I have injured the inside of my mouth to the point where I am drooling a copious amount of blood. I text my parents telling them what’s happening before I head to the emergency room. While I wait, I text back and forth with my mother until I’m seen by the doctor.

Due to the current global health crisis, the emergency room is practically empty and I am admitted almost ten minutes later.

Doctor: “Your name is [My Name], and your birthdate is [date], correct?”

I nod, as it’s hard for me to speak.

Doctor: “All right, I’m going to have a look at your mouth here.”

She begins my exam and chuckles slightly.

Doctor: “You know, you share the same last name as one of the doctors here. What a small world, huh?”

My last name, though somewhat common, is uncommon in the area we live in. I type on my phone so she can see.

My Text: “My dad is the chief of emergency medicine; [Father]. Please treat me like a normal patient and just let him know what your action plan is, or he’ll worry.”

Doctor: *Reading* “Oh! I thought your mouth looked familiar!”

I try my best not to smile as she finishes her exam, which ends with me gaining seven stitches at the back of my mouth. The doctor disappears for a few minutes, returning with a lollipop for me for being “such a brave boy.”

Doctor: “Well, since you were such a good boy, I got you a lollipop, and there is a surprise waiting for you at the front door. Have a good night and take care of yourself, [My Name]!”

I thanked her and began to leave, walking through the deserted lobby. I suddenly heard my name being called from behind one of the doors to the emergency department, and there was my father, who I hadn’t seen in three weeks due to the crisis.

This story was included in our May 2020 Inspirational Roundup.

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A lady pulls up at our gas station.

Lady: “Can you take the winter air out of my tires and put the summer air in?”

I use my bus pass as a bookmark, figuring that with how much I love reading there would be no possible way I could ever lose it. One day, I am distracted while getting off, and only while it is pulling away do I realize I left my book on the bus. Since there isn’t really anything I can do about it, I just walk to the exchange stop, and when the next bus I need to catch pulls in, I approach the driver.

Me: “Are you able to contact the other buses?”

Driver: *Immediately hostile* “WHY?”

Me: *Startled pause* “Well, I left my bus pass on the #3.”

Driver: “No, I can’t contact the other buses. Do you have any idea how many there are on the roads at one time? Now, there are other people wanting to get on, so…”

He makes a dismissive shooing motion.

Me: “But… I also need to get home.”

Driver: “Where’s home?“

Me: “[Area he’s headed to].”

The driver sighs and waves me along. I take my seat and settle in for the hour-long trip. After maybe thirty minutes, we get to another hub and the driver comes up to me.

Driver: “Hey, I’m sorry about how I acted. I just get a lot of people trying to pull s***, so… here. This is a temporary pass that’ll let you ride for the next three days. Hopefully, you’ll be able to get your card back from the lost and found before it runs out.”

Unfortunately, it took over a week before the lost and found people recovered my book and pass, resulting in me spending a significant amount of money on tickets. But in the end, I was finally able to finish the story, and now I have one of my own I can tell people.

Apologies to nightclub bouncers, but every job has its idiots that make everyone else look bad.

When my youngest son was about twenty or so — legal drinking age — he decided to check out a new night club that had opened about two weeks before. As the establishment was still new, there was a line out the door and about half a block up the sidewalk.

My son wanted to ask what the wait time was, so he asked the bouncer, a big mouth-breather sitting at the entrance, how long the wait would be. The guy told my son to F-off and get to the back of the line.

At that moment, the “bouncer” was called in to the club and left his station. More importantly, he left the hand stamper that allows admission on his little table. My son, a little pissed off by this guy’s attitude and by that point not at all interested in going into the club, grabbed the stamp and very politely made his way along the long line of people waiting to get in.

“You’re in, and you’re in, and you’re in…” He just went through the line on the sidewalk stamping people’s hands and they gratefully charged into the club. As the bouncer had left his post there was nobody to check them, but they had stamps, so the club ended up being full and having at least another fifty people crowded in. 

My son had got about halfway through the line when the idiot came up to him, demanded the stamp back, and informed him he was banned for life from the club. My son laughed, handed over the stamp, and left. The club closed about three months after.

I love my son; he doesn’t get mad but instead uses people’s idiocy for good.

Outdoor school has been a long-established “rite of passage” for third-graders here — a time to spend three days away from actual school and learn about the wilderness. Like many of the kids who are attending outdoor school, I am Native, which isn’t uncommon for the area we come from, nor the area we’re in.

We are learning about all the different types of trees, but I’m bored of this lesson and start whispering to my friends. 

It is important to know that everyone in my family has rather… unusual names. It is the late nineties when this happens:

Counselor: “[My Name], are you paying attention?”

Me: “I am! But I know all of this already!”

Counselor: “Oh? Then kindly point out the different types of trees you see around us. If you can get them all correct, you don’t have to go on the nature walk later.”

I stand up, walking over to a big spruce tree.

Me: “This is my Uncle Spruce.”

I walk over to the next tree.

Me: “This is my Uncle Pine, that’s my Auntie Maple…”

I continue on like this for every tree, and the councilor — who is also Native — stops me after a while.

Counselor: “All right, [My Name], you know your trees! But they aren’t your uncles or your aunties; they’re our friends.”

Me: “No, they’re my uncles and aunties! I promise!”

The counselor made a note on his clipboard, and we continued on. Later that night, I was summoned to the counselor’s cabin where they were on the phone with my parents. They put the speaker on so I could hear.

The counselor had told them that I had cheated at the tree lesson, which was a punishable offence. When asked how he knew I had cheated, the counselor told them that no one had ever gotten all the trees correct and told them about me calling them “uncle” and “auntie”. 

My father burst out laughing before my mother could explain; her parents had named all their children after trees, and they had taught all the kids the different types of trees! I didn’t cheat. I knew them because my aunts and uncles had taught me about their namesakes when I was little! 

The counselor blushed and apologized.