I had a client who was in a wheelchair, and she complained about everything. I saw a news item saying that [Client] has paid some guy who was painting a house to build her a wheelchair ramp. It was a terrible mess, and she went on the whole poor widow lady bandwagon, so some construction company built her one for free.

She had a bank account with over a million dollars in it.

I later saw that [Client] was complaining that the neighbors were forcing her to get a new sewer line as the two houses were tied together somehow.

A local paper found out that her husband had built both houses, and she shut up.

I’m the oldest child in my family, so I tend to bear the brunt of first-child anxiety that every parent experiences. When I was a teenager, my phone had GPS tracking so my parents could always know where I was. (We had the same feature on every phone, which was handy whenever we needed an estimate for how long it’d be before someone came home.)

When I went off to college, the tracker remained. It was mostly only used so my parents could reassure themselves that I was safe without infringing on my life with constant calls and texts. It was a good system, especially in the early days when my parents were dealing with the worst of the bittersweet “my baby isn’t a baby anymore” feelings.

One spring day, my parents checked in on the GPS app and saw that my location was pinged in a small apartment complex a significant distance off-campus. Cue immediate panic from my father, who was convinced that I’d been kidnapped. My mother made him calm down, and they sent a text and continued to check every ten minutes or so.

No reply. They continued to send texts. They tried calling, but no answer. This went on for almost an hour, and by the end of it, my dad was pacing and probably ten seconds away from calling the National Guard.

Finally, I picked up my phone, saw the texts and several missed calls, and excused myself to call back.

Me: “Hello?”

Parents: “WHERE ARE YOU?!”

I explained to them that I was at a friend’s apartment with my church group and we were eating pizza and playing video games. I’d had my phone turned off because that’s just good guest etiquette. My mother then filled me in on the drama, and I’ve teased them about it ever since.

This story reminded me of why I used to drive fifteen miles past three other grocery stores to shop at my favorite one.

My son was five years old and not exactly the best at remembering anything. For example, he’d forget he was clutching one of his favorite toys, or he’d forget that we don’t live in the grocery store.

We were about to check out when he said:

Son: “I left Mr. Mouse on a shelf.”

Me: “Which shelf?”

He just shrugged. Terrific.

I asked at the customer service desk if anyone had turned in a palm-sized stuffed mouse with half of a plastic Easter Egg on its head. (What can I say? My child was creative.) No one had. I looked through the aisles where we’d gone, but the mouse never turned up.

As I was leaving, they asked me if I’d found it. They seemed genuinely concerned.

Well, they seemed genuinely concerned because they WERE genuinely concerned.

Whatever transpired next in the store must have involved an aisle-by-aisle search with walkie-talkies and storewide announcements, scouring the place from top to bottom, hunting for Mr. Mouse. By the time I got home, I had a message on my voicemail. Mr. Mouse was secured, orange helmet and all.

We put away the groceries and returned to the store. I made sure my son thanked everyone he could.

Related:
My Family, And Other Animals, Part 14

I owned and ran an Internet cafe on a beach in The Philippines from 2004 to 2005. The town had no ATM, no telephone lines, and electricity for only twelve hours a day (if you were lucky). The Internet connection was via satellite dish and was only 128 kbps. I had networked up four computers to share the connection. This was before Facebook and YouTube, so most customers would log into Yahoo! mail and just write emails.

The town was a good eight hours away from the capital of the island. This, of course, was the case only if it had been dry recently because the roads were all mud, and those times only applied if the bus did not break down or get stuck in the mud, both of which happened frequently. The bus left once daily at around 8:00 am.

In 2005, I was able to add the ability to send faxes through the Internet. A man walked up to the cafe one day.

Customer: “I’ve heard around town that you send faxes?”

Me: “Yes, of course!”

Customer: “Oh, great. You’ve just about saved my life! How long does it take?”

Me: “I will scan the pages you need sent and then send them. It takes just a few minutes, and your recipient will receive the fax immediately.”

Customer: “Lifesaver! How much does it cost per page?”

Me: “It’s $2 per page.”

Customer: “That’s outrageous! I only need to send two pages, and it only costs twenty cents per page in [City]!”

Me: “Okay, well… it’s 3:00 pm. The next bus leaves at 8:00 am tomorrow. It costs $6. You may get there in eight hours if you are lucky. Then, you can send your two pages for forty cents. There is no return bus until the next day, so you’ll need to stay in a hotel, which will cost $40. You’ll need to have dinner, which will cost $20 or more. Then, you’ll need to get the bus back the next day for $6. And that’s without any entertainment in the evening, nor lunch, nor breakfast. So, you are looking at spending over seventy dollars and two days of your time. Or… you can just give me $4, and I can send your lifesaving faxes immediately.”

Customer: “Fine! Here’s $4.”

There were two separate faxes to two banks: the first one was to immediately cancel a cheque for $10,000 and the second one was for $20,000! And he was moaning about an extra $4 to send it.

Related:
Taxing Faxing, Part 40
Taxing Faxing, Part 39
Taxing Faxing, Part 38
Taxing Faxing, Part 37
Taxing Faxing, Part 36

Customer: “Can I get [meal] to go?”

Me: “This is a food truck. All of our meals are to go.”

Customer: “Oh, yes, of course, but… I don’t like Styrofoam. Can you just put my food on a plate and wrap it with plastic wrap? I’ll bring the plate back tomorrow or the day after. Thanks.”

Me: “Uh… I can’t do that.”

Customer: “Why? Is it because you hate people who have sensory processing disorders?!”

Me: “No… we literally don’t have plates. I could… kinda… smush your meal into a plastic cup?”

Customer: “Ew! Gross! No way!” *Storms off*