I have worked as a stocker for a craft store for over a year. But when my dad retires, we were moving out of state. I hand in my two-week notice, slating the eighteenth of the month (a Wednesday) as my last day of work.

I double-check my schedule to make sure I’m taken off, and I see that I’m scheduled until the twentieth, that Friday.

Me: “Hey, [Store Manager], I can’t work the last two days. The eighteenth is my last day.”

Store Manager: “Oh, really? I thought you could work a few days after that.”

Me: “No, I’m moving out of state. We’re packing up our last bit of stuff and leaving. It even says on my notice that the eighteenth is the last day I can possibly work.”

Store Manager: “Oh, okay. I’ll fix the schedule.”

It’s mildly irritating to have to argue my case, but the store manager has always been a bit spacey and disconnected from reality and time, so I chalk it up to him having a derp moment and let it go. I work my last few days, get hugs from the coworkers I’m friendly with, say goodbye to all the staff, and go home for the final time.

Thursday, the nineteenth, I get a call on my cell phone from the craft store’s number.

Floor Manager: “[My Name], where are you?!”

Me: “Home, packing the last of my stuff. The eighteenth was my last day. I told [Store Manager] to take me off the schedule.”

Floor Manager: “I put you back on there myself. We need you for a few more days. You’re supposed to be here now!”

Oh, so it was [Floor Manager’s] fault. She and I have butted heads often, to the point I reported her to corporate for trying to make me work off the clock.

Me: *Irritated* “Well, I’m not available. I’m leaving the state. You had two weeks to rearrange the schedule to prepare for this.”

Floor Manager: “The store does not arrange itself to your schedule. This is a job, and you need to work when needed.”

Me: “Not anymore. I don’t work for the store anymore. [Store Manager] even gave me my last paycheck.”

Floor Manager: “You don’t get your paycheck until Friday, so you can knock off the lying. Get in here, and I’ll think about not writing you up for this.”

I am silent for about a heartbeat, stunned by the sheer idiocy. Then, I burst out laughing. Loudly. And at length.

[Floor Manager] tries to yell at me, but I am laughing so hard that I can’t stop to hear anything she says, so I just laugh over her. When I catch my breath again, I say into the seething silence:

Me: “I quit on Wednesday. I don’t take orders from you anymore. Goodbye.”

I hung up on her and let the further calls go straight to voicemail.

I’m a fully-functioning, college-educated adult. I live with my parents because I found a job in my hometown, and rent or property costs are extremely expensive around here. My boss is a bit of an airhead, and my mom is a bit of a worry-wart.

I get home one day, and my mom rushes to meet me at the door and wrap me in a big hug.

Mom: “Oh, thank God! You’re safe!”

Me: “Um… yeah? Why wouldn’t I be safe?”

Mom: “[Boss] called me this morning. He said you weren’t in your office today. The door was locked and the lights were off.”

Me: “I was definitely there. I had an IBS flare-up…”

My boss and most coworkers know I have IBS, in case it ever interferes with my work.

Me: “…so I went down to the restroom a few times, but otherwise, I was there all day. I talked to multiple people who could confirm that. I wonder why [Boss] went straight to calling you instead of calling my cell phone or talking to anyone else in the office.”

Mom: “I don’t know, but I’ve been panicking all day that you were dead in a car crash or something. Thank God you’re okay!”

I talked to my boss the next day to tell him to call ME next time he needs to know where I am, instead of calling my mother. I also told my mom that she can always call me herself to find out where I am. She had somehow never thought of that option after my boss called her.

Until recently, I worked at a store that sells books, movies, video games, and more. My coworker would price video games way off market value. When I tried to tell the boss, she said:

Boss: “Well, he knows a lot about video games. I’m sure he knows what he is doing.”

Even when I showed her clear examples, she still would say things like:

Boss: “Well, it all still sells.”

For the record, they have the worst video game sales in the district by a lot.

The thing is, despite being a video game nerd, [Coworker] had enormous bias and flat-out ignored policy. Just like with books, if a game is still in print, then it should go out for half-price. Not only did he refuse to do that, but he also refused to look up current prices, so you would find a game that is sold new for $20 and he would have it used for $29.99.

If he liked the games, the price went up. If he didn’t like them, they went down. With loose games, he just went with his gut. He even priced PC games that were opened and needed a code.

If I ever said anything, he would say:

Coworker: “I work here and have enough money to buy anything in there. If they can’t afford it, that’s on them.”

What does the price being too high have to do with how much money people have?

The last batch of games to come in before I left were loose Pokemon games. The person who bought them even left a note saying how much each of the games should go out for. Did he use those prices? H*** no. No one knows as much about gaming as he does, so he adjusted all the prices down. “Why?” you may ask. Well, he informed me that adults don’t play Pokemon and kids won’t pay much for them.

On my last day, I bought a copy of “Pokemon Black 2” for $16 with my discount. Technically, it’s a $100 game, but [Online Retailer] has it for $200, so I went with that price. After buying it, I showed the manager the great deal they gave me and she became visibly angry. She said she would talk to him about it, but last I heard she had said nothing to [Coworker]. But she did tell the regional manager that I had taken advantage of them.

I love Hawaiian shirts, including in the workplace. I perform better when I feel myself, but I always ask my employers what is acceptable workwear and read the dress code. My current job is zero hours and terrible shift patterns. I’m offered a nine-to-five, permanent job and jump at the chance. It’s much easier, too.

I explain to my new line manager that I intend to wear Hawaiian shirts if that is acceptable. He says he’s fine with it, and there is no dress code; I’m not dealing with the public, anyway.

My duties start… at a huge police station. I work hard, I’m on time, and I’m learning quickly. A hundred and fifty police officers come through my office every day.

On day one, I’m eating lunch in the canteen, and a bigwig sits down at the next table.

Police Officer: “Good afternoon, sir.”

Bigwig: “Hi, [Officer].”

I turn round and see epaulettes I don’t recognise yet.

Me: “Hi, I’m [My Name], new start today in [Office]. Can I ask what the epaulette means?”

Bigwig: “Welcome to this force, [My Name]. These epaulettes mean Superintendent. I am Superintendent [Bigwig], officer in charge of this station. How is your first day?”

Me: “Thank you, it’s going fine. What do police staff call you? Is my shirt okay?”

Bigwig: “Call me [First Name]. I love the shirt; you only deal with internal staff.”

Me: “Can I quote you on that?”

Bigwig: “Yes. If you receive any complaints, send them to me and I will explain to them what is acceptable dress in my station.”

If the officer in charge is happy and I’m getting my duties done, it must be absolutely fine, right? I am now required to replenish printer paper in several rooms, including for senior management. Friday of my first week, I enter the Command Suite, but I can’t find where I need to be. I see two people in uniform talking in the corridor

Me: “Excuse me, can you direct me to the photocopier on this level?”

The sergeant (one rank above officer) looks at my shirt in disbelief and pauses for five seconds.

Sergeant: “Who are you?”

Me: “My name is [My Name].”

Sergeant: “Would you mind showing me your pass?”

My staff ID is on a lanyard round my neck, as is expected. I hold it up.

Me: “Here you go.”

She studies it for another five seconds. It says something like, “[My Name], Junior Administrator, Appointed [this year].”

Sergeant: “What do you do, exactly?”

Me: “I work in [Office]. I started on Tuesday, and my duties include maintaining the printer paper for the senior officers here in Command.”

Sergeant: “Who told you you could wear this?”

Me: “Superintendent [Bigwig], station officer in charge.”

Sergeant: “Through that door, on the left.”

Unsurprisingly, in a few weeks, my outrageous shirts spread my name like wildfire to the 2,000 police officers in the city, dozens of whom cross my desk every day. Forget my department name or job title. Student cops are told, to get [task], email [My Name] or ask for “the Hawaiian shirt at [Station].” No one else has since queried what I wear.

I worked as a cashier at a fast food chain. One day, I was assigned to handle our incoming delivery. The way the building was structured, our walk-in freezer and coolers were on a second floor. Everything else that needed to be put away was on the first floor with the main working area. For our convenience, we had a freight elevator at the side of our restaurant that we could place our frozen products on and send to the second floor.

This day was particularly hot — in the triple digits — and I didn’t want the frozen products and perishables sitting outside in the sun while I was stocking products on the first floor. I gathered them all, put them in the freight elevator for the time being, and began stocking the kitchen and supply room on the first floor.

In the middle of everything, the shift manager for that day suddenly grabbed my arm and began pulling me to the front counter.

Manager: “We are getting murdered out here! I need you up front now!“

Me: “Wait, I have frozen products—”

Manager: “Never mind the delivery! [Employee] is coming in; she’ll take care of it. I need you on the registers now!”

Me: “But there is frozen food—”

Manager: “I KNOW THERE IS FROZEN FOOD OUT! WE’LL DEAL WITH IT! GET ON YOUR STATION BEFORE I WRITE YOU UP!”

I logged into my register and got to work. And yes, there were two busloads of teenagers on a retreat stopping in for lunch. The dining room was packed beyond capacity.

I forgot about the entire thing as just another crazy day at work until two days later when I got a call from the general manager. From the way his voice was quivering, I could tell that he was desperately employing every form of self-restraint he could muster.

General Manager: “You were assigned delivery on Monday, were you not?”

Me: “Yes?”

General Manager: “And you know that it’s your job to finish everything properly, especially with our perishables and frozen products, right? Right?!“

Me: *Springing up* “I’m not the one who put it all away—”

General Manager: “Oh, I quite saw that. You have exactly fifteen seconds to give a logical and rational explanation of why the freight elevator is full of frozen and perishable foods that have been sitting here for two days, or you can consider Monday your last day here and turn in your uniform. Start talking!”

I frantically blurted out what had happened between me and the shift manager. As I spoke, I noticed that the general manager’s voice became frighteningly calm as he would quietly interject with, “Really… Is that so? Reaaaally… Mmhmm…”

General Manager: “Okay, time out. Just so we are both clear on this. You were working on delivery. [Manager] pulled you off delivery, despite the fact that I assigned you for it, and later she told [Employee] to finish it up — an employee who has only been here a month and has never even worked delivery before and probably didn’t even know about the freight elevator since it’s out of sight. Do I have that correct?”

Me: “Yes! I tried to tell her—”

General Manager: *Eery calmness* “No! No-no-no. We’re all set. You’re in the clear. See you at five.” *Click*

I showed up for my shift and noticed several crew members wore uncomfortable looks on their faces throughout the day. The shift manager in question was working that day as well. She was stone silent and looked like she was ready to burst into tears at any given moment. When she spoke with any customer, her voice was forced and raspy and maintained a constant quiver.

As the assistant manager cashed me out at the end of my shift, he told me with a chuckle what had happened.

Assistant Manager: “You know how in the Mortal Kombat games, at the end of the fight, the screen gets dark and an ominous voice goes, ‘FINISH HIM!’? That’s just about what happened. When you told [General Manager] what happened and he got off the phone with you, that was the part of everything going dark and that voice saying, ‘FINISH HER!’ I have never in my time here heard that man scream as loud as he did at that woman. The office door was closed, but the whole building could hear it — dining room and all! He completely shredded her! Then, the store owner called in and ripped her apart on top of it. I mean, that was well over $10,000 of revenue that had to be trashed! Safe to say, that’s never going to happen again.”

I gave a relieved laughed, and we went our ways. Sometimes, it really is best for the boss to listen to what the employee has to say and not be so focused on being in charge!