Back in the early 2000s, I had a summer job as a service representative for a phone tech company. Specifically, the company sold and serviced ISDN (Integrated Services Digital Network) telephones. My job was to fix phones that had been sent in, and if I couldn’t fix them, just take one that had already been fixed down from the shelves and send that out instead.

A man called the repair shop, having been searching desperately for someone who could fix an issue with his phone. Apparently, he had been given the run-around by all the salespeople who sold him this thing, making him more and more desperate for actual assistance.

At this time (in July), most people were on vacation, so it was even harder to find anyone who could help. There I was, a temp in my teens, alone in a repair shop, taking his call.

As he explained his problem to me, though, it did sound like a fairly simple fix; the issue he was experiencing should be fixed with a software update. The way to do that was to open up the phone, extract one chip from the circuit board, and put in a new pre-programmed one. I wasn’t quite sure about the next step, though, seeing as he lived in a city an hour’s drive away.

Me: “Would you like to send me the phone? Or maybe I can send you the chip you need if you’re able to fix it yourself?”

Customer: “No, I’ll be right down!” *Click*

Sure enough, an hour later, a car pulled up on the industrial estate. I went out to greet him and let him in (even though there was no customer reception area, just a warehouse). Once I got hold of his phone, I fixed his issue in about two minutes. It was as I thought: just open it up, extract the chip with a special tool, insert a new chip that we had ready on the shelves, test the phone, and screw it back together.

Customer: “How much do I owe you?”

Me: “Oh, nothing. That was so simple; I couldn’t charge anything for that. Plus, you drove all the way down here.”

The man insisted and left me some cash anyway. He then departed, ecstatic that he’d finally found someone who’d been able to help.

I learned a lot about customer service in that job — to be polite, helpful, and patient. Whether the customer is an ignoramus, unlucky, or just plain desperate, there’s always some way to help them. When you’re in the service sector, that’s the job.

I work in a fast food place. My coworker and I both coordinate the drive-thru, me on the radio, her collecting the money. Our backs are to each other as I make the drinks during the order while she assembles the bag and/or collects the money from the customer, so we playfully call each other “butt buddies” because we bump butts all the time. We’re the faces of the [Fast Food Place] drive-thru.

I took an order for a customer who was having a problem while at the window. The problem was entirely my fault, as I didn’t completely put in their order before [Coworker] rang them up. This caused a lot of confusion, and [Coworker] was very apologetic to the customers, and to ME even. This was totally my fault, yet [Coworker] was getting reamed by these customers for being “a stupid ‘bout to lose yo job b****”. It felt very not-from-a-progressive-or-accepting-place.

While they continued to scowl at her, they looked at me and handed me a fifty — a FIFTY!

Customer: “Don’t you go splitting that tip with her!”

Enter malicious compliance as I handed the fifty directly to [Coworker] as they drove away looking. Best and most indescribable expression ever.

[Coworker] kept pushing to give me twenty at least.

Me: “No way. You earned this one.”

I’m an African woman living in Australia, in a small town where the odds of running into anyone else who even looks like me are almost zero. Thankfully, while there aren’t any other African people in town, there are TONNES of people from other cultures and there’s very, very little racism. I love my small town.

I am in line at the grocery store when I hear a very small “Excuse me” from behind me. I turn around and see a beautiful little girl with a skin tone almost identical to mine.

Me: “Oh, hello, little one! Where did you come from?”

Little Girl: *Shyly* “My daddy said I could come to tell you your hair is beautiful.” 

She gestures at a redheaded white man standing about six feet away, shrugging his shoulders and smiling. I recognize him from my school; his oldest adopted daughter is in the year I teach, though in the other class.

Me: “Oh, thank you! They’re called twists. I’m glad you think they’re pretty!”

I notice the little girl’s hair. It’s done in two adorable little puffs with beautifully done braids down each side, sporting purple glittery beads, and it looks professionally done. It looks beautifully healthy, too, which is a miracle in a place where it’s hard to find good products for black hair.

Me: “Your hair is STUNNING! Where did you get that done? I want my hair to look like that.”

Little Girl: *Grinning* “My daddy learned it on YouTube!” 

I was stunned. I’ve seen dozens of foster kids and adopted kids go into white families who have no idea how to care for their hair. I’ve been helping one of my student’s mothers for months to get her hair in order.

The little girl skipped back to her dad. I was touched deeply that this man had gone to the trouble of learning a gigantic amount of information to keep his girl’s hair healthy and looking nice. It might seem like the bare minimum to most people, but a lot of people won’t do the work.

This story is part of our end-of-year Feel Good roundup for 2022!

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I used to work for a company that sold nuts and other snack food. We once received this email from a customer.

Customer: “Dear [Division] of [Company]: I write to you today to express my amazement at the level of security under which you place your Dry Roasted Peanuts. I am quite sure that they have not been tampered with in the store because I was not able to tamper with them once I got them home.

“I also asked my roommate to help me open them. She could not. We handed them to our third roommate. He could not. [Roommate #1] and I then had the same idea of cutting it open with a large butcher knife and repackaging them, but [Roommate #2] was not to be deterred. He continued his valiant effort by using ever-larger tools from his workbench in the garage. Wrench, nylon strap, pliers: all failed.

“In a final gasp of inspiration, he put the lid in a vise he had mounted to the workbench, figuring that even if he couldn’t twist it off, he could at least break the Seal Of Doom which your Nut Wizard had cast upon the lid.

“The vise having prevailed, I am also happy to inform you that your peanuts are pretty tasty.”

There I was, a pizza guy in my twenties, making my runs while contemplating just how worthwhile it was to throw my life away for minimum wage, having thoroughly had it with the world as a whole, and in the sort of mood where I would gladly fistfight God himself over the slightest inconvenience.

It was all business as usual. I arrived at the house. I got out of the car, went up to the door, and rang the bell. It was all so pathetically normal. And I was wholly unprepared for what was to happen next.

The door flew open. Behind it stood a child, no more than eight years old if I were to guess. But this boy was far from innocent. His hands moved in a flash, executing signs in rapid sequence. His eyes burned bright with fighting spirit. His shrill voice cried out:

Child: “FIREBALL JUTSU!”

I was devastated. A lowly genin like me could never withstand such a flawlessly executed Katon no Jutsu — not without extensive training and chakra cultivation. From that single attack, with a cry of pain, I fell to my knees, defeated. The superior ninja eagerly took his plunder and vanished without a trace.

But before I could leave, he returned, in his hand an offering of money. His clan leaders had already paid his debts, but it seemed he hadn’t been informed, so I told him:

Me: “The Uchiha clan already took care of it.”

With a smile as bright as the rising sun, he threw down a smoke bomb and disappeared to start his next mission. And with that, I withdrew, wondering how I would ever recover from such a crippling defeat.