For Halloween, our office had a costume contest. We had some great submissions, including a clownfish (complete with anemone), No Face, Ash Ketchum, and Red Riding Hood. One of my coworkers adorned her service dog with butterfly wings.

Since I didn’t really have a costume, I joked around and told everyone I was a video game NPC (Non-Player Character). They got a laugh out of that one.

Finally, another one of my coworkers came in normal clothes, with a nametag that just read “Token Black Guy”.

I voted for him.

A family acquaintance invites my kid, last minute, to a Halloween party in town. I’m told to bring food and be in costume, and I don’t have much in either department.

I manage to bake a tray of cookies. As for the costume, I don a very creepy-looking gas mask and some heavy-duty hooded coveralls. Did I say the mask was creepy? It does not have any straps to tighten; to ensure a good seal, it goes over the entire head.

So, we’re off to the party, my kid as a witch and post-atomic me, carefully lurching around (I can’t see a cursed thing through the tiny lenses) with a tray of cookies.

My arrival upsets the smallest kids, who bunch up in the farthest corner and stare at me. They are creeped out by this walk-on from Chornobyl, but at the same time, they know it’s just a costume, right? To reassure them, I start by taking off my hood…

…and reveal a head that’s devoid of any human features, a greenish blob with empty holes for eyes, and a bug-like snout instead of a mouth.

The kids run away shrieking.

Best Halloween ever.

A while back, I had sprained a tendon in my wrist badly enough that I had to wear a molded cast on it for several weeks. Working with it was a chore and a half, not because of what I do at my job, but the customers I had to deal with during it.

For whatever reason, nobody seemed to believe me when I told them it was a sprained tendon. One guy actually got so mad that he complained to my manager that I was lying to customers about my injury. Not that I had one, but how I had GOTTEN it.

So, I decided to try and curb this the only way I thought would work.

Me: “This? Oh, a wolf bit me. Nearly took a chunk out of me, but I got one of his teeth here, see?”

Me: “When Fido wants the stick, you GIVE the stick.”

Me: “Ever seen The Hangover? Bit like that but a lot more I.O.U.s…”

Me: “What happened to my arm? Got into an altercation with a guy who didn’t like my gal-pal saying no. Small price to pay, really.”

Me: “My brother said to break a leg before the start of the play. Broke my arm instead.”

Me: “Yeah, it does suck. Had to cancel the play and everything. Would have made a great Captain Hook too if ole Peter Pan wasn’t a little TOO exuberant during practice for the sword-fighting scene…”

Sadly, not a one thought I was exaggerating or telling tales. Yes, even the one involving my playing “Captain Hook” at a local theater that wasn’t even advertising for it then, now, or ever really.

The customer complimented me on my good pirate accent and wished me well for the next play.

I work for a charity store. Like a lot of charity stores, we have our fair share of volunteers.

I see a customer storm in, angry from the get-go. She marches up to the counter, but to her credit, actually reads the large sign we have up there.

Sign: “Attention customers, some of our staff are volunteers, which means they are not paid to deal with your bull-s*** – literally. They are allowed to match your tone. Which workers are paid, and which are volunteers? You’ll never know! Wanna take that chance?”

She looks angrily at the sign, then angrily at me, then angrily at the sign again.

Customer: “Ugh, forget it!”

She storms back out… angrily, of course. 

P.S. Paid staff are also allowed to tone match, but it’s fun to keep customers on their toes!

A boy, maybe ten or eleven years old, hands over a game to me. His mother comes rushing over.

Mom: “You finally picked a game?” *Looks at the game.* “Nuh-uh. No way.”

Boy: “Mom, it’s my birthday money!”

Mom: “You will not be using it to buy Call of Duty! I will not allow those immoral games in my house. Something more godly or nothing at all!”

The boy huffs and puffs and goes back to the aisles. The mom looks at me.

Mom: “Sorry about him. He’s at that age.”

Me: “That’s okay. I hope he can find something that you both agree on.”

The boy comes back with a new game. The mom reads the title.

Mom: “Saints Row.”

The boy looks at me pleadingly. I throw him a wink.

Mom: “Much better.”

That clever little so-and-so…