CONTENT WARNING: Drugging, Sexual Assault

A few years ago, I was working in a hotel as the front desk manager, covering the audit (overnight) shift due to a callout. A young lady who was wearing a very short skirt and a low-cut top and looked worse for wear came into the front lobby shortly after midnight. She walked to the center of the carpeted room and proceeded to squat down and pull her panties aside to relieve herself.

Me: “Hi, how’s it going?”

Lady: *Continuing to urinate* “Fine. How’s your night going?”

Me: “Well, it just got really interesting. Um… do you need a restroom?”

Lady: “No, I’ll be all right where I am.”

Unfortunately, I had to contact the police, and they arrived pretty quickly. The lady was extremely intoxicated, and my only option apparently was to have her arrested for indecent exposure and disorderly conduct. I work in Maryland, and that arrest would mean that she would be placed on the Sex Offender Registry in our state because that’s how the law works.

Me: *To the officer* “Could I decline to press charges now, get her identification, and have her return in a day or two to pay for the carpet cleaning?

She didn’t have money at the moment. He said I could do that because none of us wanted to destroy this woman’s life because she peed on the carpet while clearly not realizing what she was doing.

So, that’s the route we took. I photocopied her ID and gave her a note to hang on to remind her what she had done and that she needed to bring money to the hotel by a certain date or, unfortunately, the charges would get filed.

A few days later, I was on my normal shift when an extremely beautiful woman walked in inquiring about how to handle the incident that occurred the other night.

Me: “The young lady needs to come back and handle it as agreed upon.”

Lady: *Very embarrassed* “I am the young lady.”

I was blown away. What a difference a shower and makeup that wasn’t running everywhere made for her! She was very embarrassed as I recounted the story for her, and she actually started to tear up as she got money from her purse. She gave me $100 for the carpet cleaning.

Lady: “Not that it matters, I know, but I brought this to prove to you that I am not that kind of person, and I am really sorry.”

She proceeded to hand me a note from the local hospital with attached lab work that showed she had tested positive for Rohypnol (roofies). Apparently, she and two of her friends were dosed at a bar in town. One friend was sexually assaulted, while the other friend wound up in the drunk tank, and we all know where this young lady ended up.

I immediately apologized for having had her come back with money and explained that I wouldn’t be taking any money from her at all. I was so upset to find out that these three young women came to our town to have a good time and it turned out so awful. I ended up giving her and her friends a discounted rate for a few days since they had to stay for the investigation into the assault. I did my best to redeem our town by giving them anything they needed going forward.

Long story short, what I thought were just drunken shenanigans turned out to be someone’s worst night. Calling the police was a godsend because they were able to identify that she had also been dosed.

She and I still communicate to this day, and I see her when she comes into town. (She has ever since and still does use the regular restroom when she visits!)

Back in 2015, when I still studied, I sometimes manned a student bar at one of the big student clubs in the town. The student clubs, called Nations, are huge and several hundred years old, and they are all run By The Book (TM).

Swedish alcohol law is VERY strict, and serving someone more than they can handle is technically a jailable offense for the bartender (even though punishment rarely happens). That also means that only the bartender can decide when you’ve had enough.

Once in a while, the Nation I worked at held parties for people active in past times, like the 1960s or 1990s, and this took place during one of them. A pair of men in their forties, obviously VERY drunk, waddled toward my bar.

Drunk Man #1: “Heyyo! Give us a couple of twelves of gin and tonic!”

That’s twelve centiliters of gin; a normal is four centiliters.

Drunk Man #2: “Yeah, and don’t pour too much tonic into it, if you get it?

The first man slid a 1000-kronor bill (100 dollars) toward me.

Me: “No.”

Drunk Man #1: “Waddya mean, no?”

He slid another one towards me, without waiting to hear my explanation.

Me: “Well, first of all, we have never sold twelves. Secondly, you’ve had quite enough. I can mix up something tasty and non-alcoholic for you?”

Drunk Man #1: “Nah, whaddya mean? We’re not drunk! Not enough. Come on! Give us drinks now!”

Me: “No. I can recommend water. A lot of it.”

Drunk Man #2: “Nah, you, you, you should know that we drank less back when we ruled this place! Give us gin and tonic, now!”

Me: “I cannot sell you that, and you know why. Accept my call or leave the premises.”

Drunk Man #1: “Ahh, I get it!”

He slid another bill towards me and winked. All three remained on the counter.

Me: “Sorry. The law is clear, and you wouldn’t handle a two-centiliter gin and tonic, let alone a twelve. Water, non-alcoholic, or nothing.”

Drunk Man #1: “Listen here, you little s***! Don’t you know me? Don’t you know who I used to be? I was the chairman in 1991! Everyone—”

Me: *Interrupting* “I wasn’t born then, good sir. I was born in 1992.”

The two men deflated and slunk away. The doorman said that the two friends had wailed and moaned about being denied alcohol by someone born after their “prime”.

The best part? They left the money. The other workers and I split it, and we had beer money for three parties!

Related:
Putting The “Toxic” Into “Intoxicated”

It’s St. Patrick’s Day, so no matter where you are, or whatever your heritage, everyone is Irish, and everyone is out to get drunk. As a result, our bar is crazy, and it’s all hands on deck. A drunk man from an equally drunk group of men comes over to the bar, and eventually, they get to me.

Drunk Customer: “I’m Irish!”

Me: “That’s great! Did you want to order!”

Drunk Customer: “Do you believe me?”

The customer is Asian, with an American accent. I stress that because I did once meet an Asian man with an Irish accent, so I never judge a book!

Me: “You can be whatever you want to be, sir. Are you ordering?”

Drunk Customer: “I’m Korean-Irish! My name is Paddy Kim!”

Me: “That’s great, Paddy! I don’t think I can serve you, though.”

Drunk Customer: “What?! Why not!”

Me: “If you don’t want the bar staff to think you’re too intoxicated for a drink, maybe it’s best not to make them ask what you’re ordering three times with no answer.”

Drunk Customer: “Oh… I’ll just have a Guinness.”

Me: “I’m not serving you alcohol.”

Drunk Customer: “Guinness has alcohol?!”

Me: “Then I’m definitely not serving you alcohol.”

He wanders over to his friends looking confused. I brought them all water when I had a moment to spare, and I could hear him muttering to his equally confused-looking friends.

Drunk Customer: “I thought it was like… a really weird Irish root beer…”

Today is St. Patrick’s Day! Get your fix of more St.Patrick’s Day-themed stories with our St.Patrick’s Day Themed Roundup!

I didn’t have glasses until my twenties. There’s a whole saga behind it, but now that I have them, I’ve found that my ability to tell ages is terrible since I don’t have the experience many others have. So, of course, this involves one of the fan-favourite restricted items: alcohol.

I’m already kind of notorious in the store for calling for more ID checks than others, but I honestly have trouble telling what age someone is. And I had a friend who grew a thick beard at fifteen who I know used that to buy underage, so I have trust issues, too.

I get a customer who is tall, lanky, and most likely of age, but then I try to see his face. Every time I do, he looks away, hiding in the shadow of a baseball cap. I try asking some vague questions, as I would do in normal transactions, to see if I can age him from his voice — things like how his day is, how he’d like his groceries packed, even if he wants boxes, bags, a wine bag for the booze, anything! He mumbles and turns away again from my searching gaze, avoiding me. I try asking him outright to look at me. No dice.

Finally, I have scanned everything, asked every reasonable question — and a few odd ones — and have only had mumbles and avoidance for my troubles. I steel myself and ask in a firm tone.

Me: “Sir, may I see your ID?”

He looks up, shocked. The face is a forty-year-old man, even to my badly trained eye. As we make this eye contact, one supervisor who’s notoriously picky walks past, and I manage to get the ID to confirm the age, with the gentleman mumbling in an unusual accent that doesn’t suggest English as a first language.

After he’s gone, maybe an hour later, the supervisor catches me.

Supervisor: “You don’t ID people who are clearly over the age!”

She absolutely would not listen to how much he’d seemed to be avoiding me before I asked for ID; it was all my fault because I couldn’t see through his hat with my X-ray vision and he wasn’t wearing a badge with his age on it.

I know he may not have understood my questions and may have been mumbling in confusion, but I still tried to be clear about needing to see his face. At least the ID question got me what I needed.

My store has a very strict alcohol policy: no valid ID, no sale. It’s a relatively new policy, so when customers get annoyed, I tell them the truth: Rip van Winkle himself could be in my line and I’d still have to card him.

Enter these two. A husband and wife come through the self-checkout with a bunch of groceries and two kinds of beer.

Me: “Could I see your ID, please?”

Husband: “Sure.”

I take the ID and scan it on the self-checkout machine. It throws up an error message.

Me: “I’m sorry; it looks like it’s expired. Do you have any renewal paperwork with you?”

Husband: “No! When did it expire?”

Wife: “Honey, your birthday was yesterday.”

People will occasionally come in with voided IDs, but if they have the ID and renewal paperwork with them, I’ll usually let it slide and enter the birthdate manually. Since he clearly has no valid ID or the paperwork to prove he’s in limbo, I switch tactics.

Me: “Miss, do you have your ID?”

Wife: “Oh… I left it in the car.”

In the end, I had to confiscate their beer while the husband muttered about being fifty-two years old.