Ever since one day at the picnic park in a remote area of Cape Breton, I have had a fear of outhouses and port-a-potties. I was alone in the park. I stopped at dusk for a bathroom break, entered the primitive facilities, and closed the door behind me like normal.

But something went wrong. The door jammed.

In a moment of panic, I jiggled the door handle to no avail. Finally, I had to kick it open. In my extreme panic, I kicked the door so hard that it actually came off its hinges. Come on, now, admit it; you’d have done the same thing in that situation!

I called the park the next day to inform them of my mishap and to let them know one of their outhouses needed some repairs. I was lucky that time. In seconds, I was free and back in the fresh air.

Now, you would think that this is something that would only happen to someone once in a lifetime. I imagine being locked in an outhouse is not a very common thing… unless you’re me. I have plenty of luck if you only count the bad kind.

It was a lovely morning, many years after the incident with the outhouse in the picnic park. I packed the car and left for my first road trip of the season to the Cape Breton Highlands National Park.

Along the way, I stopped at the picnic park for a rest and to use the restroom. A picnic park in a remote area. With an outhouse for a restroom. With no one else around.

I see it now. I didn’t see it then. Déjà vu.

I entered the tiny building and closed the door behind me. The lock was a primitive one that pushed down to lock and pulled up to unlock. Something went wrong on the other side of the door. The lock jammed. And there I was, once again, locked in a dark, smelly outhouse in the middle of nowhere… alone.

All I was thinking was, “This can’t be for real,” as I jiggled the lock. It didn’t take long for panic to set in, and jiggling the lock turned into banging on the door. When that didn’t work, I tried kicking the door down. It had worked before. It didn’t work that time. Tears started streaming down my face and my heart started racing. I started screaming even though I knew no one was out there.

It felt like I had been in there for an eternity when I heard it: a car, and it was getting closer. It stopped. I heard a car door close. I heard the gravel being disturbed. Footsteps. I screamed while simultaneously kicking and banging on the door

Me: “Help! Please help me! I’m locked in the bathroom!”

I heard a voice — a soft but inquisitive voice.

Voice: “Hello?”

Tears were streaming down my face, and I was shaking so badly I could barely utter the words.

Me: “Please get help! Get me out of here!”

I heard the handle jiggle for what seemed like an eternity, but it was probably only a few seconds before it swung open to reveal an older woman with a look on her face that I can only describe as shock and trying to hold back laughter.

I must have been quite the sight. After all, I was crying like a baby and probably looked like I’d just experienced the most terrifying ordeal of my life. I’d just spent longer than the average human can tolerate in such conditions. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had burst out laughing at my misfortune! I wouldn’t have been able to hold it in as well as she did.

Fortunately, I can laugh about it now… at least until the next time I find myself in such a situation. They say bad things happen in threes. I’m about due for my next outhouse adventure any day now!

I work in a hotel. I arrive at work around 11:00 pm for an audit shift, and as soon as I arrive, my coworkers start giving me the lowdown on the evening, specifically on this one creepy and harassing walk-in guest they had. [Guest] was being inappropriate and creepy to everyone there. He kept asking for things to be specifically “brought into his room” and offering to pay them and “make it worth their while” if you know what I mean. Everyone was like, “Absolutely not,” and he would keep offering them money and whatever.

After they headed out and I was left alone, I was watching the cameras in the back, and I kept seeing [Guest] peeking around on the stairs, trying to find people in the lobby, and then going back up. At one point, I went out to the desk to check someone in, and while I was out there, I saw our little friend poking around in the lobby.

A little while later, I had a food delivery driver come in. He showed me the screen, and it was an order for [Guest].

Driver: “The guy wants his food to be left with you at the desk, but I’ll just take it up to him.”

Me: “Yes, please!”

As soon as the driver got in the elevator, I got a phone call from [Guest].

Guest: “I ordered some food to be left with you so you can bring it up and come into my room.”

He said this in the grossest weird and seductive tone.

Me: “Hi, sir. The delivery driver is actually already on his way to your room with the food.”

His tone switched up real fast, and he just said, “Oh,” and then slammed the phone down.

I spent the rest of the night locked in the back office to avoid any more unwanted interactions with our buddy.

Apparently, he was super creepy while checking out in the morning and wanted to extend, but that was not about to happen! We don’t need any more serial creep incidents.

I own a photography studio with a lab for printing. We are in no way associated with anything in the medical field. All our online presence shows us being only photography. We do portraits, product photography, restorations, framing — nothing like MRI or radiology even remotely hinted at.

I answer the phone.

Me: “[Studio].”

Caller: “Do you take Blue Cross?”

Me: “…We’re a photo studio and lab. I think you called the wrong number.”

Caller: “I know who I called! Do you take my insurance?!”

Me: “We aren’t a medical facility; I do photography.”

Caller: “I know what you do; that’s why I called you. Do you take my insurance?!”

Me: “You want a doctor’s office. We’re not in the medical field. You called the wrong number; I can’t help you.”

Caller: “I know who I called and what you do! Now, answer my question. DO YOU TAKE BLUE CROSS?!”

Me: “No, we don’t.”

Caller: “WHY NOT?! 

Me: “Because we’re not a doctor’s office.”

Caller: “YOU’RE USELESS!” *Slams the phone down*

I’m getting ready to open the library for the day, working at the circulation desk. I listen to our voicemails. One was left at 5:30 am.

Patron: “Hi. I have three things out that I’m going to return tomorrow or the day after. Please call me back at [number] to let me know what time works best to return them. It’s very important to me that you confirm that you got this message and know that I’m going to return these items as soon as possible.”

I locate the patron’s account and confirm that there are no overdue items or other things I want to notify them of. Everything’s good. The items aren’t due for more than a week, and they have no active requests or waitlists.

I call around 9:45 am and leave a voicemail of my own.

Me: “I’m calling from the library, returning your message. You can return items at the circulation desk any time that we’re open, or twenty-four-seven in the outdoor returns box in front of the main entrance. It’s bright blue and says ‘Returns’ on it. We empty it and check in the items first thing every morning, so feel free to drop off your books on whatever schedule is best for you.”

A few hours go by. I do my other duties, including calling back the other people who left voicemails and leaving messages letting people know about requested items arriving. The phone rings at the circulation desk.

Me: “Thanks for calling the library. This is—”

Caller: “I saw there was a voicemail left by this number. What was it about?”

Me: “Um, well, it could be a few things… Wait, is this [Patron]?”

Caller: “Yeah, why did you call me?”

Me: “We were just letting you know that we got your message from earlier this morning and that there’s no need to rush returning your books, but you can drop them off whenever you want.”

Caller: “Oh, well, I don’t know why you called so early; I was sleeping. And I never answer the phone to unfamiliar numbers.”

Me: “That’s fine. That’s why I left the message.”

Caller: “Well, I’m going to return those books as soon as I can. Probably in four or five days. I haven’t finished them yet, so I wish you wouldn’t rush me.”

Me: “You can return them any time on or before the due date, which is [twelve days away], and you don’t even need to come when we’re open. The drop box is there for overnight returns or if you’re in a hurry. Have a great day!”

She returned the books the next day. A few days later, she called and asked why we’d left a voicemail about returning books because she had already done that!

Related:
Voicemail Fail, Part 9
Voicemail Fail, Part 8
Voicemail Fail, Part 7
Voicemail Fail, Part 6
Voicemail Fail, Part 5

I work for a company that regularly hires very open-minded and diverse employees. We have a great company culture. A few years ago, my company hired a new Vice President to oversee my department as well as a couple of other departments. He was in his mid-forties and a cis white male, the same as me.

One day, a few months after he had been hired, [Boss] took my team out to lunch (a monthly event), and I ended up sitting next to him. We were chatting about various things, and in passing, I made a comment that we were both wearing shirts that were a similar burgundy color. He immediately started acting suspicious about my comment.

Boss: “Why did you say that about my shirt? Did [CEO] tell you to say that?”

Me: “What? No.”

Boss: “You’re sure [CEO] didn’t tell you to make a comment about my shirt being burgundy?”

Me: “No. Why? What’s going on? Why would [CEO] tell me to comment on your shirt?”

Boss: “I wore this shirt last week, and he called it purple! I thought he was having you tease me about the color.”

Me: “I don’t understand.”

Boss: “He kept calling my shirt purple, and I had to keep telling him it was not purple; it was burgundy!”

Me: “Okay?”

Boss: “It is not a purple shirt! It is burgundy!”

Me: “What’s wrong with purple?”

Boss: *Looking at me like I’m crazy* “Purple is a girl’s color! I would never let my son wear purple!”

I just sat there, wondering if he was trying to make a joke. He was serious. Having grown up with the “Miami Vice” TV series and all the pink shirts and pastel colors, I don’t think I had ever heard of anyone who actually believed certain colors were reserved for boys or girls only. And my boss was the same age as me.

That weekend, I went out and bought two different styles of purple shirts and made a point to wear one of them whenever he and I had our weekly one-on-one meetings.

A month later, at our company’s formal holiday party, I wore a lavender (light purple) dress shirt with French cuffs that I had owned for years. I made a point to say hi to him so he couldn’t help but see my shirt. My wife kind of rolled her eyes at me for doing all this, but I was entertaining myself.

He never said anything to me about any of my shirts. And a few months later, he was let go from the company — not because of this specific incident, but because there were many other things that showed he was not a good fit for our company culture.