(At an event for a popular but literary author, I take a seat behind two women who appear to be in their early 20s; they are discussing how their professor is giving extra credit to students who attend this event. In the Q&A part, one of them raises her hand.)

College Student: “Our professor told us that [Character]’s room being blue is a symbol of his loneliness and isolation. Is that what you meant?”

Author: “No. I just like blue. You can tell your professor they’re full of s***.”

Customer: “Hi, I’m looking for Tolkien’s books.”

Me: “Alright, which ones?”

Customer: “The four he wrote.”

Me: “Well, ma’am, he wrote more than just four books.”

Customer: “The Lord of the Rings.”

Me: “Ma’am, not to be rude, but The Lord of the Rings is only three books.”

Customer: “The first one of that trilogy then! The Hobbit!”

Me: “I’m afraid we don’t have any copies of that at the moment.”

Customer: “Oh. Well, do you have anything else by Tolkien?”

Me: “Well, we do have The Silmarillion—”

Customer: “I don’t speak Spanish. I guess I’ll try at one of the other stores, thanks.”

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(I’m a regular at a small bookstore that a kindly old lady opened some years ago. We’ve been friends for as long as I’ve known her, and chat when there are no customers around. I walk up to the counter and see her talking to a woman in her late fifties. I’m an Emo, though uncharacteristically cheerful at the moment. I wear black, causal clothes most of the time.)

Me: “Good day, how’s it going?”

(She notices me, smiles, but motions me to move. Realizing I butted into their conversation, I sheepishly back away so they can continue. The customer is staring at me with her mouth wide open.)

Me: “Umm…”

(My friend and I exchange looks. I don’t believe she understands what’s going on either.)

Me: “I’m sorry; is something wrong?”

(The customer doesn’t answer or react in any way, and just keeps staring for what feels like minutes.)

Me: “…is there something on me?”

Customer: “…”

Me: “Lady?”

Customer: “…”

(My friend seems worried as she observes our rather one-sided conversation. I’m starting to get annoyed, and a little scared.)

Me: “It’s impolite to stare at others, you know.”

Customer: “…”

(At this point it occurs to me she could have issues with my hairstyle. I pull my bang aside, but nothing changes.)

Me: “Okay, what?”

Customer: “…”

Me: “What is it?!”

My Friend: “Ah, I know! It’s because you’re wearing black! She thinks you’re attending a funeral, and since you were so happy—”

(The customer immediately snaps out of it and confirms this. She actually thinks I am happy because someone died. After five years, we still talk about the woman whom my fashion statement sent into catatonia, and my friend, the store owner, who’s apparently psychic.)

(This happens while I am working for a bookstore on Halloween. As a result, several coworkers are dressed up. Two cops enter the store as if searching for something and come up to my counter.)

Cop #1: “Hello, miss. We were called here with a report about an altercation, and that a witness with details was working here?”

(Note: 10 minutes before the cops came, my coworker had told me to direct any cops to her.)

Me: “Oh, yes, sir! You’ll just need to talk to the clown down there.”

(I point down the line of registers.)

Cop #2: “Look, miss, you may not like your coworker, but there is no need to call them names.”

Me: “I think [Coworker] is a very nice person, sir, but seriously, if you want your answers, you really will have to talk to the clown down there.

(Again, I point down the line of registers.)

Cop #1: “Look, miss, your attitude towards your co—”

(At this point, the cops are interrupted but a series of loud squeaky honks. They turn to look the way I’ve been pointing all this time and see my coworker (who is dressed up as an old-fashioned, rainbow-colored, poofy-wigged, and squeaky-nosed clown) waving her arms frantically and honking her nose to get their attention.)

Me: “As I’ve been saying gentlemen, if you want to talk to the witness, you’re really going to have to talk to the clown down there.”

([Cop #1] sees my coworker and is struggling to keep his laughter contained. [Cop #2] gets a resigned look on his face.)

Cop #2: “I really hate Halloween.”

(For a few days I have noticed a two customers come into our bookstore with empty bags and crumpled receipts, match the books on the shelf with the receipts, then returning the “bought” books for cash. I make a phone call to my Store Manager, who never comes out of his office. This is after the third theft where we had two other eyewitnesses to the crime.)

Me: “[Store Manager], those two customers are back trying to return books that they pulled off the shelf again.”

Manager: “Just go ahead and give them the money.”

Me: “Sir, I personally watched them pull the books off the shelf and place them in the bag.”

Manager: “No one else saw them, right? We can’t take the word of one employee.”

Me: “Sir, after you said that the last TWO times I reported this, I had other employees watch them and they witnessed it as well.”

Manager: “Well, a few dollars isn’t much and I don’t want to deal with it.”

Me: “Sir, with today’s ‘return,’ the total would be over $300.”

Manager: “Just give it to them. I have more important things to worry about.” *hangs up*

(I hand the money to the customers but give them this parting shot as they leave…)

Me: *to the thieves* “Have a nice day, gentlemen, but if you come into this store again, I will personally hand over the security tapes with you on them to the police.”

(Three days later, my store manager comes up to me grinning.)

Manager: “See? They knew they were going to be caught soon so they finally stopped. Nothing to worry about!”