(The YMCA where I volunteer switched from swiping cards to scanning them in March. As the machine we used to swipe the cards is attached to the front desk, we cover it in duct tape so that members will refrain from using it. It is now August.)

Me: “Good morning!”

(The member ignores me and gets out his wallet to find his card. After taking a few minutes to find his card, he attempts to swipe it over the duct tape.)

Me: “You can actually just scan your card over here, sir.”

(I gesture to the scanner, but the member continues to ignore me.)

Me: “Excuse me, sir, but we no longer swipe the cards; we have switched to the scanner.”

(I gesture to the scanner once more and the member finally takes notice of me.)

Member: “Why can’t I swipe my card?”

Me: “We have switched over to this scanner.”

Member: “When did that happen?”

Me: “We actually switched over a couple of months ago.”

Member: “I swiped my card last week!”

(I know this is not possible, as the swipe machine no longer works and has not for months.)

Me: “Okay… Here, let me do this for you.”

(I take the card from the member, scan it, and let him into the facility.)

Coworker: “He does this every week!”

(Both my parents are doctors, which means that they have very little patience with any of their children’s health problems. The rule growing up was, “If you can complain about it, you can go to school!” At age 12, I have a terrible skateboard accident and walk into our home with blood pouring out of a massive gash in my head, and several broken ribs. I gasp to my parents:)

Me: “Guys, it hurts when I breathe.”

(My father looks up from his book.)

Father: “Then don’t.” *goes back to reading*

Mother: *screaming* “And stop bleeding on the floor; I just mopped it!”

(I went next door and our neighbours took me to the emergency room, where I spent the night. My parents didn’t even notice I was gone, and gave me grief for missing school.)

Customer: “How long is the 1 year manufacturer’s warranty? Is it 1 year?”

Me:”…yes.”

(For those that don’t know, head shops sell products for “tobacco use only,” but are generally used for weed. This interaction starts with a man coming in my store, requesting that I “don’t judge him,” and telling me that the woman who is about to walk in is “crazy.” I oblige and say no judgments.)

Me: “Hey, how’s it going? Anything I can help you find today?”

Woman: “Yes, I’m looking for straight glass pipes.”

Me: “We sell glass blunts; every other glass item is either flared or a standard pipe.”

Woman: “No, like I’m looking for a pipe, like for crack cocaine.”

Me: *standing awkwardly* “Ma’am, we don’t sell those here.”

Woman: “YES, YOU DO; THEY’RE RIGHT THERE!”

Me: “Ma’am, those are downstems, for water-pipes, and they are flared at the end, not straight.”

Woman: “Well, I need something like this.” *pulls out used and broken crack pipe*

Me: *wide-eyed and staring* “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave…”

(She returned ten minutes later, and another two times after that in the span of an hour, each time with more money falling out of her bra, and purchasing increasingly random combinations of items each time. No other mention or sight of illegal substances or devices.)

(My friend and I are walking down the street when an old man suddenly collapses in front of us.)

Me: “Sir? Are you all right? SIR?!” *no answer*

Friend: “Call 911!”

Me: “On it.”

(The ambulance arrives in less than five minutes. Sadly, the old man has died. He had a massive heart attack and was probably dead before he hit the ground.)

Me: *suddenly realizing* “Wait a minute. [Friend], don’t you know CPR?”

Friend: *looking shifty* “Yes. Why?”

Me: “Why didn’t you do anything for him?”

Friend: “Because he looked gross. I didn’t want to catch anything. Besides, he was dead already; it wouldn’t have done any good, anyway.”

Me: “…”

(We’re still friends, but I lost a lot of respect for her that day.)