’t going to let that accusation go. I informed the man, not quite screaming or cussing but very much impolitely, that my mom was not legally required to have insurance and that, unlike her wheelchair, his car was actually not allowed to be on the sidewalk at all.

At that point, this guy whipped out his cell phone and called the police to report a vehicle collision with an unlicensed motorist.

That was when his bad decisions started to turn on him. His screaming attracted the attention of the restaurant’s owner. She was half his size, at least twice his age, and apparently in some way related to him. And when he hung up the phone, she was already there, screaming at him about abusing her customers.

I don’t know exactly what was said after that. The two argued — I’m not sure the exact language, but I definitely didn’t speak it — and the owner proved herself more than capable of outshouting this guy. This went on for a bit while we stood there in awe.

After a while, a police cruiser pulled up, and two officers stepped out to find that those two were screaming back and forth at each other, there was an illegally parked motor vehicle, and the “unlicensed motorist” was a woman in a wheelchair. They took over and excused us from the scene. We were hungry, so we went inside to eat.

This was a fast food restaurant with four tables. We took the one farthest from the scene, and I took the seat facing the window. The entire time, the owner kept coming over to apologize profusely and ask us if we needed anything. We just kept telling her that we were okay and that it wasn’t her or the restaurant’s fault. As we finished our food and prepared to leave, we spotted a tow truck pulling up the scene outside and two very angry and clearly out of patience officers handcuffing the driver.

We’ve been back to the restaurant many times since and have seen the car a few times as well — always parked well away from the ramp in the middle of the parking lot. We never saw the driver again, though.

Did you enjoy this story? Check out other stories like this one in our roundup: 15 Stories About The Ableism That Wheelchair Users Have To Put Up With

CONTENT WARNING: Dental Work

A few years ago, I suffered a problem with one of my upper wisdom teeth that led to it, to put it lightly, beginning to rot out of my mouth. After dealing with pain for some time, I managed to find a dental clinic that took my insurance and went in to get the problem tooth extracted.

The visit turned out to be memorable. A prior visit to another clinic had a dentist inform me that I didn’t have wisdom teeth. I knew this was incorrect because the teeth had come in during my mid-teenage years. Sure enough, this clinic confirmed that the affected tooth was, in fact, a wisdom tooth. After an X-ray, they also confirmed that my other upper wisdom tooth had a much less severe case of the same problem and would eventually come out. That could wait, they told me, but the tooth I was there for could not.

I had learned early in my teenage years that injected locals didn’t seem to affect my jaw, and I warned the dentist about this. With that in mind, they made several initial injections and asked me if it was numb. I couldn’t feel any numbness, but I also didn’t feel any pain; I assumed this meant that it worked but wasn’t as effective as it should be, so I told them to proceed. 

As soon as they began prying, I felt a sharp, almost metallic-tasting pain in the tooth. Determined to just let them get the problem bugger out, I tried to power through it. The dentist and her assistant, however, must have seen my grimace, so they stopped.

Dentist: “Does it hurt?”

Me: “It does, but I don’t think you can do anything about that. Let’s keep trying.”

Dentist: “No, sorry, I have to try. I’m going to try a different local. Maybe you developed a tolerance for this one.”

Me: “Okay, sure.”

The dentist performed another injection with a different local and the wait began again. Once more, I didn’t feel any numbness, but the pain introduced by the previous attempt had subsided again, so I again — incorrectly — assumed that it must have done something.

Dentist: “Are you numb?”

Me: “Not really, but the pain’s gone, so I think it did something, at least.”

She started to pry again, only for the familiar pain to return. Realizing this was going nowhere, I motioned for her to stop.

Dentist: “Still?”

Me: “Yeah, still hurts. I guess… try again?”

Dentist: “One more shot couldn’t hurt. If that doesn’t work, we do have other options.”

Another injection, more waiting, and this time I felt a very, very slight numbness. Again they pried at the tooth, only for the pain to return. I motioned.

Dentist: “I have an idea. My guess is that, for whatever reason, the local isn’t numbing the tooth itself. Because of the damage to the tooth, I’m probably pressing right on the nerve when I do this, so I don’t think injections are the answer. I have a topical gel I can apply; while it won’t numb the mouth, it will prevent the tooth from hurting. If you’re willing to try it, I’ll go ahead.”

Me: “No problem! Do what you think you need to.”

The dentist applied the gel and waited what I assume was the required amount of time. Attempts to pry the tooth out of the mouth resumed, and thankfully, there was no pain this time. However, a new problem became apparent: despite how terrible the condition of said tooth was, it wasn’t budging. The method they were using simply wasn’t going to work.

Dentist: “Okay. I have a tool I will use that will basically crush the tooth — not all the way, just enough to free that stubborn root from the jaw. It won’t hurt, but you will feel a loud crack. Don’t worry about that.”

Me: “No problem.”

Sure enough, she applied a sort of vice-like tool to compress and twist the tooth. There was a crack, and she began pulling. And yet the tooth insisted on staying put. Without saying a word, the dentist motioned to her assistant to take hold of me, and, using her foot to gain a bit of extra torque, she yanked hard for several seconds. The tooth came free and became airborne, flying over the cupboard-like object behind me and continuing for about six more feet before loudly clattering against the floor.

The dentist smiled.

Dentist: “Well, it’s out!”

During the [health crisis] lockdown, we had a lot of people working remotely, but not everyone. In the first few weeks, we had an issue with individuals freelancing in the building and using random desks either to chase the air-conditioning which turns off in certain areas after hours, or just for “a change of scenery” as the weather changed.

Our CEO had correctly assumed that [health crisis] mandates would drag on for an extended period of time, so all of these desks were packed out and cleared, but the computers of people working remotely couldn’t be touched. If someone logged into one of these PCs, the remote user would get booted out.

Solving this issue was simple; we turned the monitors around at the desks that we didn’t want people to use and made some announcements about it.

Fast forward about two and a half thousand years to the end of the mandates. The building is filling up again and IT support tickets are flying into the office for us to handle as everyone returns to physical work. I receive one from our audit department and call the extension.

Me: “Hello? [Employee]?”

Employee: “Yes! Hi!”

Me: “Hi, this is [My Name] from the IT services division. We received a ticket about your computer not working?”

Employee: “Yes! I turned it on, but it’s just a black screen that says, ‘Dell’.”

Me: “Hmmm, so the monitors are working?”

Employee: “Yes.”

I troubleshoot with this individual for about forty-five minutes. She starts to get angrier and angrier and more and more frustrated with each moment we are working. Eventually, she starts yelling at us, throwing around her title as the department manager, and questioning our competency. I go up to her desk physically to see if I can get anything from a visual perspective since I am able to remotely log into her machine and move freely around the desktop.

When I arrive, she’s sitting at her desk steaming. As an added petty move, she had even turned the monitors back around to face the wall.

Employee: “Finally!”

Me: “Move!”

Employee: “Excuse me?!”

Me: “MOVE!”

Something changes in her face. I think it is at this point that she might realize that she has pushed too far. She moves out of the way and I grab the monitors and spin them back around. The desktop is displaying normally.

Me: “So, what’s the problem?”

Employee: “Oh! They were turned around?”

That is it; that is the last straw. I give her back every single bit of yelling and grief that she has burdened us with over the phone for the last hour, drawing the attention of her employees. I lay out exactly why she has no business calling anyone incompetent when she can’t tell the back of a computer monitor from the front and inform her that I will be filing a report with Human Resources for her abuse of my staff due to her stupidity. I also invite her to file a report against me if she wants and storm out of the office, slamming the door to the department so hard that the small window inset into it shatters.

Fast forward two weeks.

I am sitting in Human Resources, having just come back from a mandated vacation due to the incident. The HR representative walks in.

Representative: “I’ll get right to it.”

I am fully expecting to get fired at this point.

Representative: “The main office has accepted your offer to pay for the glass due to your insistence on doing so; it came up to around $230.”

Me: “That’s cheap, actually.”

Representative: “Hmmm, yes, well, the glass is meant to be replaced.”

Me: “I see.”

Representative:  “We reviewed the recorded call between you and [Employee] and determined that, while your outburst in Audit was completely outside of our code of conduct, the main office decided that it was… not acceptable, but understandable due to [Employee]’s racist comments and the demeaning nature in the call.”

Me: “Racist?”

Representative: “Yes. The fact that you maintained your professionalism while she was throwing around phrases I cannot repeat was nothing short of amazing.”

Was I so tied up in the computer issue that I missed this? I don’t recall hearing anything that could have been considered racism.

Representative: “So, it has been decided that you are free to return to work. The pay for the last two weeks is yours to keep; we’re going to change the status on record to ‘administrative leave.’ However, we need to insist that you do not have a repeat incident. You have an entire team under your control. If you are feeling hot under the collar, please utilize them instead of dispatching to calls yourself. That being said, you will be serving a month of probation because we can’t outright ignore what happened in Audit. We’ll set your start date for Monday at 8:00 am; you can slide right back into the schedule.”

Me: “Understandable. What about [Employee]?”

Representative: “I can’t discuss the punishments and actions taken against former employees.”

Me: “Oh, of— ‘Former’?”

The representative smiles but does not make eye contact with me as she straightens her paperwork and stands up.

Representative: “Policies, you know.”

Without another word, she walked out of the room.

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During a particularly bad year in my early teens, I had to make several visits to a dental clinic in one of my area’s more affordable hospitals. Typically, these visits were just checkups, but on one occasion, three cavities were discovered in my molars. Due to the work needing to be done and the cost, the dentist broke it up into three procedures. The first two procedures went well — inject the local, numb the mouth, drill out the cavity, insert the filling, and send me home.

The third visit, however, was a bit different.

Not long after the local was injected, I noticed it wasn’t taking effect. I informed the dentist about this, who would go on to perform not one, but five or six additional injections as each time it still failed to numb my jaw. After the final injection, the dentist asked me if my mouth was numb. When I responded, without any slurring or any other audible sign of numbness, that it wasn’t, she turned to my mom, declared that it must be numb by now, and proceeded to get to work.

The pain of having an unanesthetized tooth attacked by a drill isn’t particularly sharp, but it is powerful, extremely present, and most importantly, constant. I attempted to power through it; I was just a kid, after all, and the doc knew what they were doing, right? After a few moments, the doctor stopped, glared at me, and sternly told me to get back up into my seat and to “stop scooting down.”

I was completely unaware of it, but the entire time the drilling had been taking place, I had been slowly inching my way down toward the floor. I guess the dentist assumed that I was being an annoying kid, because the entire time, she never once stopped to question WHY this was happening. And sure enough, after continuing to drill a few more minutes, she stopped again to scold me for scooting down.

I tried to tell her that my mouth wasn’t numb. Her response?

Dentist: “I injected you several times. It’s numb. Stop being difficult.”

And she proceeded to finish the drilling. This time, I made a conscious effort to stay in one place, which must have worked because she finished the procedure without any more complaints.

And after the filling was put in, how did she respond?

Dentist: “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

When the time came for my next checkup, I insisted that we not go back to that dentist. Thankfully, my mom listened.