I work security in Texas, and I’ve been doing it for ten years now. In this state, you need a license to work in unarmed security and a separate license to work in armed security (with a gun). Each license requires different levels of certifications and training.

When I first start, I am unarmed. I get offered a job with this company to walk around this cluster of office buildings (like a business park) overnight to make sure nobody is getting up to any shenanigans in the parking lots. It sounds easy enough, so I accept the job.

While I’m working, one of the supervisors comes out to check on me.

Supervisor: “So, how’s the night been?”

Me: “It’s been good so far.”

He looks down.

Supervisor: “Where’s your gun?”

Me: “Uhhh… I don’t have one; I’m not licensed for it.”

Supervisor: “Well, we can’t have that. This is supposed to be an armed post. Hang on.”

He goes back to his car, retrieves a small black bag, and comes back over to me.

Supervisor: “Luckily, I always carry a backup.”

He unzips the bag, reaches in, and pulls out a pistol in a holster. He goes to hand it to me.

Supervisor: “Here, use this for the night. You can bring it back to the office in the morning.”

Me: “I can’t legally carry that, though.”

Supervisor: “It won’t matter for just one night. We’ll get you a different post tomorrow.”

In Texas, State Troopers can do random checks on security officers to make sure their security licenses are on them and are valid. If they’re not, you can be arrested. I have this running through my mind as the supervisor is talking to me.

Me: “Naw, man, I’m not taking that risk.”

Supervisor: “Look, either carry it or you’re fired!”

Without saying a word, I just turned and walked back to my car. The supervisor shouted an insult at my back. I just turned around, said, “Have a good night,” and then left.

I never contacted them again, and they never reached out to me after that night, either.

My husband and I are at a family-themed resort in Orlando, finishing breakfast with our two children. He takes them to get more food while I sip my coffee. Almost immediately, a man appears.

Man: “Is this seat taken?”

He gestures to the seat my husband occupied not two minutes ago. I look around and see several empty tables.

Me: “There are open seats everywhere else.”

He sits down.

Man: “So, what’s your name?”

Me: “That’s my husband’s seat.”

Man: “I’m [Man].”

Me: “Please leave.”

Man: “How long are you—”

Me: *As loudly as I can* “LEAVE!”

The man nearly falls out of the chair. Several people around us have stopped eating and are now watching.

Man: “I’m just—”

Me: “Leave.”

Man: “No, I—”

Another man chimes in.

Man #2: “Hey, dude, you should leave her alone.”

Man: “I’m trying to be nice! She was sitting alone!”

Me: “I’m not alone.”

I point at my husband and children, now watching the show. My husband smiles and waves.

Man: “F****** b****.”

Man #2: *Standing up* “Look, you can’t talk like that. There are kids.”

[Man] makes a hasty retreat, though not into the resort. Instead, he walks out across the parking lot and leaves completely. My family sits down.

Husband: *Grinning* “Making friends?”

Me: “As always.”

We spoke with the front desk after breakfast. Apparently, the man lives nearby and often comes over to help himself to free food and harass women. They told us he is banned from the property but unless they call the police — which they don’t want to do because it would tarnish the resort’s reputation — they can’t do anything except keep an eye on him.

Customer: “Your abandoned trolleys are clogging up the foyer in my apartment building!”

Me: “Oh, I wonder how they got there.”

Customer: “Oh, I’ve been using them to bring my shopping home!”

I escalated it to the manager, who basically told her to bring them back or we’d call the police and accuse her of stealing store property!

My dad is an a**hole driver — cutting people off, deliberately driving to try to irritate other drivers, all of that. All of us have tried to get him to stop, but he always insists that he is just responding to what other drivers are doing.

However, there was a turning point when I was fifteen that shifted his behavior, at least somewhat.

It was a typical day. We were driving home from visiting family, and Dad was up to his typical antics, acting like he was driving in the Daytona 500 and needed to fight for every inch so he could be ahead of all the other cars.

He had just cut into a new lane, cutting off the car ahead of us that had signaled that they wanted to get over, and as we pulled up parallel to them, he stuck his hand out his open window to flip them off.

In response, a cup flew back through his window and splattered liquid all over him.

The liquid in question? Urine.

I have no idea how or why that car had a cup full of urine on hand. Maybe the kids I’d spotted in the backseat had to go and couldn’t hold it in time for them to find a restroom.

Whatever the case, it splashed all over my dad. He took one whiff, gagged, and promptly threw up all over himself and the steering wheel. We pulled into the next available parking lot, Dad gagging and puking, and he stumbled out of the car the moment he got it slowed down enough. Mom ended up having to scramble over into the seat to actually bring it to a stop and turn it off.

Mom sent me to a convenience store down the street for cleaning supplies, but we eventually managed to clean up enough for Dad to resume driving us home.

For the next two or three months after that, Dad was a picture-perfect driver, not even sticking a toe out of line. Even when he did end up backsliding, he was never quite as bad as he’d been before “the incident”.

A woman comes into my store with three small children in tow. Almost immediately, she abandons them to their own devices and wanders away to shop, leaving the kids screaming, running, and hitting each other with merchandise. I get on the intercom and make an announcement about how “for their own safety, children must be attended by adults at all times.”

My coworker eventually tracks down the mother, who begrudgingly stays a bit closer to her kids, but they continue acting up. I finally confront her.

Me: “Ma’am, this floor is solid concrete. They can’t be running. If they fall, they will seriously hurt themselves.”

Mother: “Oh, well, let them. Then maybe they’ll learn.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.