(I work at a bar near the beach. It’s usually a popular spot, especially when Spring Break comes around. A trio of college students comes in ordering the Spring Break special, which is where you get pitchers of beer for $1 each until you take a bathroom break, after which it becomes regular price. Our bathrooms do not have any windows and are guarded by two security guards who stamp every patron who leaves the bathroom so management can keep track of everyone. Two of the college students used the bathroom but the third person continues to keep drinking without using the bathroom. After over 60 minutes of drinking he orders another pitcher.)

Customer: *inebriated* “Yo, bro. Another pitcher, please!”

Me: “Right away, sir. It’s amazing that you keep going like this.”

Customer: “Yes, all this drinking is making me thirsty.”

(The people nearby, including the manager, laugh when he says that. The manager decides to step in.)

Manager: “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what is your secret? I mean everyone I’ve seen usually goes to the bathroom after 30 minutes of drinking but you haven’t visited the bathroom once. How do you do it?”

Customer: “All right, I’ll show you.”

(The man proceeded to lower his pants and reveal he was wearing an adult diaper. It was soggy looking and yellow like popcorn butter. The manager was so shocked and disgusted by this he took out his cell phone, took a picture of the guy, then whistled for one of the security guards to have the guy escorted from the bar. He then ordered the other two patrons to pay for the difference since they ‘cheated.’ Scared by the security guards, they paid and left me a nice tip!)

(I work Saturdays at a local pub and it tends to be a very quiet shift. The chef comes up to the bar to check the evening’s reservations just as a customer is ordering.)

Customer: “Can I have the ham and tomato baguette, but no tomato?”

(I look to the chef and he nods.)

Me: “Certainly.” *hits button for ham and tomato baguette* “What table was that?”

Customer: “Table six.”

(The chef leaves, giving me a thumbs up so I know he knows what to do.)

Me: “Okay that’s [price].”

Customer: *handing over the money* “Don’t you have to write a note?”

Me: “A note?”

Customer: “On the till, don’t you have to write a note letting the chef know?”

Me: *hands them their change* “No, he already knows.”

Customer: “How? Is he psychic?”

Me: “He was the guy that was just up here. He heard you.”

Customer: *walking away, muttering* “More fun when I thought he was psychic.”

(My friend and I are having a drink and a catch-up since it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other. A man has been interrupting us, inviting himself into our private conversation and buying us drinks we don’t want, without asking us. We need to get away but we’re afraid of confronting him as we’re both small women in our early twenties and he’s far bigger, older, and has already been extremely threatening to the barmaids. He steps away to the bar for just a second.)

Friend: “We need to get away.”

Me: “I know. I know. Look, leave it to me. I’ve got a plan.”

(The man comes back.)

Me: “Well, it’s one. I’ve got to get back and get ready for that party at [Different Friend]’s.”

Friend: “Oh, right, then.”

(I stand up. My friend waves to me.)

Me: “Aren’t you coming?”

Friend: “I don’t think I was invited. I would’ve heard about this party if I was, right?”

Me: “No, you’re invited but we have to go right now.”

Friend: “Are you sure? Why would a party start in the afternoon? Don’t her parties normally start around seven?”

(She continued to think that this was a real party and questioned me in front of the threatening guy until I’d pulled her out into the street. She’s still embarrassed by the story!)

(I’m out with a friend who has zero patience with men who won’t listen when you say you aren’t interested, and even less patience with pick-up artists. We’re at the bar having a conversation, and the guy to her right starts trying to chat her up. She keeps looking at me and completely ignoring him until this happens.)

Guy: “HEY!” *grabbing her wrist* “I’m TALKING to you!”

Friend: “And a person with half a brain figures out that somebody who ignores them doesn’t want to talk to them. And don’t touch me.” *pulls her wrist away*

Guy: *suddenly sly, with a very smooth tone* “Well, all I wanted was your attention, baby girl.” *tries to put his arm around her shoulders*

Friend: “If you put your hands on me after I just told you not to touch me, we’re going to have a problem, kid.”

Guy: *indignant* “All I want is your number! Is that too much to ask?!”

Friend: “Yes.”

Guy: “I’m not going to stop until you give it to me.”

(She rolls her eyes, and grabs a napkin and a pen, pulling out her phone. She looks up a number that she has listed under “Mine”, and hands it to him.)

Guy: “Why’d you have to loo—”

Friend: “It’s a new number, so I saved it in the phone. Now, go away.”

Guy: “Not until you promise to answer the phone when I call you.”

Friend: “Oops, sorry that wasn’t part of the deal. You only asked for the number.”

(He gets thrown out a few minutes later for picking a fight with another guy when he tried to hit on the guy’s sister. Then this happens.)

Me: “That wasn’t your number that you wrote on that napkin.”

Friend: *setting down her drink* “I know.”

Me: “So, what was it?”

Friend: *grinning* “The rejection hotline.”

(She explained that she kept it stored under “mine” in her phone for just these circumstances – guys who won’t take no for an answer. We ran into that same guy a few weeks later who was furious that she’d given him the rejection hotline number. She pointed out that he had been harassing her when she’d pretty clearly been uninterested.)

(I go into a bar I frequent. I had lost my wallet a few days earlier, but I know most of the bartenders, so I didn’t expect them to ask for identification. The woman working doesn’t recognize me, and asks for my ID. Also, I’m a 23-year-old white woman.)

Me: “I think I actually have my passport in my car. Hold on.”

(I go get it and show the bartender.)

Bartender: *not amused* “This isn’t you.”

Me: “No, it is…”

(I get this almost every time I show my passport, because it is an old picture and it really doesn’t look that much like me.)

Bartender: “Is this even real?”

(Now, I’m offended.)

Me: “It’s definitely me. I come here all the time and we went to [Community College] together!”

Bartender: “No, we didn’t. And this is DEFINITELY not you.”

Me: “It is! Look at the date it was issued. Look at my birth date. That picture was taken when I was 17. I’m 24 now, a little heavier, and my hair is longer and less pink, but it is DEFINITELY me!”

Bartender: “This is you?”

(She turns the passport to me and shows me the picture, one of an older man of Middle Eastern descent with a Saudi Arabian name and an impressive beard. A friend of mine had put his passport in my glove box months ago and then apparently forgot about it.)

Me: “You’re right; that’s not me.”

(Luckily, I had my actual passport, and was able to return my friend’s with an awesome story. With any luck at all, the bartender will fail to remember me again next time I go in.)