(I work as a driver for a mid-sized haulage company. Our depot backs onto some train tracks, and as a result, we have a higher than average number of people breaking onto the site trying to steal cargo off the back of trailers parked in the yard. This is in spite of better fences, more cameras, changing and even hiring a full-time night guard with a pair of German shepherds to keep an eye on things. We still have people breaking in two to three times a week. I return to the yard about two am, to find four of the mechanics gathered around a refrigerated trailer.)

Me: “What’s going on?”

Mechanic #1: “We’re training.”

Me: “Training to stand near a trailer in the dark?”

Mechanic #2: “No, we’re training tonight’s wannabe thieves. [Night Guard] and the dogs rounded a pair of them up earlier.”

(At this point I become aware of muffled shouting and banging coming from the trailer.)

Me: “So, you caught them and threw them in there?”

Mechanic #3: “Yeah, [Mechanic #1] was getting tired of repairing cuts in the fences every other night, so we’re seeing if we can train them to not come back, instead.”

Me: “How cold is it in there?”

Mechanic #1: “-30 C, cold as it can go.”

Me: “You have entertained the possibility they might freeze to death, haven’t you?”

Mechanic #1: “Still banging, aren’t they? [Night Guard] called the police about ten minutes ago; they’re sending someone to pick them up. We did tell them not to rush, though.”

(At this point, the police did, in fact, show up and retrieve the fairly frosty pair of thieves, whilst also cautioning the mechanics to not take the law into their own hands again. Since they hadn’t actually stolen anything, the thieves could only be charged with trespassing, so the actual police punishment was very minor. The mechanics’ unusual method did seem to work, because following this incident and a couple of further ones involving people being tossed into room-temperature trailers for several hours, our break-ins almost completely stopped.)

(I am the idiot customer in this story. The legal drinking age in Canada is nineteen, so it is quite common to have a fake ID when younger in order to get into bars and clubs. I am fifteen and have just gotten my first fake ID, and my friends and I are going to our first ever bar to celebrate. The sign at the bar reads, “Highballs on special $5.00.” Now, being fifteen, I have no idea what a highball is, and I assume it is the name of a specific cocktail or something like that.)

Me: “I’ll have one highball, please!”

(The large, burly, bartender looks at me suspiciously.)

Bartender: “Okay… Which one?”

Me: “Just… just one highball. The highball?”

Bartender: “Yes, and which highball, exactly, do you want?”

Me: *becoming totally flustered and trying to read the sign again for the name of a specific highball* “The sign says highballs are on special! I… I want that… from the sign! The… normal highball!”

Bartender: *clearly exasperated* “Miss, you can’t just walk in and order ‘a highball.’ That’s like walking into an ice cream shop and ordering ‘an ice cream.’ There’s vanilla, chocolate, pistachio, mint—”

Me: *completely flushed now, embarrassed, and terrified that I will be thrown out of the bar any minute now, in a shrill voice* “VANILLA, THEN! I’LL TAKE A VANILLA HIGHBALL!”

(I get a call from an employee about a child who is causing some issues, and has been wandering unsupervised for a half hour. The kid is about two or three years old, no parent around. The child has taken makeup samples and is smearing them on the floor and on himself, “finger painting,” and making a huge mess. Besides this, the kid seems dirty and his clothes are torn.)

Me: “Hey there. What’s your name? Where is your mommy?”

(The kid doesn’t answer. One employee talks to the kid and get his name out, but when asked where his parents are, the child shakes his head and starts crying loudly. Security for the store comes down, and we take the kid behind the counter where it’s quieter and give him a promotional plush toy to calm him down. Security starts making an announcement.)

Security: “One of our smallest shoppers seems to have lost his adults. Please report to any cashier if you need help.”

(No one responds, and mall security shows up and says the police are on their way. It’s now been over an hour since my initial call, and because of all of the circumstances, we are worried the child was abandoned at the mall. Store security takes the child to their office. I get a call that police have arrived with a CPS officer, and I go down to meet them and take them to the office. Halfway down to the door, a well-dressed woman stops me.)

Woman: “Hey, where did you take [Son]? I’m ready to go now.”

Me: “I… What? We’ve been paging you for a while.”

Woman: “Oh, I thought those were for someone else. I knew where he was. I left him to play by the makeup while I bought a purse. I saw he even got a free stuffed animal! But it’s time to go now. Where did you put him?”

Me: “Ma’am, wait right here. There’s some people you have to talk to.”

(The police and CPS found her story to be as weird as I did, and I spent the next month receiving angry phone calls from her and threats of lawsuits because CPS investigated her.)

(I’m working the front counter on a slow day. A customer walks in; she looks to be in her mid-twenties.)

Customer: “I want to rent a car for the weekend; I’m going up to see family in Los Angeles.”

Me: “Not a problem. I have compact car available for [price] per day.”

Customer: “That’s a really great price. I’ll take it.”

Me: “Okay. I will need a credit or debit card for the security deposit and a driver’s license.”

Customer: *surprised look comes across her face* “Oh, you need a driver’s license to rent a car?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, I need a government-issued license.”

Customer: “I don’t have a driver’s license.”

Me: “That’s okay if you’ve misplaced it; a temporary paper one is accepted here, as well, as long as it has the DMV watermark on it.”

Customer: “No, you don’t understand. I never got a driver’s license. I never learned how to drive.”

Me: *shocked at this information, because a car is almost essential to live and work in San Diego* “I see. Well, how did you expect to drive the car to Los Angeles if you don’t know how to drive?”

Customer: “I… I honestly don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I really need to have driver’s license to rent a car?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, you really need a driver’s license to rent a car.”

(The customer thanks me for my time and walks out. I go back to cleaning and organizing the front office. Two hours later, the same customer walks back in, and my coworker is working the front counter. I am on my lunch in the next room and overhear entire conversation.)

Customer: “I want to rent a car to visit family in Los Angeles.”

Coworker: “Okay, not a problem. We have a compact car available. I will need a driver’s license and a credit card.”

(The customer opens her purse and places a credit card and a driver’s license on the counter.)

Coworker: *grabs credit card and license and looks them over* “Ma’am, I need your driver’s license; I think this is your husband’s.”

Customer: “That’s not what I was told earlier by the other guy. He said I just needed a driver’s license.”

Coworker: “That is correct. You need a driver’s license, issued to you, in your name. Not a driver’s license you found on the street. Besides, the driver’s license you gave me is six years expired, anyway. I can’t take this because it is no longer valid.”

Customer: *begins yelling* “I was told I needed a driver’s license. I never got a driver’s license, so I went and bought one. I paid $200 for this license off a guy from Craigslist. Here is a driver’s license; now give me a car!”

Coworker: “Let me get my manager.” *goes to the next room and asks me to come out*

Me: “Ma’am, I have overheard everything from the next room, and [Employee] is correct. You need a driver’s license issued to you. Not one you bought online, and definitely not an expired license you bought online. We will not be renting you a car; I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Customer: “You told me I needed a license. Take my license and give me or car, or else I will call the police!”

Me: “Don’t bother. I will call them, instead. Have a seat.”

(The customer sat in a chair. When a police officer showed up, she explained to him why they were called. He asked to see the driver’s license and promptly arrested her for identity theft.)

(Part of my job is to be a go-fer for the office and the higher-ups — an errand girl, basically. One day, as I’m leaving to get something from the store, I see a couple of guys talking with three of our Loss Prevention and Facilities guys, all looking confused and somewhat alarmed. I don’t think much of it until I get back and see three cop cars in front of our loading dock investigating a truck. One of the LP guys points me out, and as I get out of my car, a cop comes jogging over.)

Cop: “Ma’am, you need to come with me.”

Me: “Wait, what? Why? What’s going on?”

Cop: “Ma’am, for your safety, you need to come with me.”

(I’m super confused but do what he says and walk over to the loading dock, where I realize one of the officers has a Geiger counter and is running it over everything in the truck.)

Me: “What’s going on?”

Coworker: “You know those guys I was talking to earlier?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Coworker: “Apparently someone from Turkey shipped a package to us to be picked up by those other guys, like we’re FedEx or something.”

Me: “But our building looks nothing like a post office.”

Coworker: “Exactly. And those two guys were from Turkey, too, and flew all the way out here to pick up their package with the intent of taking it back to Turkey. With those bombs being sent to some people lately, we figured better safe than sorry.”

Cop: “Ma’am, I need to you hold out your arms.”

(I do so, and it finally hits me as they’re running the Geiger counter over me.)

Me: “Wait, you think I was exposed to radiation?”

Coworker: “You were in the mailroom this morning, and they’re scanning everyone who was there.”

(Startlingly enough, my chest area measured as somewhat radioactive. It took the cops another ten minutes to realize it was my necklace, which had a reading of .001 from God knows what, and that I had not inhaled anything radioactive. I still don’t know what was in that package that someone in Turkey had to ship it to the USA to be picked up by a couple of guys and brought back to Turkey on their flight. I’m also amazed it wasn’t a fever dream.)