I have been working at this job for upwards of two years. My store has been host to an absolute nightmare of a regular who has gotten progressively worse. He started with “accept my coupon that expired yesterday” and gradually escalated all the way up to “give me something for free because I waited in line for an hour (during a Black Friday sale)”. For whatever reason, he hasn’t been banned from the store.

[Coworker] started work a week ago, and we’ve struck up a pretty quick friendship. She’s already had her fair share of NAR-worthy customers, but today was her first experience with [Regular].

This conversation ensues after we’ve clocked out for the day and are on our way out of the store.

Coworker: “I don’t know what the h*** that guy is smoking, but I need a hit of it.”

Me: “Um, aren’t you teetotal?”

For those who don’t know, “teetotal” refers to someone who completely abstains from recreational drugs or alcohol consumption.

Coworker: “What about it?”

Me: “Whatever the h*** that guy is smoking, he has been working his way up to it for years now. If you took a hit with no prior drug experience, you would die.”

[Coworker] glances at the busy store and looks back at me with all seriousness.

Coworker: “I don’t know what the h*** that guy is smoking, but I need a hit of it.”

A few years after smoking in taxis in Denmark became illegal, I picked up a young woman aged about eighteen. She told me where she was going, and I set off.

Passenger: “Is it okay if I smoke?”

Me: “No. I’m sorry, but it’s been illegal for a few years by now.”

Passenger: “What if I roll down the window?”

Me: “No. It’s still illegal and it does leave a stench afterward.”

Passenger: “What if I smoke weed, then? When you smoke weed, there’s no smell afterward.”

Me: *In disbelief* “Sorry, but no. It is still illegal.”

Her claim that the smell of weed doesn’t linger was weird. Also, I got to her destination in less than ten minutes.

Related:
Weeding Out The Bad Customers

CONTENT WARNING: Death

After a short hospital stay, my brother unexpectedly dies. Of course, we are devastated, but we know that we need to clear out his apartment of a few things right away. He owned several guns, and we think those should be secured before we move on to other things.

Some family members and I go through his two-bedroom apartment looking for as many of them as possible. He was a bit of a hoarder, and his extra bedroom is stuffed with things. We manage to find most of the guns right away, but I discover something unusual in the bedroom closet.

A pot-bellied stove.

I don’t have time to dwell on it, but it comes up later when my mom is asking about the apartment. She says the stove was actually something that my dad had purchased at an estate sale (he was notorious for buying random things) and my brother’s live-in girlfriend at the time saw it and wanted to turn it into a planter. That didn’t happen, and into the closet it went and probably hadn’t been thought about in years.

Cut to a few days later when we have the time to really clean everything out and I’ve emptied the closet except for the stove. It dawns on me to check if there’s anything inside. I reach in, feel a plastic bag, and pull it out.

And it’s full of marijuana.

I knew he smoked when he was younger, and he told me he hadn’t for a long time. Or maybe it was his girlfriend’s before they split up. Either way, it had been forgotten. But it did provide a humorous story to tell at his visitation.

Because what else would you expect to find in the belly of a pot-bellied stove but pot?

I’m driving from Michigan to South Dakota to go to the Badlands National Park. It’s a two-day drive, so I decide I’ll just go for one day and then turn around and go home.

My GPS gives me two options on how to get there. I can either go essentially 270 degrees around Chicago, through Wisconsin, across Minnesota, and then across South Dakota, or I can keep going west through Illinois, into Iowa, and then north to Minnesota. The second option is ten minutes longer and about $6 cheaper from the lack of tolls. I say great and go that route.

Being the little speed demon that I am, I end up passing an Illinois state trooper going seventy-four in a seventy-mile-an-hour zone. He pulls out behind me but doesn’t turn on his lights. I hope the universe is being merciful and get in the right-hand land going sixty-nine. He follows. I come up behind a semi that’s going sixty-five. I turn on my blinker, change lanes, pass the truck, turn on my blinker, and move back over.

The trooper then turns on his lights, and I pull off the side of the road.

Trooper: “Hello, ma’am. Illinois state law says that you need to have your blinker on for 300 feet before you change lanes. Now, I’m not going to write you a ticket for that, just give you a warning.”

Me: “Thank you, officer.”

Trooper: “Where are you going to?”

Me: “Badlands National Park.”

Trooper: “Oh, neat. How long will you be there for?”

Me: “I’m just driving out there, spending one day, and then coming back.”

Trooper: “Just a day?”

Me: “Yeah, I mean, the trip is going to take a week as it is.”

Trooper: “Huh. Can I have your license? I’ll just run that real quick and get you the warning, and you’ll be all set.”

I hand off the information and sit and wait. And wait.

A second car that says, “Sheriff,” pulls up behind the gentleman with too much time on his hands. Finally, the sheriff comes up to my window.

Sheriff: “Hello. Do you mind if we have the dog sniff your car? He will be checking for narcotics.”

I have six more hours left to drive and want to get a move on.

Me: “That’s fine.”

The dog circles my car. And I wait some more.

Trooper: “So, ma’am, we get people carrying drugs across the state. So, I just want to know, do you have any contraband on you?”

Me: “No, sir.”

Trooper: “Are you carrying large amounts of cash?”

Me: “I think I have a dollar bill in my wallet.”

Trooper: “Did anyone give you any little baggies or other packages to carry?”

Me: “No, sir.”

Trooper: “Okay. Do you mind stepping out so we can search your car?”

I am pretty sure I can tell him no, but again, I want to get back to driving, and agreeing seems like the fastest way out of this corn-filled state.

Me: “Just so long as you don’t judge how messy my car is, that’s fine.”

I step out, and they spend about thirty seconds glancing through my car with luggage in the back seat and craft supplies in my trunk. The trooper comes back to me with my license and a warning for going seventy-four in a seventy.

Trooper: “Sorry about that, ma’am. There seems to have been a misunderstanding. You drive safe now.”

Me: “Thank you, officer.”

I’m not really sure what was misunderstood there, but I didn’t go that way on my way back home.

A potential client phoned me to see if I’d produce a pilot episode for him. It was for a paranormal “reality” show set in a “legitimate” haunted house. He needed me to run casting, shooting, editing, and basically every job other than coming up with the idea and the location.

Client: “I can’t really afford to pay you for this, but I make a mean batch of [recreational substance] brownies.”