(I am working alone at the front of a juice bar. My coworker is in the back stocking up on ingredients when a young couple comes up to order one drink.)

Me: “That’s going to be $4.58, please.”

(The guy starts going through his wallet. He clearly has a few $1, $5, and $10 bills, but looks through his pockets for change. He only has a few pennies and dimes.)

Guy: *to girlfriend* “Do you have any change?”

(The girl starts looking through her wallet and comes up with none. She clearly has lots of $1, $10, and $20 bills.)

Girl: “No, sweetie. I don’t.”

Guy: *to me* “Is there any way you can pay for the coins?” *points at my tip jar*

Me: “No, I can’t do that, sir.”

(The guy and girl both beg for a few seconds and I continue to deny their request.)

Girl: *huffs and pulls out a dollar bill and tosses it at me* “All right, b****. Here’s the money.”

(I make an exasperated face and complete the transaction. I try to hand the boyfriend his change when the girlfriend speaks up.)

Girl: “Let this b**** have the change. She clearly wants to hog it all, anyway.”

(I ignore her and hand the boyfriend his change and make his order. I usually make drinks really quickly, and this case is no exception. There is also a huge line, so it’s only natural of me to speed it up. In the middle of blending together the ordered drink, the guy approaches me.)

Guy: “I’m sorry about my girlfriend’s behavior. Can you not make my drink taste bad?”

(I stare at him a while and then reassure him that I would do no such thing. I also explain to him why I couldn’t help them pay for their own drink; I’m not allowed to even if I want to, and I also have to split the tip with my coworker. I then quickly hand him his drink and try to help the next customer when the girl approaches me again.)

Girl: “Listen here, b****. I want you to know—”

(The boyfriend cut her off and explained to her that I couldn’t pay for the drinks because of my coworker. NOT because they were completely capable of paying themselves, NOT because it’s wrong to put someone down because they aren’t paying for their things, but because I had to SPLIT my tip. The addition of them assuming that I would stoop low enough to sabotage their drink ruined my entire day.)

(I become a manager in a post office in the early 1980s, and quickly gain a reputation with the union workers. It is first earned when I am called in to handle an office that is delivering an incredibly low percentage of the mail, which has only worsens in the week before I go in. After the introductions, I start my observations, and nobody’s behavior or stations immediately stand out as unusual. However, just as I turn my back to go double check the numbers, I spy someone throwing a few items into the pile for the Dead Letter Office, the resting place of any mail that absolutely cannot be delivered no matter the circumstances. On a hunch, I inspect an item within the obscenely large pile awaiting shipment, and I find the answer. Since the addresses written on the envelopes don’t magically change by themselves, even if the intended recipients’ addresses do, the post office itself has to change it for them after the change of address is filed. Today, that’s not a big deal, since we have computers, but this is the 1980s; while I cannot conclusively say the post office hasn’t started implementing computers yet, I can say that we aren’t anywhere near ready to begin the transition. As a result, looking up the change of address means extra leg-work and going through overstuffed filing cabinets looking for a matching name with just eyes. When mail reaches the Dead Letter Office, the process is repeated in order to ensure the item actually cannot be delivered and isn’t a simple error. If the Dead Letter Office is able to find an address for any mail, the mail is returned with the new address written on. In order to minimize their own work, this office has been foisting their own job of looking up forwarding addresses onto the Dead Letter Office. Rather than taking the one to three days it would normally take for this process to be completed, it instead takes up to a week to find the address and deliver it. I am never able to confirm this, but I believe the further drop in numbers is the result of a silent rebellion from the Dead Letter Office; they have realized they are being forced to do someone else’s job and have stopped applying new addresses to the mail, but the mail is then quickly sent back to the Dead Letter Office, trapping it in perpetual transit between the two. Rather than own up to having the evidence immediately, I instead talk to the other managers and supervisors, and make them agree to abide by whatever I say. Then, I gather the whole team for a meeting, after wheeling in the mail for the Dead Letter Office.)

Me: “As I said earlier, I’m here today because your numbers are down and we all want that problem fixed. After walking around, I noticed your mail for the Dead Letter Office is considerably higher than average. I can’t help but wonder if the mail in here is actually dead, something you’re supposed to be confirming yourself before it’s added to this pile. So, here’s what’s going to happen from now on. At the close of business every day, the other managers and I are going to review every item in this pile. If one item — just one item — could have been delivered, we’re calling in the inspectors, launching a formal investigation, and anyone it declares responsible for wilfully misdirecting mail will be fired.”

(I walk away and motion the rest of management to follow. No sooner than my back is turned, I hear the pile being deconstructed. I settle into my office afterwards. Not even five minutes after I close the meeting I receive a phone call.)

Me: “[Location] Post Office. This is [My Name]; how can I…”

Caller: “Who the f*** do you think you are?”

Me: “Who is this?”

Caller: “What are you, an a**hole?”

Me: *hangs up*

(The phone rings again almost instantly.)

Caller: “Did you just hang up on me?”

Me: “Who is this?”

Caller: “Answer the f****** question!”

Me: *hangs up*

(The cycle repeated for a bit until he finally figured out I wasn’t going to let some random person talk to me like that. I later found out from another manager that he was the union rep, and was not very pleased when he found out what I said during the meeting. And for those curious, I didn’t have to stay late that night looking up forwarding addresses, or any other night, because there was almost no mail being sent to the Dead Letter Office after that.)

(I work as a parking attendant. My job is mostly to direct people where to park, and to occasionally take payments if they can’t figure out our automatic pay stations. Parking citations are written up by a separate branch of our department, but I still sometimes get customers demanding I explain why they got citations. This particular one approaches my kiosk with a citation in hand.)

Customer: “Hey, can I show you something?”

Me: “I can’t actually leave the booth, I’m sorry. What seems to be the problem?”

Customer: “I’ve got a note on the back of my bike that explains where my parking permit is, but I still got a citation. I know it says it’s just a warning, but it’s worked for the last three weeks.”

(The customer hands me the citation; it states it was given out as a no permit/payment warning. He then walks over to his bike and angrily pulls out a sign that says, “Permit is under the backseat. Lift to check.” He’s so agitated that he simply drops the bike seat to the ground and kicks it away so he can pull out his valid permit, as well.)

Customer: “I don’t know if you got a new guy checking payment or whatever, but it’s not my fault if the [disabled slur] can’t read.”

(I can’t do anything about the citation, but as it’s a warning, it’s not a huge issue.)

Me: “Well, if you’re worried about it happening again, I can give you an email to contact our office. Or, if you have time, you can go across the street and talk to them right now.”

Customer: “Listen! It worked before! It’s not my fault if they can’t read!”

Me: “Sir, if you would like—”

Customer: “Whatever! I’m not paying for this.”

(He tossed the crumpled citation slip — again, a warning that he would not have had to pay for — onto my desk and walked away, cursing under his breath. The kicker? I looked at the citation slip again, and it had a note on it that his backseat was locked down and there was no way to check under it to see his permit. Good job reading, friend.)

(Our hotel is a few blocks away from a homeless shelter, so sometimes the homeless come to feast at our breakfast buffet. A young man in his twenties sits and eats like a wolf.)

Coworker: “Sir, are you a guest here?”

Man: “Naw.”

Coworker: “This is only for guests; you must leave.”

Man: “I’ll eat if I want to! Ain’t no skinny wimmin gonna tell me ta leave!” *still eating like crazy*

Me: “Sir, if you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.”

Man: “This is a public place!”

(This is a common misconception; though our business is open to the public, it is privately owned.)

Me: “No, it’s not public, and if you continue to stay, I’ll call the police.”

Man: *with full mouth* “Eff you!” *swallows* “D*** government controlled b****es.”

(I picked up the phone and dialed. The man’s grumbles got louder when I asked for the police. A cop showed up, and the man suddenly got up, grabbed about five donuts and three muffins, then ran around like crazy with his cheeks full like a chipmunk. The cop tried to grab him but he was super quick. My coworker and I were dumbfounded, and we never saw him again.)

(I work nights, Sunday night to Thursday, with Friday and Saturday nights off. I leave for work around nine pm due to the length of my commute. About four pm one Sunday afternoon, I’m roused from a rather peaceful sleep by a series of knocks on the door… rather loud, insistent knocks. I drag myself to the door and open it to find a police officer and one of my neighbors standing on my porch.)

Me: *bleary-eyed and yawning* “Whasthisbout?”

Officer: “There have been some calls about your activities, and we felt the need to check on you.”

Me: “‘Activities’? What do you mean, ‘activities’?”

Officer: “Do you mind stepping outside?”

Me: “Considering you just woke me up from a deep sleep? Yeah. What’s this all about?”

Neighbor: “I’ll tell you what it’s about, mister! No one ever sees you during the day, and we all see you wandering off to God-knows-where late at night, only to return in the early morning! That’s not right. We know you’re up to something, and we’re not putting up with your immoral lifestyle any longer!”

Me: “Immoral lifestyle?”

Neighbor: *to the officer* “It’s just not right. He’s probably selling drugs or something. I don’t feel safe with him around here!”

Officer: *to her* “I’ll handle it, ma’am. Sir, we’ve had several calls, and it’s starting to become a problem. Drugs are an issue in this area, so it’d be easier for everyone if you just cooperated and told us what you are doing. Mind stepping out here so we can talk?”

Me: “I’m heading to work.”

Neighbor: “See?! He admits it!”

Officer: “And where do you work, sir? Do you have a number we can confirm that with?”

Me: “I do.” *rattles off work phone number*

Officer: *not really paying attention as he writes* “And what do you do there, sir?”

Me: “I’m the night duty watch sergeant.”

Officer: *still not paying attention* “Uh-huh. And where is this?”

Me: “[Local Prison].”

(The officer blinks and then looks up. He looks back to the notes and then says slowly:)

Officer: “You work at [Prison]?”

Me: “Yep. I’m the night watch sergeant over B block.”

(The neighbor’s smug face has started to sour at this point as she looks to the officer. He, however, turns on her.)

Officer: “So, let me get this straight. You see him leaving late at night and then coming back early in the morning… and it never dawned on you that maybe he works nights?”

Neighbor: “But… it’s immoral! He should be at home at night, and he never shows up to church; we’ve not seen him there once! This is America. It’s a law; he has to go to church on Sunday!”

Officer: “No, lady, it’s not a law. There’s no such law.”

(Turning back to me, he nodded, apologized for waking me up, and then told the lady that he was done. As I was closing my door, I heard her shrill voice screaming, “But it’s the LAW! This is a Christian nation; he HAS to go to church!” The next day, after I got off work, I stopped by the local church and had a word with the pastor there. He’s something of an old family friend. I related what the lady had said, and that she’d called the police on me. He said that he wasn’t at all surprised, and noted that she’d come to him with it first, only to leave in a huff when he explained that he wasn’t going to do anything about it and advised her that it was best left alone. I lived there another six months with the biddy glowering at me every day as I came home from work before I rented another house closer to work.)

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