My roommate during my freshman year of college grew up fairly rich and spoiled but, thankfully, not as entitled as some kids in her position can get. Despite our different lifestyles, we generally got along; we had our differences, but we were able to respect each other’s personal space as much as possible while being crammed in a typical college dorm room.

For the first month of school, she would go home to her parents’ house every weekend with all of her dirty laundry. I didn’t think anything of this at first; lots of college kids don’t know how to do laundry, but apparently, that wasn’t her problem.

She came into our dorm one Thursday afternoon in a bad mood.

Me: “Hey, [Roommate]. Something bugging you?”

Roommate: “My parents are going on vacation this weekend.”

Me: “Cool for them. Where are they going?”

Roommate: “It doesn’t matter. They’re not going to be home, and I can’t go with them.”

Me: “Your first weekend on campus! If you need ideas on things to do, I can see if there’s anything fun going on.”

Roommate: “I don’t care about that! I’ll find something to do. But how am I going to wash my clothes?”

Me: “There’s a laundry room down in the basement. I can show you where it is if you’ve never been down there, and I can show you how the machines work if you don’t know what to do.”

Roommate: “I know how to wash them; I do my own laundry at home. I just can’t wash my clothes here because what if someone takes them?”

Me: “I don’t think anybody cares. As long as you get your clothes out of the machine right away when they’re done, all the girls in the building are good about not messing with other people’s stuff.”

Roommate: *Scoffing* “Really, [My Name]? My shirts all cost at least $60. All of my jeans are around $150. What if someone steals them to sell them on Craigslist or something?”

Me: “If you’re really concerned, there’s a table and a few chairs in the laundry room. You can always bring your laptop with you and sit down there. I do that sometimes if I don’t feel like going up and down the stairs that many times.”

She gave me a groan but decided to let me show her down to the laundry room. I showed her the machines and the table and chairs.

Roommate: “I guess I can wash them here, but it’s so dark, and those chairs are so uncomfortable. I couldn’t stand sitting down here for ninety minutes. Maybe you can sit down here and watch my clothes for me since you already do that anyway? I can probably pay you $10, and you can use your detergent and dryer sheets so I don’t need to buy anything?”

Me: “I’ll do that on one condition. You have to come down with me to set up the washing machine the way you want it, and then you have to come down ninety minutes later to take your clothes out of the dryer. I can switch them over from the washing machine to the dryer if you tell me what settings you want the dryer on.”

She agreed to that deal, and she actually held up her end of the deal. Every month or so, her parents would go on vacation, and I would get an easy $10 to “guard her clothes” while I washed my own laundry. I also got a private, quiet ninety minutes of study time because we always did our laundry on Saturday morning before anyone else in the building was awake enough to do laundry. Not a bad deal in my opinion.

I’m doing work-study at my college’s library. I’m working the circulation desk when this crazy old guy calls in. He tells me he is looking for some mystery man. Silly me, I assume he is talking about an author, so I type the name into an author search. Nothing comes up.

Me: “I’m sorry, I don’t see him in our database. Can I check the spelling?”

Caller: *In a patronizingly patient voice* “It’s [M-Y-S-T-E-R-Y M-A-N]. He’s seventy-five.”

Me: “Oooookay. I’m still not seeing him. Can you tell me what he wrote?”

Caller: “He’s not an author. He’s Mystery Man, and he’s seventy-five, and I need a picture of him.”

At this point, I am officially confused, but I already said I’d help the man, so I Google the Mystery Man. The search comes back with over three thousand results — most of them doctors, strangely enough.

Me: “Sir, can you tell me anything else about [Mystery Man]?”

Caller: “He’s seventy-five, and I need a picture of him!”

At this point, I am shuddering at the thought of having to explain a Google search to someone who apparently has no idea how to use the Internet, or possibly even a mouse. Not to mention that this isn’t even my job.

Me: “Sir, I’ve looked up the name, and I’m getting over three thousand results. I can’t possibly sort through all of this information right now or find the right man without more information.”

Caller: *Patronizing* “Listen, he’s [M-Y-S-T-E-R-Y M-A-N]. He’s seventy-five, and I need a picture of him.”

It occurs to me that even if I could find a picture of [Mystery Man], I have no way to send it to this guy. He obviously doesn’t know how to use a computer, so email is out, and libraries aren’t in the habit of printing out pictures and paying postage to mail them to random callers. I think maybe I could at least direct him to someone who could help him. 

I remember that our county’s public libraries have larger collections and offer limited Internet service to patrons. I’ve even seen their extraordinarily patient and knowledgeable librarians help older patrons use computers before.

Me: “Sir, do you have a public library card?”

Caller: “No.”

Of course not.

Me: “Sir, you need to go to your local public library and ask for help there. They can set you up with a library card, and then you can—”

Caller: “Never mind, you’re not listening to me!” *Click*

I’d always heard that people call librarians for all kinds of random answers as if we were a physical extension of the collection.

This is about ten years ago when I am in college. It is finals week, and due to a learning disability, I take my exams in this concourse between the two largest dorms on campus. I finish my exam, and as I’m walking to leave I notice a backpack behind what I assume to be a structural column.

It’s 8:00 in the morning, and there isn’t a reason for this being here. I am near the cafeteria, so it may be a worker’s bag, but that would be weird since they have secured cubbies. Normally, I’d ignore this, but in the previous few days, there have been bomb scares at several other colleges and universities. They were all pranks, and likely so is this. But that being said, if this isn’t a prank, I don’t want to be the guy on the news saying, “I wish I’d said something,” so I call the school’s public safety office to report it.

I tell them all of what I mentioned above, and the dispatcher sends some officers but asks me to stay on the line.

Dispatcher: “Huh. That’s for sure suspicious. Do you mind going over and looking through the bag?”

Me: “Um, no, I’m not doing that.”

Dispatcher: “Why?”

Me: “If it’s a bomb I don’t want to be anywhere near it, let alone go messing with it. If it’s not a bomb and a student left it, I don’t want to be accused of stealing. You said the officers were on their way; they can do it.”

Dispatcher: “I’m sure it’s fine. Just open the bag for us.”

Me: “I’m not going to do that, and if that’s all you need, I’m going back to my dorm.”

Dispatcher: “Why don’t you want to look in it? That’s suspicious!”

Me: “Maybe because I think it could be a bomb?! Why are you so insistent that I do this?”

Dispatcher: “Well, the officers aren’t trained to handle a bomb.”

Me: “Neither am I!”

I hung up. I later found out that the backpack was obviously nothing. Public safety did come to question me as a matter of procedure, and that was it, thankfully!

When I was a freshman in college, I had a maths teacher who was very strict about how she taught and how she expected us to learn. For example, she would force students to take notes, and if they didn’t, she would make them leave.

During our midterm exam, someone asked how much time was left and [Teacher] said we had five minutes. At this point, I was only about halfway done with the test, so I rushed and finished it barely in time. Most of my classmates and I turned in our tests and left the room. When I checked my phone, I realized there were another twenty minutes left. The students who hadn’t finished in five told me that after we left, [Teacher] realized that she had read the clock wrong and gave them another twenty minutes that those of us who left didn’t have.

I’ve always been pretty good at math, but obviously, after rushing half the test, I didn’t get a good grade. The part I didn’t rush was perfect, though.

In the next class, after showing us our results, [Teacher] said that we needed to develop a strategy to improve our grades. She said that if we created a plan, stuck to it, and provided evidence of us doing it, she would give us some extra credit. What she expected us to do was say something like, “I’ll practice every week,” and submit pictures of us doing it as evidence, or something like that.

Now, while I didn’t blame [Teacher] for reading the clock wrong, I did blame the fact that I thought I only had five minutes left for not doing well on that test. I was confident that I could have gotten a perfect grade on it if I’d had the extra twenty minutes. And so, what I said I would do is “bring a watch to the next exam”.  Was it an arrogant thing to say? Yes, but I also thought it was stupid to follow along with [Teacher]’s plan to micromanage our studies.

[Teacher] got mad at me and said that if I didn’t do anything else, I would fail the final for sure, but I assured her that the watch was enough for me to do better.

A few months later, on the day of the final, I submitted a picture of a watch on my wrist as evidence of sticking with the strategy. I got a perfect grade on the final. Since my strategy for improving my grades worked, she had to give me extra credit — not before arguing that I didn’t deserve it, of course.

In the 1970s, I attended a liberal arts college and earned a sociology degree. One of the upper-level courses was a seminar on sociological theory. Each class period focused on a different theorist. We were expected to have read the material before class and be prepared for discussions. 

On this particular day, we were to discuss the works of Georg Simmel, a German theorist who wrote about group interactions. One aspect of his theory was about how individuals sometimes surrender individual decision-making and succumb to the will of the crowd. He noted that this is more likely to happen in larger groups.

The professor stood at the podium and addressed the class.

Professor: “Tell me about Simmel.”

There was silence as each of us waited for someone else to take the initiative.

Professor: *Sternly* “Somebody had better start talking.”

I spoke up.

Me: “We were demonstrating Simmel’s theory. Our group is large enough that none of us feel individual responsibility.”

Professor: *Grinning* “Smarta**.”