I’m in my late twenties and am currently the assistant manager of my entire store. I have a bit of a baby face at the best of times and got this job when I was twenty-five, so I’m pretty used to people scoffing when they hear I’m the manager.

I took six months off last year to deal with my divorce from my controlling, horrible ex-husband. (I would not recommend getting married at eighteen, kids!) As soon as I was free of him, I checked what was and wasn’t allowed in our dress code and finally started expressing myself the way I had desperately always wanted to.

It is the day I get back from my leave of absence. A regular problem customer is barking orders at one of my team and demands to speak to the manager, and she pages me down.

Customer: *Still yelling at my poor cashier* “…and I don’t want to talk to that mousy little thing who looks like she should still be in high school! Get me a real manager!”

Me: “That would be me, mate.”

The customer turned around and found me standing behind him. Gone was the shy person with the cross necklace, thick glasses, and light brown hair. My hair was now in an electric green pixie cut, I had tattoos covering both forearms and a nose ring, and I was wearing contact lenses.

We don’t wear uniforms in my store, so he was used to seeing me in the “modest” dresses my husband allowed me to wear. I’ve gotten REALLY into suits, so I was wearing dress pants, a black button-up shirt with some cool little chain details on the pocket, and combat boots that also had chains on the sides.

I really did expect more pushback, but the customer meekly apologized to my giggling cashier and scurried off into the night. I’ve never felt more confident or powerful.

I’m a foster home for dogs attached to the local pound. Sadly, that means a lot of dogs that make their way to my house have frankly seen some s*** and are not the friendliest of animals when they first arrive. I am known in our community for taking on the worst cases and mostly getting really good outcomes. I work from home at my part-time job, so people usually attribute it to the extra time I have to help the dogs adjust. I’ll tell anyone who will listen that it’s not me; it’s my three permanent dogs.

My first dog is a massive Doberman/cane corso mix named Silly. I got him when he was a year old — his name was Brutus back then — after his owner was arrested for dealing drugs. He came to me emaciated, constantly growling and snapping, with an untreated broken tail that had healed crooked and looked like an absurd flag sticking out of his butt. After a lot of hard work, he is now living his best life as a part-time scarf. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a 60-kg (132-lb) dog try and drape himself across your shoulders for a cuddle, but it’s an experience.

I think Silly does ambassador work for me; he’s always the first one to try to befriend the new dogs, showing them the best napping spots and refusing a treat unless I give all the other dogs a treat, too. If a scuffle breaks out, he shambles into the middle of it all and breaks it up. You don’t have much option but to move out of his way when he lumbers towards you. I haven’t heard him growl in years, but he is a big fan of lifting his head when the others are acting up and letting out a deafening bark, at which point the others all settle down. He is truly King Silly at my house.

My second dog is a golden retriever/lab mix named Butters. He is our playtime rehabilitation specialist. He failed out of being a service dog for being too dang friendly, and I wound up with him instead. I have seen numerous dogs come into my care who either never knew what a ball was or have forgotten. Worry not; Butters will show them! Every time I get a new dog come through, after meeting said dog, Butters digs and snuffles through the multiple toy baskets and produces what he believes is this dog’s ultimate toy. I have no idea what his criteria for choosing is. All I know is that every time he’s done it, that dog has figured out how to play within a week and that is, in fact, their favourite toy.

Butters is a big fan of chasey and loves a game of fetch, but he will also turn into a giant cat over a laser pointer. It’s hard to ignore his excitement and gentle good nature, so the others almost always join in. It’s lovely to watch a stray who was terrified of their own shadow turn into a giant overgrown puppy playing with Butters, who will play tug of war with anything but treats the new dogs so gently and always lets them win.

My third dog is a German Shepherd mixed with something round— either a pitbull, a staffy, or a boxer. He’s got long fur and stumpy little legs and a wee bit of bobblehead syndrome; despite being built like a barrel, his head is still too big for his body, and he looks a tiny bit like a child’s drawing of a dog. I only have him because an elderly man’s children bought him for their dad for companionship and he couldn’t keep up with caring for him, so instead, we go visit the man once a week so he can see his old owner.

He is the group therapist and I affectionately call him Doctor Timber, though he’ll answer to Doc or Timber. More than once, I have found him sitting quietly with a new recruit who is watching Butters act like a fool with the other dogs but is too scared to join in. He doesn’t mind if you want to sit down and not participate; he’ll sit right down with you so you aren’t alone. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him sleep alone when we have a new dog in the mix; he’s always snuggled up either next to or in their bed with them so they won’t be lonely in the night. His favourite thing is when we get puppies in. They firmly become Doc’s little shadows within a day as he teaches them how to dog.

I once had a dog come in who had been beaten severely by his previous owners and was snarling at everyone and everything who came near. This was the closest call I have ever had with a dog biting me. I have been bitten a bunch of times — it comes with the territory — but this one was simply so scared that he couldn’t calm down enough to stop. I’d climbed onto my kitchen counter to create some distance. Doc came charging in, and I tried to scramble down to separate them — I didn’t want Doc getting hurt — but whatever Doc said in “Dog” was enough. By the time I got onto the floor, the barky, snarly mess had stopped, and I was looking at a very scared but very contrite bull terrier who wouldn’t look at me but came shuffling forward to lay next to my feet and look ashamed of himself. Doc never touched the dog, and the dog never touched him, but he certainly made him chill out. 

Any time anyone says I do the best work with difficult dogs, I laugh. I don’t do the work; I just have the thumbs to open the food, the credit card to pay the vet, and the car to go to the dog park. I am, at best, the office manager of my trio, who are healing dogs one intake at a time!

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I am bringing out a batch of freshly baked bagels in our bakery. It’s pride month, but our bakery has the pride flag on the window all year round, and staff are encouraged to wear pins to be allies or show belonging to marginalized groups if they want to. I am a cis-gendered white male, but I am wearing a pin that is half pride flag, half trans flag, with text in the middle saying “you can be yourself with me.”

I am stocking the bagels when I hear a gasp behind me. I turn to see the owner of the bakery serving an older woman and her daughter. The gasp has come from the older woman customer.

Customer: “[Bakery Owner], I don’t know if you know what these things mean, but your bagels are being handled by a transvestite!”

Owner: “I… I don’t think that’s right, ma’am. I believe that if my worker was, as you say, the term is transgendered, which they’re not, right?”

Me: “No, I’m not. I’m just showing support for the trans community.”

Owner: “There you go, not that it would matter if they were.”

Customer: “I think we will be taking our business elsewhere. It’s a shame, but I can’t be eating things that have been handled by… those people.”

Both customers start to walk out, with the daughter looking more embarrassed than anything else.

Owner: “Please, ma’am, why don’t you come back tomorrow? I promise there will be some changes around here!”

Customer: “Fine, I’ll give you until tomorrow to sort all this out.”

They leave and the owner turns to me, with a devilish glint in his eye. I ask what he’s planning but he simply states:

Owner: “If that customer is stupid enough to not notice the pride flag on the window for the last few years, then I think I need to make things more… obvious.”

The rest of the day goes like normal. I come into work the next day and the owner and baking staff have been in since the early hours as usual, but there is something different about this morning’s batch.

Owner: “What do you think?”

Me: “Everything is… rainbow-colored?”

Owner: “Exactly! I’ve seen the recipes on YouTube for years and practiced a little at home, but I thought f*** it, let’s try it in the store!”

After we opened, the customer came back as she had threatened, noticeably without her daughter this time.

Customer: “I’m back and I hope that… that… oh…”

Her powers of observation have finally been overwhelmed. She can see nothing but rainbow-colored bagels, loaves, croissants, donuts, and everything else. Not one of our products baked that morning has been left out.

Owner: “Sorry, ma’am, I tried to get all the gay out, but I think I pressed the wrong button and put more gay back in.”

Customer: “You have lost a customer today!”

Owner: “Aww, really? Sure you don’t want one of our new lemon, guava, and blackberry tarts? We’re calling them LGBTs!”

The customer storms out in a huff, and we all share a laugh.

Me: “That was amazing, but… but what if the customers don’t want their bread full of so much coloring?”

Owner: “We have some plain boring ones in the oven, so I think we’ll be fine. Even if no one wants them, that was so worth it!”

Some customers actually do want the super colorful baked goods! Later in the afternoon, the embarrassed daughter from before comes rushing in.

Customer’s Daughter: “My mom has been screaming at me on the phone all morning about you guys and I wanted to see if it was true!”

Me: *Looking at the remainder of our rainbow products.* “I guess it is!”

Customer’s Daughter: *Laughs.* “That’s amazing! I’ll take all the bagels that are left! Will you have more tomorrow? If I keep buying them my mom will stop coming over for breakfast!”

Me: “Here’s twenty.”

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I live in a relatively small town, but it’s near two larger ones and a city. MOST of my customers I can recognize, but we do get new ones, of course. I have three customers who are completely deaf: a husband and wife, who are very nice, and a homeless man, who is not so nice. The man always asks for a paper and pencil so he can ask us questions, but he can read lips. I am pretty used to dealing with him.

One day, however, he was in my coworker’s line. This was during the height of the global health crisis, so we were all wearing masks. He mimed for the pencil and paper, but she didn’t have any. Then, he kept pointing at the screen, trying to ask her a question, and my coworker was getting annoyed.

Coworker: “I already told you: that’s the price it is.”

The man tried to ask something, getting just as annoyed.

Coworker: *Louder* “That’s the price it is!”

She repeated this several times, getting louder and louder. I was in the middle of helping an elderly customer, so I hadn’t said anything, but she was starting to get way too loud. I looked over and saw who the customer was.

Me: “[Coworker]. [COWORKER]!”

She looked up finally.

Me: “He’s deaf! You’ll need to pull your mask down so he can read your lips, or write it down somewhere!”

Coworker: “Oh!” 

Instantly, she started to use sign language. After the customers left, I looked at her in surprise.

Me: “You know how to sign?! Wow! That’s awesome!”

Coworker: “Yeah, took it in college. Do you know any?”

Me: “I know ‘thank you’, ‘orange’, and ‘a**hole’.” *Pauses* “It was in a movie.”

I am at an arts and crafts store in search of picture frames. I’m searching for a precut natural white matte board in my desired size because the store is grotesquely understaffed and there is a line at the framing counter. I hear [Woman #1], an older lady, ask [Woman #2] for assistance; [Woman #2] is wearing a shirt that matches the employees’ smocks.

Woman #2: *Quickly and almost rudely* “I don’t work here.”

She grabs her cart and walks away.

I don’t know why this attracts my attention. Maybe it’s the desperation in [Woman #1]’s voice, or maybe it is store acoustics funneling their voices to me. I really don’t know.

[Woman #1] stands for a moment before she uses a seeing-impaired cane to walk toward me in the main aisle.

Me: “I don’t work here, but can I try to help you?”

She gives a huge sigh and smiles.

Woman #1: “I need help finding yarn; I’m making a baby blanket. The colors needed are white or cream, yellow, pink, and blue, and I can’t see enough to pick them out.”

Me: “I can definitely help you with that.”

Woman #1: “Can you lend an arm? It’s crowded here, and I walk faster with a person leading.”

Me: *Laughing* “Well, speed isn’t on my menu. I have a walking boot and crutches. If you want, I can lead and you can follow. Unfortunately, I don’t have an open arm.”

Woman #1: “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll just find an employee.”

Me: “No, it’s not a problem! I’ve only seen one employee anyway, and they’re at the framing counter with a line of people.”

We figure out all the logistics, and as we get to the yarn, we share names. I learn that she had her vision until “a pair of hands and a foot ago”, and that her husband dropped her off while he went to the hardware store. We get to the yarns and start by finding what feel of yarn she wants. Then, I start describing the colors.

Me: “They have barely pink, light salmon, and cotton candy pink. Here there’s banana skin yellow and banana flesh yellow. And this is almost an orange-pink.”

Woman #1: “You’re describing them so well! Thank you!”

We gathered the bundles of yarn that she wanted, finished our shopping together, and even checked out one after the other. She insisted on buying me a chocolate bar as a thank-you.

Total grandma move there, right?

Mama Setia, I hope your great-grandbaby’s blanket turns out wonderfully soft and as loving and sweet as you are.