We’ve recently put up a collection of paintings from a local but kinda-famous artist. It’s all modern art, so I don’t really get it, but it’s not for me, so whatever. 

The paintings are single colors, square canvases consisting of just one color. One red, one blue, one orange, etc.

Coworker: “People are gonna put down a couple grand on these? My kid could do these between snacks.”

Me: “They’re paying for the artist, not the art.”

Coworker: “I guess.”

We follow instructions and hang the paintings where we’re told to. The gallery manager comes in later that afternoon with the artist himself to inspect the collection before a champagne and canapés grand opening that night.

The manager storms up to us.

Gallery Manager: “[Artist] is livid! He’s so angry with how you’ve hung his paintings!”

Me: “What? But we followed the instructions! The colored canvases are where they’re supposed to be.”

Gallery Manager: “Yes, but half of them are upside down!”

This happened many years ago. While I was in grad school, writing my thesis on Spanish and Italian drama, I got a job as an “editorial assistant.” I didn’t really do any editing: I proofread articles, but had to get the micromanaging Senior Editor’s permission before making any corrections, and wrote reports for her to put her name on.

I survived the humiliation by talking about my thesis to anyone who would listen and placing grad-level books prominently on my desk.

One day, the Senior Editor burst out of her office and asked:

Senior Editor: “Is [Other Editor] around? I have a question about language.”

This was before Google.

Me: “Maybe I can answer it.”

I said, glancing at the book on my desk.

Me: “I studied Spanish linguistics as an undergrad, and now I’m in grad school, working on my thesis.”

Senior Editor: “No, you wouldn’t know.”

[Other Editor] was not around, so she walked down the hall to ask a third editor. They didn’t know the answer.

She returned, annoyed.

Senior Editor: “When will [Other Editor] be back? I really need the answer.”

Me: “I think he’s at lunch. Why not let me give it a try? Maybe I can figure it out.”

She rolled her eyes.

Senior Editor: “This isn’t a question about typing. It’s about language. Just call me when [Other Editor] gets back.”

She vanished into the office. I had nothing to proofread at the moment, so I started reading my book.

About ten minutes later, [Other Editor] walked by. I stopped him and called [Senior Editor], who came out of her office, livid.

Senior Editor: “Finally! I need you to answer a question about language. No one else at this company has any idea: What do you call that little mark that goes over the letter ‘n’ in Spanish?”

I pointed to my book: “La historia de la literatura española.”

Me: “You mean like that one? It’s called a—”

Senior Editor: “Yes! What’s it called, [Other Editor]?”

Other Editor: “Sorry, I have no idea.”

I kept my mouth shut.

By the way, as everyone learns in fifth-grade Spanish, it’s a tilde.

I work at a rooftop bar in a tall hotel. A guest walks up to me after having a few cocktails.

Guest: “So, how do I get back down to my room?”

She’s staying in room 3307 and has been charging her drinks to that room.

Me: “Take the elevator down to the 33rd floor.”

Guest: “But the elevators only go up. How do I get back down?”

Me: “Our elevators go both ways, ma’am.”

Guest: “Oh, they do? Well, that’s a relief. I didn’t want to take the stairs.”

She walks up to the elevator and successfully navigates it down (I hope), leaving me standing there double-checking I wasn’t making her drinks extra strong without realizing it.

I was getting my rent check in Money Orders (I don’t use my bank anymore because my landlord is a bad person, but that’s another story).

I was pleased when I saw there was no line. I was less pleased when I saw one cashier and a little, blue-haired old woman. However, I had my phone and some time, so I scrolled while I waited.

The computer on the far end of the counter crashed, so the cashier and the old woman moved to the computer closest to where I was standing. I look up when the cashier has to call her supervisor. There are now two people behind me.

The supervisor comes over, does supervisor things, and walks back away. The cashier asks all the questions they have to ask, and I am hoping this will be over soon.

Cashier: “And why are you sending this money?”

Old Woman: “My landlady emailed me that she is travelling. She told me she wouldn’t be able to pick up my rent check. Told me to cancel it and wire her the money.”

The cashier stopped and then turned away from her computer.

Cashier: “Ma’am, does your landlady usually email you?”

Old Woman: “No, I was actually really confused, she normally calls me or just comes by the house. She’s even helped me put my groceries away before.”

Cashier: “Okay, so I think you’re being scammed. Someone is attempting to steal your rent money. Have you cancelled the rent check?”

The woman indicated she had.

Cashier: “Okay, I want you to go home and call your leasing company or landlady. Let her know what’s going on, see if she’s travelling, and work out something else. Don’t wire money to someone you don’t know.”

The woman was understandably confused. She tried to get the cashier to do the transaction anyway.

Cashier: “Ma’am, if she is travelling, you can mail her a check, or she can have someone else collect it. If I send this money without you confirming, you will lose it. I will not be able to get it back. Please just call your landlady. I am on until 9 PM tonight, and I will personally wire the money if you talk to your landlady on the phone and she agrees that this is how she wants the money. I am not going to do it based on an email. I want to make sure you don’t lose money.”

The old woman left. I made my way to the counter and thanked the cashier for protecting that woman. I think elder scams are a new form of evil.

Then I spent twenty minutes with various computer issues. One froze, one locked out the cashier, even with supervisor override, and the last computer wouldn’t take my information. Finally, the one that froze and crashed let us do the thing.

All through it, the cashier was chipper and helpful. When she noticed I was struggling with standing (I have an invisible disability) she got me a chair. Not the usual story, but it warmed my heart to still see a lovely cashier. She deserves a raise and all the great things in life.

Back in the late nineties, my then-boyfriend and I were spending a tourist weekend in the Bay Area, and ended up in Carmel around dinner time. We found a cute Italian restaurant that obviously had a wait. Having spent two years in Italy, I went up to the desk and asked:

Me: “Quanto sarebbe l’aspeta per due, per favore?” *How long would the wait be for two, please?*

We were seated at a window table immediately.