This happened in the mid-2000s while cellphones were generally used for talking and people printed out directions from the Internet before going somewhere. My little sister had moved out to the state of New York for college, and I wanted to surprise her on her birthday by making a road trip up there and popping up at her door.

I made an incredibly boneheaded move of printing out instructions from the website Mapquest rather than buying a road atlas, and I quickly found myself lost in New York City with no idea where I was. I tried asking people for directions, but they would either rudely head me off — police included! — or give me a set of convoluted directions that would get me lost even further.

It began to grow dark and I seriously started to panic to the point where I was sweating gallons while gulping can after can of fruit punch. By then, I had at least a dozen different written directions in my car.

In desperation, I got out of my car and ducked into a tiny convenience store that was eerily lit with yellow lighting, and behind the counter, I saw a man staring vaguely into space. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed over, and I could tell he was definitely stoned.

Me: “Excuse me. Can you tell me how to get out of New York City? I’m trying to get to [City].”

The man was silent for about five seconds.

Man: “You want to get out of New York City… and go to [City]… Where exactly in [City]?”

Me: “[University].”

There was another five-second silence.

Man: “[University]…”

He spoke slowly, with a stoic and emotionless face, without blinking or moving.

Man: “So, you’ll want to leave and take a left… You will find a traffic light… Turn onto [highway]…”

There was yet another five-second silence.

He continued giving these complex directions — with all kinds of traffic lights, highway exits, turn left, turn right, go under the bridge steps included — in this eerily calm voice, pausing two to five seconds in between each one, as I frantically jotted them all down. When he finally finished:

Me: “Thank you so much!”

An awkward silence fell. I started heading for the door.

Man: “You’re welcome.”

I was extremely skeptical about these directions, but I was so desperate to get out of the New York City streets after dark that I would have taken directions from a seven-year-old.

Would you believe me if I told you the directions Mr. Stoner gave were 100% accurate, down to each stop sign, and led me STRAIGHT TO THE MONUMENT SIGN of the university?

My friend works for a very huge global conglomerate in management and travels around the US a lot. However, his house is in the suburbs of a famous college town in Texas.

He was out of town for the whole last week and came back yesterday evening. Once at the airport, his colleague and friend picked him up as a favor to drop him off at home. When they were almost home, [Friend] realised his fridge was near empty and he needed some food, so they stopped by a gas station to get some frozen foods and some small snacks.

[Friend] is always dressed sharp. ALWAYS. It’s how he was taught since he was a kid. He was royalty. Literally. His name is on my country’s list of people with royal lineage. So, he is always clean, but he’s a very, very, very nice guy unless you piss him off.

[Friend] and his friend went into the store and got some stuff. [Friend] was carrying a laptop case in his hand, dressed in a suit. There was a guy behind the counter who looked so bored, [Friend] was sure he would rather go back home to play on his laptop instead of being on his phone.

A woman came up to [Friend].

Woman: “Where can I find [Drink]? I usually buy it here, but I can’t find any today.”

Friend: *Confused* “I am sorry, what? I don’t know. I don’t come here usually, so I don’t know where it is.”

Woman: “Ugh, another lazy college student. You are getting paid to help me. Just do your job.”

She assumed he was a part-timer at the store… working in a suit, holding his laptop bag and shopping cart.

My friend now understood what was happening.

Friend: “Sorry, I don’t work here. I am also here to shop. There’s a guy behind the counter; maybe he can help.”

Woman: “Help me now. I know you need this job, so don’t force me to call your manager and get you fired. Stop being lazy.”

[Friend], now thinking maybe his mask made it hard for her to understand, pulled his mask down a bit and said a little loudly:

Friend: “Ma’am, I don’t work here. I am also shopping. I had a long flight, and I am tired. Please leave me alone.”

Woman: “You brown guys are always lazy. I am asking you for the last time before I call your manager to get you fired. Get my drinks right now.”

At this point, [Friend] was pissed, but he looked at her calmly.

Friend: *Loudly this time* “Sure, let me help you.”

Then, he looked at the assistant behind the counter and called out LOUDLY.

Friend: “HEY, DUDE! CAN YOU COME HERE? THIS LADY NEEDS SOME HELP SHOPPING, BUT I THINK SHE HAS SOME PROBLEMS WITH HEARING AND SIGHT! SHE THINKS I WORK HERE AND CAN’T SEEM TO HEAR EVEN WHEN I EXPLAINED THAT I DON’T MULTIPLE TIMES.”

Then, he looked at the woman.

Friend: *Loudly* “Don’t worry. Someone will help you so that you won’t trip and fall.”

The woman was red in face. She just looked at [Friend] angrily and walked away.

The bored shop assistant didn’t even know what had happened. And while all this was happening, it seems [Friend]’s colleague actually paid for a drink and came back running and was enjoying the show while sipping his drink. He laughed the whole way home.

I go into a convenience store for a cold soft drink. Standing in line in front of me is a guy in his twenties, kind of grungy, with tattoos all over both arms. He checks out and raises his hand to pay. I notice his arm “jerking”; the muscles in his arm are independently twitching, causing the whole arm to jerk slightly. I look closer and see that the back of his shirt is convulsing from his back muscles all twitching. Legs; muscles twitching, neck; muscles twitching.

I start to ask if he’s all right, but the holstered pistol he’s carrying does not give me any warm fuzzy feelings. I stand silently and watch him finish and leave, and then I step forward to the counter.

Me: *To the clerk* “Is that guy all right?”

Clerk: *Stares at me* “He’s a regular; we call him ‘Twitch’.”

Me: “Because of that muscle thing?”

Clerk: *After pausing* “No, it has to do with that pistol, but the manager doesn’t want us telling customers about it, so I can’t tell you anything.”

I never went back to that convenience store.

About fourteen years ago, when I was twenty-two, I was working in a convenience store in my town. There was a girl who always came in who was not nice in any way. She was in her early twenties but acted like she was fifteen. I always had a problem with her because she would always open her mouth about anything just to give me an attitude and try and distract me from seeing her friends steal. It never worked because I was an a**hole then and would tell her to shut the f*** up and leave.

One day, she came in and didn’t say anything. I was talking with a customer and asking how things were with his wife and their newborn. His wife always craved blue slushies, and she couldn’t always get out, so I knew her family and I would send them home with a blue slushie whenever I saw them.

This girl inserted herself into the conversation.

Girl: “I never knew you were such a nice guy. Why does everyone I know hate you?”

Me: “It’s hard to like someone when you’re not able to steal anything cause you are being watched.”

Girl: “You know, now that I have had a chance to talk to you, I kind of like you.”

She handed me a piece of paper with her number on it.

Girl: “Call me.”

I did not; I was not interested in any way.

About three or four months later, I went into my workplace to get a drink and the owner, with whom I was on really good terms, called me into the office.

Owner: “Do you need a lawyer?”

Me: *Freaked out* “What the f*** for?”

Owner: “A customer is going around asking everyone where you live because she needs your address for legal reasons. She’s going after you for child support.”

Me: “What the f***?”

Owner: “Why the f*** would you sleep with her?”

Me: “I didn’t. I never even called her after she gave me her number.”

After we talked, I was walking out from behind the counter to get the drink I was after in the first place, and guess who walked in?

Girl: “There you f****** are! I need your address!”

Me: “That’s not happening.”

Girl: “I am pregnant and you need to pay child support!”

Me: “No, I don’t, and no, I won’t.”

Girl: “I have five kids and this is six, so I know how this works! Give me the address!”

Me: “The kid is not my responsibility.”

People were looking at me like I was a jerk, and I was getting angrier by the second.

Girl: “You never called me back and I ended up going out with my ex! He got me pregnant and it’s your fault, so you are going to pay for this kid.”

Every single person was now looking at her with a “What the f***?” look. I was doing everything in my power not to smile at the fact that she had shot herself in the foot with a store full of people. I looked at her straight in the eyes.

Me: “That isn’t how it works. The only person liable for the kid is the one who got you pregnant. You don’t have a case, and even if it made it to court, it would be thrown out.”

She stormed out, and for the next two or three months, whenever I was there, she made it a point to strut in and say where they were at setting up the case. And then, she stopped showing up altogether.

Fourteen years later, I’m still waiting for the summons.

Two kinds of frozen drinks are sold at my store, both self-serve. We have Mountain Dew slushies that are bright yellow in the cup, and we have mango “smoothies” (more like frozen Koolaid) which are yellow but with a slight orange tint. No other drinks are remotely close in color. The Mountain Dew slushies are cheaper and come out of a different kind of machine.

A woman filled our biggest cup — the sixty-four-ounce one that’s nearly two dollars for the cheapest thing it’s meant to hold — with slightly orange-colored contents. The smallest twelve-ounce smoothie is over a dollar, and we don’t have smoothie cups larger than twenty-four ounces. The sixty-four-ounce cup isn’t meant for the smoothies and there’s a note by the machines about cups — which no one reads — but sadly, the smoothie machines are next to the slushy machine and in a bit of a blind spot, which people take advantage of.

I just outright rang up the drink as best I could, making for an approximately five- to six-dollar drink. She complained and lied out her a** about what it was.

I can’t even remember if I ended the confrontation by very, very grudgingly giving her the benefit of the doubt, or if it was an “If it’s that much then I don’t want it” situation where I had to waste it out and get zero money for it, but I did check video and confirmed that this lady was an utter bald-faced liar.

Our profit margins for our cold self-serve drinks were HORRIBLE and I blame people like this for it.