(I am delivering packages to the receiving room of a company. A woman comes out as I’m about to go in, and since the door is next to the receiver I have to move to let her out. She decides to get in front of me to pick up her package like I’m not there.)

She: I’m busy, have things to do

Me: me too and I was here first

Receiver: I will take care of him first

She moved out of the way thinking what to say for the next 2-3 minutes that it took to receive the packages

She: so, if you had 200 packages I would still had to wait

Me: yes

She: I was in a hurry, I had to go to work

Me: and I’m working and I got here first. Bye

Lady, just because you have money doesn’t mean that you can just cut in front of the brown man without asking nicely

(I work in the call center for an industrial supply company that sells fasteners and things. For context, we sell over 40,000 types of screws alone.)

Caller: “I’m looking for a screw that I can’t find on your website. My engineer asked me for a 0.375″-16 screw, but your options don’t show 0.375”.”

Me: “Our website will actually list thread sizes as a fraction, so if you enter 3/8″ rather than 0.375″ into the search options, it’ll come right up. Do you know what type of screw it is? I can just find it for you.”

Caller: “And is 0.375″ the same as 3/8″?”

Me: “Yes. 0.375 is the decimal equivalent of 3/8″.”

Caller: “It’s just a standard screw, 1″ long.”

Me: “Do you know what head there is on there?”

Caller: “Just a standard screw.”

Me: “There is no ‘standard’ screw, I’m afraid. I need a little more of a description from you.”

Caller: *irate* “It’s just a standard screw! How many different kinds are there?”

(Now she’s done it.)

Me: “Socket head, pan head, oval head, flat head, hex head, carriage bolts, thumb screws, set screws, plow bolts, elevator bolts…”

Caller: “What?”

Me: “…stainless steel, steel, brass, titanium, plastic, aluminum, galvanized, black coated, yellow zinc…

Caller: “I’ll need to call you back.” *click*

(I didn’t even get to the drive styles! Hex drive, Phillips, slotted, Torx, square, spanner, five-point…)

(I require a wheelchair to get around, so I need to use the handicapped-accessible stalls when using the bathroom. On this particular day, I am visiting a building to drop off some paperwork when I feel the need to go, and I am pleasantly surprised to discover that the restrooms in the building have a generously-sized handicapped-accessible stall, giving me plenty of room to wheel in and get myself settled as I transfer over to the toilet. Right after I’ve gotten myself situated, there is a sudden banging on the stall door.)

Me: “Occupied, sorry!”

(I hear the lady on the other side scoff.)

Lady: “This is handicapped only!”

Me: *trying to be a bit jovial* “Yep. That’s me.”

Lady: “No! You can’t just take the stall from those who need it. People with actual handicaps need that stall; you can’t just take it because you want more space!”

Me: “I’m not. I—”

(She cuts me off to shout some more, so I simply settle in to do my business and ignore her, as I’m certainly not going to transfer back over to my chair and open the door just to prove that I actually “deserve”  the stall. After a bit, she stomps out, and I think that is the end of it. However, right as I am finishing up, I hear her come back in, talking to someone else.)

Lady: “–do something. Those of us with actual disabilities need those stalls! You see, right there. Some brat’s in there, taking up the stall.”

(I’m forty-nine, but I guess I should be flattered that my voice apparently sounds so young.)

Other Lady: “Ma’am, I’m not in charge of the restrooms. I just—”

(At that point, I’d gotten myself settled back into my chair, so I gave the toilet a good flush and then opened the stall door. The look on that lady’s face when she saw me in my chair was priceless. She gaped for a few moments and then just spun and scurried out of the restroom. The other lady, who I think was a secretary for one of the offices nearby, just looked confused, like maybe she was being pranked. I suppose that maybe the woman did have an invisible disability that requires the use of a handicapped stall. However, if that was the case, I’d hope that she’d be more sympathetic to the need to not judge people on whether they need assistance or not.)

(On Cinco de Mayo, we naturally receive a lot of customers; mysteriously, most of them tend to be obviously not of Hispanic descent. This occurs about two hours into what turns out to be a six-hour constant string of customers, what we term a “rush.” A customer rolls into the drive-thru and the order proceeds normally. At the end, she wishes me a happy Cinco de Mayo. I am not Hispanic but I politely respond as that is what is expected. The next occurs when we finally manage to get them to the window after everyone in front of them has gotten their food.)

Me: “Hello, your total is—”

Customer: *handing over money* “Happy Cinco de Mayo. You didn’t respond like you should.”

(I give back change and ask if they want sauce.)  

Me: “Ma’am, Cinco de Mayo is a Mexican Holiday; all my ancestors are European. I honestly have no reason to celebrate it.”

Customer: “But you should! I mean, it was important to the outcome of the American Civil War!”

(My face is very screwed up as history has always been something I love.)

Me: “Ma’am, Cinco de Mayo was just the date of an important battle in the Mexican war for independence.”

Customer: “Yeah, it helped win the battle of Gettysburg.”

Me: “No, ma’am, it did not.”

Customer: “Yes, it did, and you’re wrong; when I get home I’m checking Wikipedia to prove it.”

Me: “Ma’am, you do know that anyone can edit Wikipedia and put whatever they want on it, regardless of its authenticity.”

Customer: “No, they can’t!”  

(At this point, we had her food, so I handed it out and she left.)

(A few years ago, I moved to the United States from Russia. I wasn’t very fluent in English, but I knew enough to be mostly understood. I was a customer in a bookstore looking at language dictionaries and books. A large man in his early fifties walked up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder)

Man: *Raises voice* “Are you a russky?”

(I felt intimidated as he was acting aggressive, I was a much smaller man than he was.)

Me: “I am Russian.”

Man: “What do you think you’re doing?”

Me: “Buying books?”

Man: *He is obviously angry at this point* “What should you be doing?”

Me: “Buying books?”

Man: “No. Get out. You don’t deserve to be here, trying to steal good men’s jobs.”

(I didn’t know how to respond until a female employee walks up to us)

Employee: *In Russian* “Is everything okay, sir?”

Me: *In Russian* “I don’t know what to do.”

Employee: *Turning to man and switching to English* “What’s the problem?”

Man: “You need to make him leave. He doesn’t belong in our country.”

Employee: “Sorry sir, but now we’re going to have to ask you to leave. We do not tolerate discrimination here.”

Man: “Seriously? You’re letting this red shop here? Only real Americans should be allowed here.”

Employee: “If you haven’t noticed, there’s a picture of the owner right next to the door. He is Armenian. Like I said, you need to leave.”

(He left very angrily, slamming his fists on books and the door. I made a new friend who helped lead me in the right direction.)