My daughter goes into a national sub shop chain to order subs for us. My order contains pickles. The young man making the subs looks at the condiments.

Employee #1: “We’re out of pickles.”

Employee #2: “We just got more; they are in the back.” 

Employee #1: *Repeating* “We’re out of pickles.”

Employee #2: “We just got more; they are in the back.” 

This happens two more times until [Employee #2] turns to my daughter.

Employee #2: “Would you mind waiting a minute while I get the pickles from the back?”

Daughter: “I don’t mind.”

Employee #1: “Oh, we have more in the back?” 

[Employee #2] turns to him and points to [Employee #3].

Employee #2: “Remember, he just came back from the store where he got pickles?“

My daughter comes back to the car.

Daughter: “I am pretty sure that guy is stoned out of his mind.”

The sub was delicious.

Shortly after I move into my first flat, the two young men who share the flat immediately below me pay me a visit. I’ve already found out they are drug dealers. Since I don’t indulge in any drugs myself, I’m not particularly pleased they have visited me.

Dealer #1: “We have come to tell you the rules if you are going to live here.”

I remain silent but a bit curious.

Dealer #2: “We don’t sell drugs to any of the residents of this block, and we don’t allow anyone else to sell here, either.”

Dealer #1: “And we don’t allow anyone in the block to use drugs.”

At this point, I’m a bit mystified and not sure what they are telling me. I’m puzzled and trying to think coherently.

Me: “So, you are dealers, but you don’t sell in this block, don’t allow anyone else to sell in this block, and don’t allow anyone in this block to use drugs?”

Dealer #1: “Exactly! And you don’t ever mention it to anyone.”

I’m not really interested, and mainly, I just want them to go away, but my curiosity won’t let me get rid of them while I’m so bewildered.

Me: “Do you mind if I ask why, if you are so involved with the drug scene, you are making those rules? It seems that you are just throwing away customers.”

Dealer #2: “Well, you see, if there’s no drug activity at all in this block, it won’t attract the attention of the Drug Squad and we can run our business in peace.”

As they made their way down the stairs, I had to admire their business sense and reasoning, even though I thoroughly deplored their actual business.

I’m a young woman with no piercings or tattoos. My hair is in a ponytail and I’m dressed in my work uniform. I’m working as a cashier and a young man comes up to order. He takes out a notepad, writes on it, and shows me.

Notepad: “Sorry, I’m deaf.”

Immediately, I start to sign to see if he’d rather communicate that way. The young man seems so excited. He starts telling me his order and expresses relief that someone knows how to sign. However, the next thing he asks leaves me in shock, and he rushes out of the store without his food. My coworker notices my disgust.

Coworker: “What was that about?”

Me: “He asked where to get cocaine, as I looked the ‘type.’”

My company has a strict drug policy. They make a massive deal of it when you start. It’s part of your probation and it’s mentioned on every company notice board.

While it isn’t something I partake in, I have a “live and let live” philosophy when outside of work, but at work, we use large drills, presses, grinding wheels, high voltage, etc. — lots of things you could potentially kill yourself or even others with — so I get why the company has such a strict line.

I’m sat outside having a smoke with a guy I sort of know. He is a laid-back guy, and he’s often late, often sneaking off, and often not where he should be. 

Coworker: “I’ve got this stupid drugs test later.”

Me: “Oh, yeah, I heard that there was a round of random drug—”

Coworker: *Interrupting* “It’s stupid! Why should they tell me how to live my life?!”

Me: “That guy lost his foot at [other site]. He was way out of it.”

Coworker: “Well, he was stupid, then. Why should the rest of us suffer?”

Me: “You nervous?”

Coworker: “What? Why? No, I’m all right.”

We sit in silence for a while.

Coworker: “How long do you think these tests can… I mean, how long does pot stay in your system?”

Me: “I think they can tell if you’ve done it in the last few days.”

Coworker: “S***. Well, I got to go.”

I didn’t see [Coworker] again. Apparently, he was smoking something he shouldn’t at lunch on company property. The stupid thing was that he had a week’s notice and the company would have called it off if he’d said he had a problem and accepted some help.

My spouse and I are traveling in San Francisco. We decide to use a car rental service that lets people rent out their personal or spare car. Since I’m most familiar with a particular kind of car, we pick that kind to rent. We buy the optional extra insurance on our vehicle, just in case. One of the things I’ve noticed with [Car]s is that there’s a tendency for the back latch to fall off.

So, we use the app and rent someone’s old used [Car]. The back latch is loose, and I know it’s going to fall off. I warn my spouse and mark it in the damages. No problem.

Sure enough, the latch falls off partway through the trip.

This story, though, isn’t actually about the latch. It’s about what we discover when we are cleaning up the car to return it. In the driver’s side pocket, there is a glass tube with brown residue in it, wrapped in tin foil. And underneath the driver’s seat is a mysterious triangular hole cut in the floor of the car for no readily apparent reason.

My spouse and I figure that it is probably a crack pipe and that the car is probably used in some sort of drug smuggling, hence the triangular hole in the floor.

We debate reporting it to the cops. Ultimately, we decide not to because we are on vacation and we are afraid of what would happen if they got involved.

When we get home, they don’t charge us for the latch… but we charge the insurance we got for the hole in the floor.