I’m working at a call centre. Our company is taken over and our upper-level management leaves, replaced by medium-level managers from the new parent company.

Our terms and conditions of employment are very good, not just for a call centre but in general. The new company’s terms are… less so. Thanks to European Union employment law, they can’t make our jobs redundant because they’d need to hire people to do those jobs and the only people they’d be allowed to hire would be us, on the same terms and conditions.

My boss’s boss has a way around this, however. She just makes all of us very, very miserable. Impossible targets are set. Mistakes as small as typos are treated as gross misconduct. She very publicly conducts interviews for people to replace us, down to introducing the candidates to us and saying that they’ll be taking our jobs because we’re useless.

[Boss’s Boss] introduces a new rule: for staff flexibility, so she can alter our hours of work at will, we must all have our own transport — we cannot use the local buses and trains. I come in by bus every day, but I go out and buy a stinker of a secondhand car to come to work in.

Eventually, one by one, the staff from the old company leave, either on their own in disgust or by being fired for gross misconduct like making typos in the non-public notes fields in the computer system.

I eventually walk out, the last of the old staff, when I’m dressed down in front of everybody for being two minutes late during a snowstorm when I was asked to come in on my day off to cover others who couldn’t come in due to a snowstorm.

Cut to a year later. I’m happy in a new and better job, but I still have my terrible old car. It has developed yet another fault: on starting, it runs for a minute or so and then loses power, requiring the engine to be gunned for a minute to get it working again. I only use the car for trips to the supermarket, having gone back to using the bus for my new job, but I book it in to have it repaired.

While it’s with the mechanic, I get a knock at the door. It’s the police.

Police: “Do you drive a [Car]?”

Me: “Yes. It’s in with [Local Mechanic]. Is there a problem?”

Police: “Were you at [Supermarket] last week?

Me: “Yes, on Tuesday, I think. After work, probably about 6:00 pm.”

Police: “Did you see a woman in the car park?”

Me: “Not that I remember. Nobody specific, anyway.”

Police: “We’ve had reports that you stopped in front of a specific woman and threatened to run her over. She was terrified.”

Me: “Blimey! It wasn’t me, but poor thing. Why?”

Police: “Do you have a former boss that you hate? Someone you’d like to run over?”

Me: “Not that I know of! I’ve had my fair share of terrible bosses, but nobody I’d threaten.”

Police: “Is one of those bosses called [Boss’s Boss]?”

Me: “Umm, possibly. I did have a terrible boss called [Boss’s Boss] about a year or so ago. Well, she was my boss’s boss. Awful person. [Boss’s Boss] Green? [Boss’s Boss] Brown? [Boss’s Boss] Gold? It was something like that.”

Police: “So, you do know the complainant?”

Me: “Oh, it was her? Yeah, but she lives in [City thirty miles away] I think, so… I’m confused now.”

Police: “You saw her and revved your engine at her and tried to run her down?”

Me: “In [City thirty miles away]? No. And also, no, not at all.”

Police: “Well, she lives here now and says you did. Wait. Why is your car in the shop again?”

Me: “It’s got a weird power failure; the engine needs gunning to get it to work, so I’m having it repair— Oh.”

Police: “Oh.”

Me: “So, err, [Boss’s Boss] lives here now, does she? I thought my old company went bankrupt?”

Police: “Yes, after she bought a house here. She’s unemployed and convinced that her old staff is out to get her.”

Me: “Poor thing! She was a terrible boss, but she was only terrible because of the circumstances we were all in. And she thinks that I was trying to run her down?”

Police: “Well, she was in the entrance to the supermarket, saw you revving your engine, and assumed that you were doing it at her and would run her down later as you know where she lives.”

Me: “Oh, bless her. She was a terrible manager, but I’ve not even thought about her once in a year or so. I’m sorry I scared her, if I did.”

Police: “I don’t think you did. I think she was perhaps a bit… Well, anyway, we’ve got other people to see that have been harassing her. We won’t take up any more of your time.”

Part of me feels sorry for her. Part of me hopes she was charged with wasting police time.

A man with learning differences works at our police station. We’ll call him Peter. What Peter’s story is, I don’t know, but he is a hard worker and mostly happy. Peter understands French, German, and Italian, but he replies to everything in English. He also ignores a lot of instructions.

He once wouldn’t let a senior officer into the station, instead leaving him out in the rain. An angry, soaking-wet lieutenant came into the office.

Lieutenant: *In German* “Peter! Why didn’t you let me in?!”

Peter: “No police ID.”

Lieutenant: “But you know me! I’m [Lieutenant].”

Peter: “Rule [number]: no entry without police ID. Orders by [Lieutenant]. I check bins.” *Walks off*

Me: “What do you want me to do, tell him to ignore the security rules which you wrote?”

[Lieutenant] never forgot his ID again.

Peter does well, and we need someone to manage lockers — for storing guns, shields, laptops, etc. That is an unpopular job, but Peter loves it. He politely explains why someone isn’t allowed a locker, and he makes good use of short space. When an officer doesn’t use it properly, he pranks them by removing the door or filling it with bricks. They learn their lesson. We all love him.

One Friday afternoon, we leave Peter alone for thirty minutes. The next Monday, he arrives at 10:00 am, looking sad. He won’t say what is wrong. After lunch, he comes back happy.

Me: *In German* “Peter, why are you so happy?”

Peter: “Talk to Brigadier. Secret.”

I hear there was an incident that Friday. [Officer #1] wanted TWO lockers, but for some reason, he went to the Brigadier’s private office instead of emailing Peter. The Brigadier’s private office then demanded one for the same officer, followed by [Manager #2] and [Manager #3] in Peter’s office. Peter told them, “I haven’t decided if he gets a locker at all,” then closed the office, and went home, since it was 5:00 pm on Friday.

I get an email.

Brigadier: “I’m looking into Peter’s complaint. Police officers need lockers, but he isn’t talking. I need to know why he disobeyed me and how he works.”

Peter won’t talk to me, either. That week, I see him talking to an interpreter, who is there to interpret a meeting… in sign language.

Me: *In German* “Do you understand him?”

Interpreter: *In German* “Yes. His sign is a bit confusing, but he is very intelligent and chatty.”

Me: “Right… This is Peter. He can hear fine. Can you talk to him and ask him about the locker incident? We need to know how he sorts out lockers.”

The interpreter talks to Peter over coffee, lasting about ninety minutes.

Interpreter: “Peter doesn’t understand the concept of a chain of command.”

Me: “What? In a police force?”

Interpreter: “He doesn’t care what your pay grade is. He decides whether you get a locker and what size. Does he take pride in his work?”

Me: “He’s meticulous about it. Where did he even learn sign?”

Interpreter: “Interpreters on TV during [health crisis], apparently. I mean, he isn’t fluent. He is upset that [Officer #1] didn’t just ask him directly like everyone else. He should have been told he would have to deal with managers he didn’t know. Anyway, why did they harass him on a Friday afternoon when it wasn’t urgent?”

Peter: “Rude SCUBA diver.”

Me: “So, Peter, you wanted to read the reasons why he needed a locker?”

Interpreter: “Yes. He is working hard to get respect from officers, but he can only do that if he is seen to make the decision… like for this police diver with SCUBA gear. He also wants advice from [weapons department], because he thinks a stun grenade in a personal locker is a bad idea.”

Me: “WHAT?”

Peter: “Gun? Meh, okay. Stun grenade? Accident, k’boom explode.”

Interpreter: “Peter felt he couldn’t explain that verbally, because he was being forced to do something. Clearly, he understands the safety risk. Peter, can you do lockers if you get to decide yourself?”

Peter hugs the interpreter.

Peter: *In German* “Ja!”

Interpreter: “Here’s my business card; let me know if you need me.”

Officers were told to contact Peter — nobody else — about lockers. Peter granted [Officer #1] two lockers, on the condition that they didn’t contain stun grenades. [Manager #2] and [Manager #3] were told to stay out of locker decisions.

Out of snarkiness, Peter asks [Lieutenant] for his ID card every time he sees him in the corridor.

I share my [Paid Streaming Service] with some of my friends, and I haven’t used it in a while. One of my pals messages me.

Friend: “Oh, [My Name], you’re so silly, changing all the profiles to different languages!”

I’m like, “Pardon me? No, I would not do that.” I change the password and contact [Service]. They don’t seem to care.

Then, I get this email from a stranger.

Stranger: “G’day. This message might be a bit strange; you don’t even know me, but I have a request. I recently bought a piece of your [Service] account — let’s say a profile — at [Website that sells third-party merchandise]. The password was [password].

“All worked well for a few days. Now, something has changed; I can’t log in anymore. The seller on [Website] doesn’t reply. Since he’s got my money, he will not respond ever again.

“Could you be so kind as to provide me with the password?

“I hope you will help me. Best regards, [Stranger].”

Thus began a flood of emails saying, “You are trying to change your password,” for all of my social media apps. I changed all of my passwords to more complex ones, set up two-factor authentication for everything, and cancelled my credit card. I contacted [Service] again, but again, they didn’t care.

Back in the days when Germany was still separated firmly into the DDR — Deutsche Demokratische Republik or east Germany — and the BRD — Bundesrepublik Deutschland or west Germany — it was really hard to cross the border into east Germany from any country that wasn’t part of the Soviet Union.

You had to make an official request that had to be granted by the eastern German authorities, which didn’t happen often for western Germans to visit eastern Germany, and rarely ever for eastern Germans for visiting the BRD

At the border, even if you had all the required paperwork, you had to endure tedious searching and questioning. There were very strict rules on what you could bring with you into the DDR and equally strict rules on what you could export. The border was very wide, with only small control points where you could cross. The land in between was a death zone full of mines, and people who tried to cross the borders without a legal pass and travel permit risked being shot; if you tried to pass through the death zone you also risked being shot or blown up, and if you got caught, definite incarceration.

But the eastern Germans weren’t bad people. They were friendly and generous, and it was well known that the border patrol was usually much more friendly and lenient if you brought your whole family, as long as your papers were on order.

I was still very young when my parents started visiting friends in eastern Germany. They would bring them many goods that were hard to get in eastern Germany and sometimes even smuggled medications. They did this rarely since it was very risky — not lose your life risky but definitely being held for quite a while and never allowed to come back risky. It was also required to exchange a certain amount of western money into eastern currency, but you couldn’t change it the other way round and couldn’t take any money with you out of eastern Germany; it was strictly prohibited and would definitely result in prison time if you got caught.

To make things easier, we would all go together as a family, and since I was so young, I didn’t really understand all the stress and the seriousness of the whole situation. The border guards were indeed always very friendly to me and my mom, and the border checks were intense but short. 

As a German girl, I didn’t really understand weapons or what the guns of the guards meant, so I enjoyed those trips. Our friends’ family had a small farm with chickens and sheep, and I loved it there. I was always sad when we went back home, and the guards always thought that was cute.

One time when we went back home, things were different from the other times. At first, everything was normal. An older border guard, [Border Guard #1], checked our papers and told us to drive on the side for a quick check-up. He saw me sniffing because I had to leave before the birthday of my personal friend, the family’s young daughter, and he bowed down to reassure me before he left.

But then, everything went downhill. 

One of the younger guards decided that my father was behaving suspiciously and ordered a full search of the car. That meant we all had to leave the car, during early spring in No Man’s Land. Everything around us was flat and open; you could only see the street, the border posts, the watchtowers, and the empty death zone between the mesh fences topped with barbed wire. It was extremely cold, and I had to watch as several angry-looking soldiers filched through our car. I was terrified.

Meanwhile, another border guard questioned my father next to me while I clung to my mother.

Border Guard #2: “Why did you come to the DDR?”

Border Guard #2: “What did you take there?”

Border Guard #2: “What did you bring back with you?”

Border Guard #2: “Do you have any money still on hand? You know it is forbidden to bring any money with you…”

That was the moment I truly realized that it was forbidden. I knew before that we shouldn’t have any eastern German money on us but I didn’t really understand that it was so serious. I really was very young. And young and stupid as I was, I indeed had some money — just a few coins my friend had given me, also not knowing how bad that was.

I then started crying earnestly. I was deadly afraid they would arrest my dad. They looked so angry. A female officer took away my mom for searching, and then [Border Guard #1] came back and saw me crying. He picked me up and smiled at me.

Border Guard #1: “Hey, why are you crying, Kirsche? Come on, smile for me!”

“Kirsche” means “cherry”, a common nickname in eastern Germany for small girls.

He turned to the other guard and my dad and told them he’d bring me into the warmer office. They agreed. I don’t think my father had much choice in this and thought it would be better to be quiet.

I liked that guy. He had something nice and grandfatherly about him. I couldn’t stop crying, though. And after a bit of gentle poking, I told him what my friend and I had done. 

He looked at me with worry.

Border Guard #1: “Hoo, Kirsche! That’s bad! You shouldn’t have done that.”

He then hugged me.

Border Guard #1: “Do you promise to never do it again?”

I nodded.

Border Guard #1: *Whispering* “Then give it to me. I won’t tell anybody.”

I gave him the money. It was only two or three small coins — really not much. You couldn’t buy more than a roll for them. He gave me a wink. 

Border Guard #1: “That’ll be our little secret! We will tell no one! You listen? No one can ever know!”

And I promised. And I never told anybody. This is the first time I’ve done so. 

After a little while, my mom was brought in. The whole search lasted almost two hours more, and my father was worried sick, but we didn’t have anything else that wasn’t allowed. The coins were gone, safe in my new friend’s pocket.

I later learned that what that guy did was considered treason and if anyone had found out, he would have gone to prison, even though it was just a few, almost worthless coins.

It was the most frightening situation I ever had in my life, but also one of the best because I learned back then that even in the worst and most unreasonable situations, there are still decent people, and sometimes you find a friend where you expect them the least.

It was the only time we were searched this intensely. It luckily never happened again. But I know for sure that ever after, my parents only brought strictly legal stuff and never risked smuggling again. They suspected that someone had snitched on them bringing medication sometimes. But it could also just have been a random search. I guess we’ll never know.

This is a story about my uncle. We’ll call him Ralph for this story because that’s the name of his favorite turtle-ninja.

Ralph is rich. He’s also a borderline hoarder. He collects a lot of stuff — little tchotchkes and some kitschy seasonal furniture that he rotates through during the year. For example, for Halloween, he replaces the dining table with one carved like a jack-o-lantern.

Every so often, he gets too much stuff and needs to get rid of some of it. Instead of holding a yard sale, he likes to just put his stuff out in the yard with a “free” sign and advertise it on [Classifieds Website].

One time, Mom and I are visiting Ralph while he is doing one of his giveaways. I’m eating breakfast on the couch when I see a van pull up outside his house through the windows — a big van, like a moving van. Four burly guys get out of the van. At this point, I’m fully expecting them to start loading Uncle Ralph’s stuff into their van and just take it all themselves.

Instead, they open the van… and start unloading stuff in front of Uncle Ralph’s yard. It’s all junk: broken tables, extremely dirty stuffed animals, boxes full of broken tchotchkes, frayed clothing, books that smelled like the bad kind of mold, and a mattress that is so yellowed and damaged that it completely sags into itself in a small pile.

I fetch Ralph, but by the time he comes, they are done. They drive off, and one sticks out his hand and gives Ralph the finger as they leave.

This trash is utterly unlike the carefully cared-for things that Ralph usually puts out. Ralph is spitting mad. We call the police.

It takes the police a while to understand that a crime has happened. They don’t understand why Ralph minds having more stuff added to his pile of stuff.

Mom and I left Uncle Ralph’s house before we could learn how it ended, but I asked him about it later. He said that three of the culprits had been caught and that they’d been charged.