(I’m visiting my grandma, who is in her nineties, alongside my dad, who is 70. We talk about how life is going and suddenly I stop.)

Dad: “What’s wrong?”

Me: “I’m hearing a beep.”

Grandma: “What? What did she say? I haven’t got my hearing aids in today!”

(She is feeling a bit ill.)

Dad: “[My Name] says she hears a beep!”

Grandma: “I don’t hear anything!”

Dad: “That’s because your hearing aids aren’t in, Mom!”

Grandma: “What?!”

(Meanwhile, I’ve been browsing through the apartment, even looking outside. I’m moving my hand along with the beep; it’s several short ones and then a longer one, but never in a steady pattern.)

Grandma: “What is she doing?!”

Dad: “She’s looking for that beep!”

Grandma: “I’m not hearing anything!”

Dad: “Me, neither… [My Name] are you sure?”

(I can’t find the source, but limit it to a zone inside the living room, but nothing beeps whenever my ear gets near. What’s left is the fire alarm on the ceiling, beyond my reach. Maybe that is the source? Half an hour later, a nurse comes for my grandma’s medicine.)

Dad: “Excuse me, miss. My daughter is hearing a beep and I can’t hear it. Could you listen if you hear a beep, as well? She thought it could be from the fire alarm?”

Nurse: “What should I listen for?”

Me: “I’m not sure. It goes ‘beep-beep-beeeep,’ but never regularly. It sometimes reminds me of a microphone getting close to a speaker.”

(We are silent and the nurse nods. She confirms she hears the beeps, as well. She looks around and walks to the table. She picks something up.)

Nurse: “Is it gone now?”

Me: “Yes! What was it?!”

Nurse: “Your grandmother’s hearing aids. They were still on and too close to each other.”

(I am working in a small deli. We have a few “signature” sandwiches that are listed with the ingredients — meats, cheese, veggies, sauces — but customers can also make their own; there is a limit on how many toppings they can get. There are three people in line. The first two, both Caucasian, order a signature sandwich and the third, Asian, makes their own. I am Caucasian and I’m making the sandwiches; my coworker, who is Indian, is taking the orders.)

Me: *to the first two customers* “Would both of you like everything on your [Signature Sandwich]?”

Customer #1: “That sounds good, but could you add mayo?”

Customer #2: “Everything with ranch on mine.”

(I finish wrapping theirs while my coworker rings them out.)

Me: *to [Customer #3]* “What toppings would you like on yours?”

Customer #3: “Everything.”

Me: “Your sandwich doesn’t come with toppings; I need to know what you want.”

Customer #3: “I want everything. Everything. All of what you have there.”

Me: “I can’t give you everything. I’m only allowed to give you four toppings of your choice. I just need to know what they are.”

Customer #3: *to coworker* “Why won’t she give me everything on my sandwich? She gave those other two everything on theirs.”

Coworker: “Oh, they both got [Signature Sandwich], which comes with set toppings. You have to tell her what toppings you want.”

Customer #3: “Oh, I understand. I just want lettuce and pickles, then.”

(I finish her sandwich and hand it to her with a forced grin. As I turn away, I hear this little gem.)

Customer #3: “I didn’t know they had ordered specials. I thought she was just racist.”

(After she left, my coworker burst into laughter and I had to excuse myself to the back to fume. I called my district manager and explained what had happened because I was floored at being accused of being racist over sandwich toppings. My manager was legitimately confused because she knows me and my husband… who is Asian. For the record, I don’t agree with our topping limit policy, but I get paid to follow it. I’m not going to lose my job over a few slices of tomato.)

(It’s just another day working at a print shop when a customer using a self-service copier looks alarmed.)

Customer: “What the heck?!”

Me: *approaching the customer* “Is there something I can do to help?”

Customer: “Your copier is cursing at me!”

Me: *takes a second to process this unusual statement* “I’m sorry? How is it cursing at you?”

(I started to look at the copier’s display, wondering if there was an error she might have been misconstruing as cursing, when she showed me the copy she’d just made. It was a bunch of receipts, but in between each receipt, there were curse words and other letters randomly spread around. I looked at the copier and where she’d placed them on the scanner bed and saw nothing. Suddenly, I remembered that the previous customer to use this machine had been making cut-and-paste handbills that were rather “rude,” and I looked at the underside of the copier’s lid. Because the customer had placed their original pasted copy on the scanner bed before it had completely dried, parts of it had stuck to the lid and ninja’d their way onto this customer’s copies. Luckily, once I discovered the issue and moved her to a new copier, we both had a good laugh about the rowdy and uncouth copier while I cleaned it up.)

(I have just finished ringing up a rather normal-looking customer. I have my hair colored bright red.)

Me: “Here’s your receipt. Have a nice day.”

Customer: “Uh, um…”

Me: “Yes?”

(He looks around nervously, then looks at me very seriously.)

Customer: “Please don’t think this is weird! It’s good luck for me!”

(I instinctively reach for the intercom to call for a manager. As I do this he leans across the register and ruffles my hair and laughs for a good five seconds, leaving me absolutely stunned.)

Customer: “That’s good luck for me! Thank you!”

(He walks off happily and I stand there, still unsure of what just happened. The next customer, an elderly woman, walks up to me.)

Customer #2: “Honey, are you okay? Should I call someone or something?”

Me: “I… have no idea. I really don’t know what that was.”

(This happens literally every time this customer comes into the bank:)

Me: “Hi. How are you?”

Customer: “I’m well, and you?”

Me: “Good, thanks! What can I do for you?”

(Then, there’s more small talk as I do his transaction.)

Customer: “I think I saw you the other day on [Street]. I didn’t know you lived there.”

Me: “No, that wasn’t me; I don’t live over there.”

Customer: “Oh, well, where do you live?”

Me: “…”

(I give him a different answer about where I live every single time. It’s never the correct street or even near my house, yet he asks me where I live every time he sees me. No.)