(I work at a bookstore. A man comes in and asks me to recommend him a book. I ask the usual questions: what sort of thing does he like, what books has he liked in the past, and so on. With that information, I select a book, which he buys. A few days later, he comes back in.)

Customer: “That book was great! Couldn’t put it down! Can you write me another one?”

Me: “Can I recommend you another, you mean?”

Customer: “No, I mean are you going to write a sequel?”

Me: “Oh. I’m not a writer. The book was written by [Author]. I don’t think it has a sequel, but I can find you other books they’ve written if you like.”

Customer: “Oh. So… you didn’t write the books in the shop?”

Me: “I… No. I just sell them.”

Customer: “Oh. I always thought you guys wrote all the books in the shop!”

Me: “I wish. I’d be a lot richer if I did. We just sell them; we don’t write any of them.”

(The man look suddenly dejected and a little embarrassed, so I quickly add:)

Me: “I mean, it’s not uncommon for writers to work in bookshops. Some of my colleagues are writers, but as far as I know, none of their books are sold here. But somewhere there’s probably a writer who has their books in the shop they work in.”

(The man goes red, obviously embarrassed, so I decide to change the subject.)

Me: “Would you like me to recommend something else? [Author] has written quite a few books. If you liked that one, you’d probably really like these.”

(I led him over to a shelf and grabbed a few books, talking him through each one. I’m an avid reader and have read many of the books in the store, including the ones I am recommending. The man bought several books, apologised for what he said, and left. He’s been coming in every week for a while now to find a new book. Sometimes he apologises again for thinking we wrote the books but I always tell him it’s not a problem and that actually, I’m flattered that anyone would think I could write such good books.)

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(My friend is asexual and has a pencil case that he treats like a son. My parents both know this, so while I’m doing some science revision…)

Dad: “Now, how does this reproduce?”

Me: “I can’t remember! Can you give me a hint?”

Dad: “Think about how [Friend] created [Pencil Case].”

Me: “It’s asexual reproduction, isn’t it?”

I live on a farm deep in a hollow or “holler” as the locals call it in Kentucky. My husband and I moved there after he retired from the military because of my husband’s post-traumatic stress disorder in hopes that being away from people would help him. We have put a number of signs on the fencing and gate to the property to let people know that a combat veteran lives here and that unannounced visitors are not welcome. Lately, we have been having problems with a certain religious group that has an organization called the Watchtower that likes to proselytize disregarding those signs and coming up to the house. 

In this incident, my husband is recovering from hernia surgery. The religious group has decided to disregard the signs and open a closed gate to the property. I have had enough at this point so I decide to have a little fun. 

My favorite movie franchise is “Police Academy” and my favorite character is Zed — played by Bobcat Goldthwaite — a former gang member who communicates through screaming. When I see the religious group coming up to the porch, I smear eyeliner all over my face and turn out all of the lights in the house to make the house really dark. My husband keeps a large flashlight by the door and I pick that up.

When I open the door for the religious group, I hold the flashlight under my face and start screaming incoherently. Apparently, I scared them because they immediately leave my porch and start babbling about Ozzy Osbourne as they leave the property! 

We haven’t had problems with them since. In this area, I have the right to answer the door with a gun, but doing this was way more fun! I don’t understand why they picked this holler to do their proselytizing because the houses are about 1000 feet apart and no one welcomes their brand of religious message.

(The library I work for runs a tech help session for people struggling with their devices. One of my regulars copies every article she sees into Word and names them “Doc[keysmash of numbers].” Unsurprisingly, she can’t find any of them when she wants them and is upset about that. Today, I have her going through all her Doc files and renaming them properly so she can find them.)

Customer: “What’s this one? Ten ways to increase your sex drive. I don’t think I need that one anymore, but you might need it. How old is your little one, six? You should have another by now. You definitely need this. Or is it your husband that needs this? I can email it to either one of you!”

(I am in a coffee shop with my housemate and her dog. We are working on cover letters for applications. A man comes in carrying a peacoat. It’s eighty degrees outside here now, and only going to get hotter. He approaches us.)

Man: *with peacoat* “Hey, y’all wanna buy this peacoat? Ten bucks. I don’t need it no more; it’s summer. Ten bucks.”

Us: “No, thanks.” *returns to our work*

Man: “How about for a piece of pie?”

Me: “Well, it would have to fit one of us. I don’t know if it would fit either of us. It’s too big for her—“ *gesturing to roommate* “—and I have pretty big boobs.”

Man: “Naw, naw, it’ll fit, it’ll fit. You’ll see.”

Me: “Well, okay. Let’s see.” *tries on the peacoat, it fits*

Man & Roommate: “It fits perfectly!”

Me: “Let me look at it in the restroom.” *looks in the mirror, then returns to the table* “Let me look it up online and find out about it.” *checks the label, does a Google search*

Man: “It’s real wool. One hundred percent. That’s a nice coat.”

Me: *not wanting to rip off the man, or overpay* “Hmm, well, I am finding anywhere from sixty to seventy dollars to over one hundred dollars, which means it might be… ten or fifteen at [Thrift Store]?”

Man: “At least twenty at [Thrift Store]. At least. And think about it this way. You don’t have to go to [Thrift Store].”

Me: “That is true. Yeah, I’ll take it. What kind of pie?”

Man: “Coconut cream. And, uh, and, uh, a frappe.”

Me: *joking* “You said pie!”

(The man goes to order his coconut cream and frappe.)

Shop Girl: “Okay. Got it.”

Man: *gesturing with his arm sweep over the whole restaurant* “Uh, girl! Girl! Uh, girl! She was gonna pay…”

Me: *have silently slunk up behind the man* “I’m here.”

(I insert the card into the chip reader and decide to leave a tip.)

Me: *still teasing* “Are you sure you didn’t get that from [Thrift Store]? Or maybe a clothing bank? You didn’t steal it, did you?”

Man: “No, it was my father’s. It was my father’s. I just don’t want it no more.”

Me: “Okay. Thanks for the coat.”

(I sit down to begin working again. A woman wearing a bicycle helmet crouches down and gets right in my face.)

Woman: “You should not have taken that coat from that man. I’ll give you your money back for the pie and coffee if you give that man his coat back. That was a rip-off. You are just b****y.”

Man: *overhearing at the counter while claiming his pie* “What about the coat? It fits her perfectly!”

Me: “You might want to mind your own business in the future, and you also want to refrain from calling other women b****es.”

(The woman goes to another part of the coffee shop, and the shop girl comes over.)

Shop Girl: “Was she bothering you? I’m so sorry.”

Me: “No, she wasn’t bothering me. He offered to sell me his peacoat for pie and coffee, and I took him up on it. This woman told me he was ripping me off and called me b****y.”

Shop Girl: “What woman?”

(The woman raises her hand, as if in class. The shop girl crosses the cafe to talk to her.)

Woman: “I would never do that. I would never rip off the homeless or the poor or destitute. You ripped that man off. I’m not a bad person like that.”

Me: “He offered to give me that peacoat for pie and coffee, which was ten dollars. I looked up that coat online and it would probably cost around that at Goodwill. Pie and coffee was the deal he offered; it was what he wanted.”

Woman: *sarcastically* “Ooooh, so generous!”

Me: “Well, why don’t you run after him, then? He just left; you could probably catch him. Go give him a hundred dollars.”

Shop Girl: “He’s not homeless. He comes in here every week, trying to sell people things or give people things for pie and coffee. He gets angry and bothers the customers when they say no. He’s been a nuisance, honestly. The manager has talked about banning him. Anyway, he’s not homeless.”

Woman: “Well, I would just never do that. I don’t go around ripping people off.”

Me: “And I don’t go around getting in people’s faces, but I’ll make an exception this one time. You get out of here with your sanctimonious self. Go on. Just go!” *gestures to door*

(The woman leaves in silence.)

Shop Girl: “Please don’t let that keep you from coming in here again.”

Me: “No, next time I’ll come and tell you right away when a strange customer calls me a b****. I believe that’s a kick-out-able offense.”

Shop Girl: “Oh, definitely. Nobody should be calling anybody that around here.”

(Point of the story: I got a peacoat for a piece of pie on pie day — 3/14!)