I worked at the prize counter of an arcade. I often had little kids come up and say, “I want that!” while touching the glass, pointing to something I couldn’t really see. I would use the scanner to scan the barcode to take away the tickets on their card.

I could also add tickets because we had a game that awarded plastic coins, each of which was worth one or five tickets.

Every once in a while, there would be a kid who would say, “May I please have a [prize]?” and say thank you when I gave them their toy. I would tell them and their parents how they could keep their cards for reuse the next time they came, and they and their parents would say thank you and that they would, but little did they know, I had added 500 to 1000 tickets to their cards for the next time.

I went mad with power when I worked the booth.

CONTENT WARNING: Assault

I live in an apartment near downtown. Some apartment buildings open onto some sort of communal hall or space. Mine opens onto the street.

I had a final in the morning at 7:00 am, so I went to bed early, around 8:00 pm. At around 2:00 am, I was awoken by a pounding on the door. A voice called out:

Stranger #1: “Dan, let me in! We lost the d*** keys!”

Or perhaps he was calling out,”‘D***, let me in! We lost the d*** keys!”

As my name is not Dan, I gave a simple reply.

Me: “F*** off.”

There was absolute silence for a few moments, and I attempted to go back to sleep. Then, there was a loud slam, followed by two more. At the fourth slam, my door was broken open, flinging woodchips across the small space of my apartment.

Three drunken guys barged in and one of them pointed at me and shouted:

Stranger #2: “Thief!”

They bumrushed my bed, grabbed me, stripped the blankets off of me, and dumped me outside the house. I utterly failed to defend myself, mostly managing only to flail and scream incoherently.

After they hustled me out, they latched the bar on the door, locking me out. I probably should have latched the bar in the first place, I belatedly think, as if I had, at the very least, they wouldn’t have been able to lock me out — not that I felt at all safe physically confronting them.

I was topless in only my bottom underwear. I had no phone and no shoes, and it wasn’t warm outside. The only good thing was that hardly anyone was out, as it was so late at night.

I made my way to the police department, out by the rec center. Fortunately, the night staff let me in. They gave me a department T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants so I felt less naked.

It then took them nearly four hours to confirm my identity, to confirm that I actually was the leaser of the apartment, and to get their ducks in a row. I spent most of that time alternatively moping and sleeping on a bench in the station.

They then broke down my door a second, more complete, time and arrested the three fellows who were still passed out in MY bed and on my couch.

After such a long morning, I wanted nothing more to pass out on my bed, but my bed and couch now smelled of gross boozy boy body odor and I just couldn’t. I wound up going to school and sleeping in the student lounge.

On my way to pass out, I got in touch with my professor and rescheduled my final. He was very understanding.

After I got back, I started determining what had actually happened. They’d gone through my stuff and scattered it everywhere. Everything stunk of them. I have a very sensitive nose and it was very difficult to deal with. I rented a carpet steamer and steamed my apartment to get the smell out.

Some of my clothing was also wrecked like they’d tried to put it on or something and ripped it. It was mercifully little, but the stuff that was damaged was my nicest stuff — really frilly and lacy stuff. I was into Elegant Gothic Lolita at the time.

They also took the graphics card out of my computer for some reason and left it sitting on the table? It still worked. I don’t understand why they did that.

Sorting out my stuff actually took a few weeks, partly because it was mentally taxing and emotionally difficult, and partly because some of the stuff they’d done was hidden.

With the help of the police, I pressed charges and took them to court.

This upset the three boys. It turned out that they lived in a different unit in the same building as me. I’d never met them before.

Since we lived in the same building, they started mocking me and making rude and threatening comments. They kept demanding I just drop it, and calling me a busybody who didn’t know how to have fun.

Once, one of them hit me. It didn’t leave a mark, and the judge refused to admit it as evidence. But it was enough that the police started stationing an officer near the building to keep an eye on things.

Despite my pleas to send them to jail, the judge said, “Boys will be boys,” and gave them community service. He seemed impressed that one of them was an engineer, one was studying corporate law, and the third was in the journalism program. He said they were “bright boys with a good future in front of them” and he didn’t want to ruin that.

Odd that he didn’t care that I — also was a bright individual with a good future in front of me — was now living in fear in the same building as three people who drunkenly assaulted me.

The apartment complex charged me for the damages to the door, and the things the boys damaged. I took the three boys to small claims court, and they were held jointly and severably liable for the damages, including the ones to my personal property, but they refused to pay up, choosing instead to leave the state. They didn’t even complete their community service program before they up and vanished.

This story does have a happy ending. I graduated, got my degree, and left the city, never to return.

I work at a small Chinese restaurant with Chinese owners. On all the tables, there are small vinegar bottles present, as in the Chinese region where the owners are from. It is common to eat noodle dishes with extra vinegar. As these bottles can easily be mistaken for soy sauce, there are large notes on the bottles saying, “VINEGAR.”

Customer: *Angrily* “My dish tastes awful. I demand a new one!”

I see that he obviously put A LOT of vinegar on his whole dish.

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but it seems like you put a lot of vinegar on your dish. Might that be the reason?”

Customer: “Ehh… no? This is soy sauce and I like my dishes with a lot of soy sauce. That’s not the problem.”

Me: “Sorry again, but we don’t offer any soy sauce. This—” *pointing to the bottle* “—is vinegar.”

I am about to offer him a new dish, as this can happen if you don’t pay attention, and I know that the owners are more focused on customer happiness than revenue.

Customer: “What the f***?! Why would you do that?”

Me: “It’s common in [Chinese Region] to eat meals, especially noodles, with vinegar.”

Customer: “I don’t care what people do wherever you just said! I’m in a Chinese restaurant and I demand Chinese food!”

Me: “Everything served here is traditional Chinese food.”

Customer: “No, it’s not! I’ve been in many Chinese restaurants and I’ve never had vinegar on the table!”

Me: “You are aware that China is a country with over a billion people and there are very different cuisines within China? This is a [Chinese Region] Restaurant.”

Customer: “But soy sauce! Soy sauce is Chinese!”

Me: “It may be popular in some regions, but it is not in [Chinese Region].”

Customer: “F*** off! This is ludicrous!”

The customer is getting more aggressive with every sentence.

Me: “Sir, I need to ask you to leave the restaurant.”

Customer: “No, I demand to get Chinese food! Get me the owner!”

Me: *Loud and certain* “No. You will leave the restaurant. Now.”

The customer was struggling to think about what to do next, but he left the restaurant eventually, still swearing and ranting. The owner, who overheard the last few seconds of the conversation, came to me and asked me what this was about. After I explained the whole story, he totally supported my actions.

In 1995, I decided to join the military. The day that this happened was one of the worst days of my year. What should have been an easy couple of hours turned into an all-day event — paperwork was lost, two recruiters were in car accidents on the way to get me, and I didn’t have a lot of money for anything. The one thing that got me through my ordeal was the small arcade they had in the waiting area. I had about $5.00 to spend to keep my mind from going nuts. I have been gaming since I was about three years old when my dad introduced my brother and me to his Atari 2600. I am now forty-four.

The arcade had “Street Fighter,” “Mortal Kombat,” and some other random games. I was in heaven. I put in a quarter and started playing “Street Fighter.” It’s one of the few fighting games I am not the best at but can make my way through.  

After a few games, I heard someone walk in behind me. I kept playing, and a few moments later, I heard, ever so quietly:

Young Guy: “Oh, the girl thinks she can play.” *Chuckles*

I snickered and turned my head to see a tall, young guy standing about six feet from me.  

Me: “Did you say something?”

Young Guy: “Oh, no, just watching you play. Do you know how to play that game? Looks like you are having problems.”

I smiled, hiding the glint in my eye.

Me: “Yeah, this one I’m no good at. It’s just passing the time while I wait.”

He smiled.

Young Guy: “Tell you what. I’ll challenge you to this one.”

He nodded his head toward “Mortal Kombat.”

Young Guy: “Do you think you can handle this one okay?”

Me: *Coolly* “Well, I’m not sure. It looks fun, but I’ve never played it before.”

He pulled out a few quarters and put in one for each of us.

Young Guy: “I’ll teach you. Pick a character.”

I picked Scorpion because, honestly, I knew a few moves, but he was not my favorite. I can button mash with the best of them though. Two rounds later, I played coy and asked for some pointers. After he played it off for a bit, I challenged him to another round, this time with my favorite character: Kitana. First round — flawless victory. The second round was more of a challenge because he got mad, but I still got him. Three dollars in quarters later, he started to cuss me out.

Young Guy: “You’re playing me!”

I smiled ever so sweetly.

Me: “Oh, this little girl is a gamer, and you just got your a** beat.”

He walked away, cursing under his breath.

My mother-in-law can be a sweet person but honestly seems to believe the world revolves around her and what she wants. One Friday night, ten days or so before Christmas — the busiest time of the year at my job — she calls me. She wants me to take her to the grocery store tomorrow.

I’m not sure why; she can still drive, and she went to the grocery store this morning with her best friend. I tell her I am in a time crunch and that my daughter and I have plans to finish our Christmas shopping and get some other things done before the holiday.

She starts whining about how it won’t take long; she will be ready right at 10:00 tomorrow morning and get it all done right away.

I should know better by this time in my marriage, but I agree. I forgot that no good deed goes unpunished.

The next morning, my daughter and I show up at 10:00 am, hoping to get done and still salvage part of the day. We go in and [Mother-In-Law] is sitting in her living room in her bathrobe with her hair up in curlers, watching TV.

Me: “Did I get the time wrong? I thought you said you’d be ready by ten.”

Mother-In-Law: “Guess I lost track of time.”

She continues to sit there.

Me: “Well, why don’t we come back later when you’re ready? We have a lot we’d like to get done today.”

She sighs.

Mother-In-Law: “Well, I guess I can hurry up and get ready.”

She proceeds to spend the next hour getting ready, complaining the whole time that now she’ll have to redo her hair for church the next day.

Finally, she’s ready.

Mother-In-Law: “Oh, now we have to go eat. I haven’t had breakfast yet. Can’t shop on an empty stomach, can we?”

So, now we have to go to her favorite diner. It’s a nice enough place but slower than pulling taffy. An hour and a half later, we’re finally ready to leave the restaurant. For all it’s her favorite place, she sent everything back often enough.

We get in my car and she tells me she has to go to the ATM. There is an ATM for her bank right there in the parking lot of the shopping center we’re in. I start to pull up to it when she says she can’t use that machine. I ask why.

Mother-In-Law: “Oh, it’s too dangerous to use that one. Someone might try to get in the car. I have to use the one in [City].”

This one is a pull-through. And [City] is halfway across the county.

The bank with the ATM [Mother-In-Law] wants to use is closed on Saturday, and the ATM is in the now back empty parking lot that backs up to a wooded area. To use the ATM, I would have to park, and she would have to walk across the deserted lot and stand at the machine to use it.

Aside from the fact that I don’t want to add another forty-five minutes or so to an already too-long errand, I decline.

I pull into the little glass shelter of the ATM and open the window to use the machine. She is nearly hysterical, going on and on about how someone could easily get into the car and how I am putting my daughter in danger.

Me: “[Mother-In-Law], the doors are locked and the windows are up. There’s barely room for my arm to reach the ATM, let alone for a person to squeeze between the car and the machine. It’s a busy place and there’s a long line of cars behind us. Do you still want to use the ATM, or do you just want to go on to the grocery?”

Mother-In-Law: *Sulkily* “Oh, just the machine.”

She gives me her card and I ask her how much she wants. She wants $100. I put in her password.

Mother-In-Law: “How do you know my password?!”

Me: “Simple. You use your birthday for all your passwords.”

I give her back her card and her money.

Mother-In-Law: “Oh, it gave me two fifties! I wanted five twenties.”

Me: “Don’t worry; the grocery store can take care of that.”

We pull away from the shelter, safe and sound — imagine that! — and drive to the grocery store. We walk in. The first thing [Mother-In-Law] does is walk up to the nearest cashier, who is checking out a long line of customers. Remember that this is mid-December, on a busy Saturday just before Christmas. In a very loud voice — she is partially deaf in one ear — this person who’s so concerned with safety practically yells at this poor cashier.

Mother-In-Law: “I just came from the ATM and all I have are $50s! Can you break a $50?”

The cashier looks at her like she has two heads, looks at the long line of customers at every register, and replies, somehow without any sarcasm.

Cashier: “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure we can.”

As we walk away, I say to [Mother-In-Law], with more than a little snark:

Me: “You should have yelled a little louder; there are probably folks back by the deli who didn’t hear you announce that you had fifties.”

Mother-In-Law: “Oh, do you think that was a bad idea? I never thought about that.”

We got what she insisted she had to have right then, waited in a long line to pay, and left. I made her and my daughter wait in the store so I could get them in the car as fast as possible, since I had no idea who might have overheard her.

It was now after 3:00 pm, more than five hours after her promised “just a quick errand” to the store. And what was so important that she had to get it then and there? One frozen turkey breast, which she didn’t cook until her friend’s birthday… in February.

But I learned to grow a spine and say no once in a while. Lesson learned.