Years ago, when I was starting out as an illustrator, I worked a full-time job and took commissions on the side. As I was still starting out, I didn’t charge as much as I perhaps should have, but not so little that I was basically working for free.

The office job was absolutely soul-sucking, but hey, you gotta pay the rent somehow. To make it a little more bearable, I would often draw during my lunch break. It would always be for pleasure, rather than commissions.

One day, one of my colleagues saw me working on a piece and complimented it.

Colleague: “I love your art style.”

Me: “Oh. Thank you.”

Colleague: “Do you take commissions?”

I admit, I had been both expecting and dreading this question. The moment people find out you can draw – or do anything creative, really – they waste no time in trying to get you to make stuff for them. This wouldn’t be a problem if not for the fact that people also tend to expect to get such things for very little or even for free.

I could deal with such entitled requests online. It’s easy enough to ignore or block a persistent, entitled virtual person. But when they’re somebody you see every day, in person… It’s harder and more awkward. Still, I needed the money.

Me: “I do. I can send you my rates if you like.”

I expected pushback, but [Colleague] just smiled and nodded.

Colleague: “Of course! I’ll email you details of what I’d like, if that’s okay?”

Me: “Yes, that would be great!”

When I got back from lunch, there was an email from [Colleague]. Her sister loved frogs, so she wanted an A4 illustration of frogs at a Renaissance fair (her other favourite thing). I draw a lot of animals, and I’ve certainly been to my share of Renaissance fairs, so this was no problem.

I sent her a link to my website, which contained my portfolio, gave her a quote, and braced myself.

Sure enough, a while later, [Colleague] came to my desk.

Colleague: “Oh, hi, [My Name]. Do you have a minute to talk about the commission?”

I nodded. Better to get this over with.

Colleague: “It’s just… I’m not sure your rate is very fair.”

I cursed myself internally, wishing I’d told her I wasn’t taking commissions right now.

Colleague: “It isn’t nearly as high as it should be for the quality of your work. I can’t believe you’d charge so little for a full illustration like this.”

At first, I thought I’d misheard her. It took me a minute to process what she had said.

Colleague: “If it’s alright with you, how about I pay you [double the amount I had quoted]?”

Me: “I… uh… sure.”

Colleague: *Smiling.* “Good. Where can I send the money?”

When I finally picked my jaw off the floor, we went over the details, I gave her my payment info, and we went back to work. [Colleague] paid me the full amount by the end of the day.

I finished her piece a few weeks later, and I presented it to her at work. She was absolutely thrilled and left me glowing reviews on my website.

Now, you might be thinking that’s how commissions work, right? It certainly SHOULD be, but in my experience, it rarely is. I’ve lost count of how many people rail against me for daring to charge for my work. Excuses range from “But it’s just a hobby!” to “Your work is s*** (even though I desperately want you to draw me something)!” and everything in between. Even some members of my own family have felt entitled to illustrations for free.

So, you can imagine how refreshing it was to deal with [Colleague]. She commissioned me several more times, and I even received commission requests from some of her family members. Thankfully, all of them were as respectful as [Colleague].

From what I gathered from our chats here and there, she wasn’t creative herself or anything, but she was a lover of all things creative. Maybe she couldn’t draw or sew or sculpt, but she loved and enjoyed art in all its forms. As far as she was concerned, such things had value, and therefore creators should be paid for their time and effort.

Whenever I’m having a rough day with an extra entitled client, I think about [Colleague], and remember that not everyone is an entitled selfish douche nozzle.

It’s the late 2000s, and some friends and I have saved up for a trip backpacking around various parts of Europe for a month of our summer break. We’ve just arrived in Barcelona, checked into our hostel, it’s getting late, so we decide to see where there is to eat that’s within walking distance.

I should note, two of us speak Spanish, two don’t.

We find our way to a hole-in-the-wall place advertising tapas and wine and decide to poke our heads in and look at a menu, but we immediately have to leave – it’s FILLED with smoke, and one of my friends has asthma.

Some regular steps out into the road to ask us what’s wrong, and the two of us who know Spanish explain about the asthma problem and he says:

Regular: “Oh, but I come here all the time and know the owners – I bet they’d let you eat in the back room, let me ask!”

The “back room” quickly proves to be a living room, belonging to the family that owns the place. It is, indeed, smoke-free, so we sit down and ask for a menu. One of the owners says with a smile:

Owner: “There’s no menu. We just have things.”

We order a bottle of the house wine, and they proceed to show us a sequence of tapas and serve us whichever ones we like, and go out into the main area with whichever ones we decline. The wine arrives, and one of my friends, who’s just completed a wine certification course back home in the States, says:

Friend: “This is the best sparkling wine I’ve ever had.”

At that, two people drop their forks. One says:

Other Friend: “Guys, I think this is a scam where they charge you some inordinate amount, and we need to get out now before the bill gets any worse.”

On the next round, they top us up with some sausage we had enjoyed earlier, and I flag them down and ask about the bill.

Staff Member: “Oh, don’t worry!”

He hurriedly leaves. Now we’re worrying even more, frankly.

The next time she enters, I explain:

Me: “We are students, we don’t have a lot of money; we will happily pay what we need to pay, but it would help us be less worried if we can see the prices.”

Staff Member: “Thirty euros.”

That one didn’t need translating.

Other Friend: “Thirty euros each?”

Staff Member: “No. Thirty euros, total.”

The other Spanish speaker at the table, the one who had taken the wine class, says”

Friend: “Good, and how much for the wine?”

Staff Member: “Thirty euros… for the food and the wine.”

Then she served us the next course of tapas.

And that is the finest hospitality I’ve enjoyed anywhere on the planet. 

In the years since then, we’ve all racked our brains and searched Google Maps to try to find exactly where that place is, so we might recommend it to others. Unfortunately, we have never been able to. I hope they’re still around after all this time.

I’m working my first week (and my first job!) at a fast-food place. We’re about twenty minutes to closing, and I’m cleaning up a closed section of the restaurant. The store manager comes over to me. We haven’t actually interacted until this point:

Store Manager: “You’re [My Name], who started this week, right?”

Me: “That’s me!”

Store Manager: “Stop what you’re doing and come with me. I need to show you something.”

Me: “Uh… okay?”

I walk with him outside to a car that has pulled up outside our store. The driver, some guy, has been staring into our store for the last five minutes. The store manager walks up to the car and gently taps on the window.

Store Manager: “Sir, I know you can hear me, so I am going to explain this loud and clear. The store closes in twenty minutes. You are intending to act out your normal schtick of driving through our drive-thru a minute before closing, making some overcomplicated order for the h*** of it, complaining that everything is wrong and demanding it to be remade, and then sitting at the drive-thru several minutes more to check your items, keeping us all back long after closing.”

Driver: *Rolling down his window.* “I don’t know what gives you the right to approach some innocent guy in the parking lot and—”

Store Manager: *Ignoring him and pushing on.* “—So I am making this very clear. If you wish to order through our drive-thru, you do it right now. You are here, in person; there is nothing preventing you from doing so. You can order whatever you wish, but you will accept the order the first time. There will be no do-overs. You will be gone before the store closes. I have ordered my workers to have the drive-thru window closed at 10 PM, regardless of whether you are there or not. There will be no refunds. Calls to Corporate will result in zero reprimands being made to my staff or me. Corporate has been informed of your behavior, and they have decided that the amount of overtime you inflict upon the store is not worth keeping you happy.”

My manager has finally finished, and the driver is silent.

Store Manager: “I’m done. If you’re not in the drive-thru in the next fifteen seconds, you’re not being served.”

The driver gives us both the finger, roars his engine loudly to make some kind of a point, and screeches out of the parking lot.

Me: “What was that all about?”

Store Manager: “One thing you’re going to learn real fast working in the service industry, is that there will always be miserable sacks of s*** like that a**hole I just spoke to. They get their jollies from making people like us miserable, expecting us to have to bow down to them every time simply because they’re the customer.”

Me: “Seriously?! Why?”

Store Manager: “Maybe they have no one who respects them in their regular life, so they take it out on us. Maybe they’re on a power trip and we’re easy targets. F*** if I know or care, leave that to a psychologist. All I know is that people like that will get nowhere with me as long as I am the manager. You’re allowed to tell people like that to go to Hell. F*** what Corporate says, and f*** that “customer is always right” bull-s***, alright?”

Me: “Uh… alright.”

Store Manager: “Good. I’m glad you got to see that on your first week. Feel free to share the story with anyone else who needs to hear it.”

So, I did!

About a week into the first lockdown in the UK, my phone decides that it is time to give up on life. Perfect timing!

I’m almost due for an upgrade anyway, so look online for a new phone. I see the phone I want on my provider’s website, a nearly-new refurbished model is half price, and a new contract that is only £5 more a month than my existing one.

But their website is suffering under the weight of everybody being at home trying to do upgrades or buy new phones – it was a thing everybody did during lockdown for some reason?

The order gets nowhere, and I have no choice but to ring them on my landline. After being on hold for 45 minutes, I finally get an answer and go through the process for upgrading and getting my refurbished phone. And then… nothing happens.

Assistant: “Oh, I know our systems are slow, what with, you know, everything, but this is really, really slow. Sorry about that.”

Me: “We’re in lockdown, I’ve literally got nothing better to do than wait for this, so, well, we’ll just wait.”

Assistant: “I’m going to try calling my manager from my landline to see if she can do anything.”

Me: “Landline? Oh, of course, you’re working from home too! That’s good, I was worried you were crammed in a call centre.”

Assistant: “Third day, but the first where the phone they gave me has worked. Don’t tell anyone I said that! Let me try my manager. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

Me: “Take your time, I really have nothing better to do!”

Assistant’s Cat: “Meow.”

Me: “…?”

Assistant’s Cat: “Meow?”

Me: “Hello there, sir or madam. Are you enjoying having your minion home all day?

Assistant’s Cat: “Meow! Merrrvrow! Meow.”

Me: “I thought so. My dogs are loving having me home all day, too. Are you getting extra treats?”

Assistant’s Cat: “Merrrvrow meow.”

Me: “That’s awful. You should tell her to behave better.”

Assistant: “Are… are you talking to my cat?”

Me: “Yes. And your cat needs more treats, so get on that. Immediately, it sounded urgent.”

Assistant: “Noted. Anyway, my manager sorted the problem, so we can finish the order if you’re ready?”

Me: “Brilliant! Go for it.”

Assistant: “So, that’s a brand-new [phone], upgrade fee waived, and a £5 a month loyalty discount applied to your renewed contract at the existing price.”

Me: “Sorry, say that again?”

Assistant: “You’re the first person who hasn’t shouted at me today. That got you the brand-new phone. My manager waived the upgrade fee because you were so patient. The loyalty discount is from Georgio because you agreed he needed more treats.”

Me: “Uh, but, I, uh…”

Assistant: “The new phone should arrive tomorrow by courier, but with, you know, everything, give it three days or so. If it doesn’t appear, ring us back with the reference in the email I’ve sent you.”

Me: “But… I… uh…”

Assistant: “Is there anything else Georgio can help you with today?”

Me: “No, he’s been brilliant! And so have you! I’m amazed!”

Assistant: “There’s going to be a survey when I disconnect, so, you know, rate Georgio as you see fit. Stay well!”

Me: “You too! Thank you!”

Yes, she – and specifically Georgio – got five out of five on everything.

After years of grad school, where my salary was strictly defined by my role, and a government fellowship with clear pay rules, I was interviewing for my first job in the private sector.

Interviewer: “And if we were to select you for this position, can you specify what salary you would find acceptable?”

Me: “Well… if I were to stay at [Agency], I would get an increase to [amount], and then adjusting for local cost of living and relocation expenses, I end up at [salary], so…”

Suddenly, I realize my interviewer’s image has frozen. A second later, there’s a notice that she disconnected from the video call. My cell rings.

Me: “Hello?”

Interviewer: “Oh, no, no, no, hon, you did NOT ask me for [salary] right before I very accidentally yanked out my ethernet cable. This is the private sector, girl, don’t give me none of that calculated justification, you just say “I’m hoping for a salary around [number]” with your WHOLE confidence behind it and I just nod and we move on, you understand?”

The number they said is about 140% of the salary I was trying to justify.

Me: “Whaaa…”

Interviewer: *Click.*

She rejoins the video call.

Interviewer: “I’m so sorry about that interruption. I had a brief technical problem. Thank you so much for your patience. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your answer earlier.”

Me: “… I’m hoping for a salary around [number].”

When I got the offer, it was just a little shy of that number. When I started, I found HR, found my interviewer, and brought her cookies.