I work as a healthcare assistant at a hospital, so I make beds, help patients get to where they need to be, keep them company, and serve food. I also fix small things needed for the day, for example, coffee and things for conferences. 

We had a professor from the US coming to hold a few lectures. I went to him as he was talking to our senior doctor to offer coffee, as a polite thing to do. I am, by the way, born in Ethiopia and look the part, but speak Swedish and English as well as any native-born Swede.

Me: “Would you like some coffee?”

Professor: “Yeah, with one half’n’half and two sugars.”

Me: “A “half’n’half”? What’s…?”

Professor: *Interrupts.* “Yes, one half’n’half. In the coffee, I don’t want to pour it myself.”

Me: “I…” *Glances at the doctor for support.*

Doctor: “We don’t have that, I think. I have never heard of it.”

Professor: “Well, it’s her job to go get one anyway. Coffee, half’n’half, two sugars.”

Me: “I truly don’t know what that is. Is it, like, milk?”

My obvious confusion is met with him just repeating himself:

Professor: “It’s half’n’half. Half’n’half! You know, half’n’half!”

Me: *Fed up.* “I think you should get your own coffee. I don’t want to make any mistakes; you get what you want.”

Professor: “Stop being lazy and do your job!”

Doctor: “Actually, she is our healthcare assistant. She was trying to be polite. Getting you coffee is not her actual job.”

Professor: “Whatever. Just get me a you-colored coffee with two sugars. No milk. Just coffee and sugar.”

I decided to go along just to get away, when the doctor pointed something out:

Doctor: “[Professor], Swedish coffee is a bit different; it’s stronger than American. You might want to have it with milk if that is how you have it usually. Maybe pour in milk to taste yourself.”

Professor: “Your coffee can’t be stronger than anything American. Go get coffee now!”

I got him his mug of coffee with a smile, knowing where this might end. He took a BIG gulp and immediately dropped his mug all over the carpet and himself. He grew red, his eyes bulged, and he threw a coughing fit. The doctor and I had to help him sit down so he could recuperate a bit from our coffee.

The Professor didn’t look me in the eyes for the rest of his two-day visit, and he avoided me as much as he could. The doctor told me the professor never let anyone else give him coffee for the rest of his time in Sweden.

Back in 2010, I was working in a small branch of the University library. We had many regulars who would stop at the counter for a chat, especially the international students.

One day, one of our regulars greeted me on his way out of the library. He was a master’s student from Nigeria, an extremely polite and well-spoken chap. We exchanged pleasantries about the weather, and he enquired after the health of my family.

This was slightly unusual as we had had this exchange a few hours before when he came in; usually on the way out he would discuss what he had read that day. Having confirmed that the weather had changed little in the last few hours and that none of my family had gone into sudden decline, he looked solemnly at me and said:

Patron: “Dear Madam, you know that I do not like to complain…”

I confirmed that he was indeed a most tolerant soul and forgiving of our shortcomings. He nodded:

Patron: “Thank you. I do not like to complain, but this time I feel I must. There is a couple making love on the mezzanine.”

Checking that I’d heard correctly, I enquired as to which side of the mezzanine was hosting the activity, thanked him, and hoofed on up there. 

Following his instructions, I went to the right, which was the side against the wall. There was no one there, but there was a lot of scuffling from the other side. I realised he had been going the opposite way to me, so his right had been the side with the railings.

Indeed, on the railings side were a couple sitting at desks, looking rather flushed and with their clothing somewhat askew. Both of them were pointedly studying books grabbed off the nearest shelf. His was upside down. I could do nothing more than raise an eyebrow and retreat. It’s not the most blatant incident I’ve seen in my years as a librarian, though it does make the top ten!

I was a sheltered freshman living in dorms attached to campus. I was walking into the parking lot on my way to my next class, and I saw a guy sitting in a car smoking. He looked at me, groaned, then got out of his car and put his hands on the roof. I froze, not sure what to do. After a beat, he looked back at me and laughed.

Guy: “Oh! You’re not a cop.”

Me: *Wearing a green t-shirt and white basketball shorts.* “No.”

Guy: “I totally thought you were!”

I watch as he laughs and gets back in his car. Then he looks at me.

Guy: “I should probably move, though, right? That way if you call the cops, you won’t be able to tell them where I am.”

Me: “I guess…”

This is a small lot, with one row on either side. He puts his car in reverse and backs in a straight line into a spot directly across from where he was parked before. Then he waves at me.

Guy: “We’re good now.”

I wave and leave, not entirely sure what to do. When I come back, the guy is gone. My roommate reads me the riot act later for not calling 911 on a clearly impaired guy behind the wheel of a car and for how, by not calling the cops, I had endangered everyone on the road. My only excuse is that it was my first encounter with drugs, and I was baffled by the whole experience.

CONTENT WARNING: Injury detail

The story about the nine-and-a-half-fingered cook reminded me of an old story.

In college, I was an EMT for several years, but I almost never saw any blood on calls. Off duty, however, I always find interesting cases, usually involving cooking.

My friend calls me up from the kitchen at his job:

Friend: “Hey, bro, I cut myself. Can you get me a bandage so I can get back to work?”

I grab my personal med kit and walk to his work.

Friend: “Dude, I don’t see the big deal, but my coworkers say get it looked at.”

Shows me his fingers with a deep laceration. I am flushing it out with saline, and it’s a perfect edge but long and too deep to see all the way in.

Me: “[Friend], what did you do? This is not a simple cut or scrape; it’s clean, but you probably need stitches.”

Friend: “It’s just the meat slicer, and I told my coworkers I got it all apart and cleaned the blood.”

Me: “Don’t worry about the machine now; let’s make sure your fingers get treatment, and you don’t lose dexterity.”

Friend: “Why can’t I just get back to work, man?”

After some more arguing, I convinced him to let me drive him to the hospital, reminding him a day of missed work is better than a useless finger and not being able to use a chef’s knife again. The hospital gave him six stitches and plenty of antibiotics and painkillers.

Friend: “Hey man, okay, maybe it was serious. I owe you a beer.”

Me: “After your pills man; they gave you the good stuff.”

Friend: “They did, but bro, you’re always so serious. Thanks.”

[Friend] was fine after a few weeks; he is a professional chef now and still has all his fingers.

Related:
As A Rule Of Thumb, Don’t Do That

My son’s college lets incoming freshmen chat online and pick their own roommates instead of having them randomly assigned. Housing is not based on biological sex, which is good because my son is transgender. He chose to be in a suite with three non-binary roommates (who all use they/them pronouns). Prior to move-in and actually meeting for the first time, they were texting back and forth about who would bring the TV, who had a vacuum, etc.

My Son: “How would y’all feel about just getting one big thing of sanitary supplies and keeping it in the bathroom to share?”

Roommate #1: “Sounds good.”

Roommate #2: “That works.”

Roommate #3: “I’m bringing Lysol*!”

So yeah, that’s how they learned that [Roommate #3] was AMAB (Assigned Male at Birth), didn’t know that “sanitary supplies” and “cleaning supplies” are two separate things, and had never shared a bathroom with anyone who menstruates before. I have a feeling this will be an educational year for all of them!

*A cleaning and disinfecting product.