Living in the dorm, I am on good terms with everyone. I try to learn the names of the various custodians and staff, and I take pride in being polite and helpful.

Recently, maintenance came into the bathroom while I was on the toilet (in a stall), so they left to return when I was done. I didn’t see the man so I wasn’t sure who had come by. 

The toilet seat had been very loose, and I didn’t recognize the design to tighten it myself, so I went to mention it to the man who had been in the restroom three minutes before. His tools were in the hallway but I couldn’t find him anywhere. I had to go to class, so I grabbed a whiteboard marker and left a note on the mirror.

Note: “Dear Maintenance: Please tighten the toilet seat, second from the left.”

Later, I came back to find that the seat had been tightened, but as crooked as possible. This hurt my feelings because it felt very deliberate and passive-aggressive. I made a mental note to check in with my buddies on staff to see what had happened. I just don’t understand why someone would go through the extra effort to make it crooked; tightening the screws takes about two minutes and would straighten the seat. I don’t know how they even got it to stay crooked.

I didn’t see any maintenance members for a couple of days, so I couldn’t ask about it. Then, while I was in class, I got an email that was sent to the entire dorm. The resident director wrote a scathing email, dripping with disgust, about an inappropriate and disrespectful message.

I started shaking as I read about how this horribly offensive message written on the bathroom mirror showed a completely unacceptable violation of community standards, she was appalled to hear about it, etc.

I ultimately sent an email, asking politely what the offensive message said. I don’t expect a reply, but I figure that someone misrepresented it to her. I feel it was out of line to send that email without any proof that the offense took place, and it was detrimental to my well-being. Then again, I can’t blame the resident director too harshly; who would expect the staff to go out of their way to tell a bald-faced malicious lie, with no apparent benefit to their doing so?

I already usually just fix everything myself if I can, but now I’m REALLY not going to want to ask for anything. I really don’t handle people lying about me well.

I guess the moral of the story is that sometimes people just assume malicious intent from innocuous notes, and I should avoid those people. Unfortunately, this dorm is falling apart, but since there is no correct or effective way to ask maintenance to do anything, I might be able to accept that which I cannot change. It takes a fair amount of wisdom to figure out who I can trust versus who will just live rent-free in my head as I try to understand why; sometimes there is no “why.”

We’ve been having trouble the past few months with receiving our mail. More often than not, we get mail that’s not addressed to us, and our neighbors frequently have to trade mail with us.

I file a complaint with the post office. A few days later, I get a call.

Post Office: “Hi. You complained that you weren’t getting your mail?”

Me: “Yeah, we’re constantly getting the mail for our neighbors, and they’re getting ours. I’m kind of sick of having to trade to get our mail.”

Post Office: “So, you are getting your mail in the end, right? What’s the problem?”

I pause for a long moment.

Me: “The problem is that whoever is doing the delivery isn’t giving me the correct mail.”

Post Office: “But you said your neighbors trade you for the right mail, so you are getting it.”

Me: “Yes, but it’s not our responsibility to finish the mail delivery process. It’s yours.”

Post Office: “I’ll just tell the mail carrier to be more careful. But there’s really no issue if you’re getting your mail in the end.” *Hangs up*

We’re still not getting the correct mail.

I’ve been trying to drink more water. On my shift today, I’ve decided to skip coffee altogether and drink only water. It’s a morning shift and I’m missing my coffee but doing well as far as I can tell; by lunchtime, I’m feeling a little foggy but surviving. 

A group of regulars walk in and I follow them to their booth; one of them pipes up before they even sit down.

Regular #1: “Spicy burger with fries.”

[Regular #2] and [Regular #3] both pause slightly as they haven’t even finished sliding into the booth and [Regular #1] isn’t even sitting yet.

Me: *Laughing a little* “All right, do you guys know what you want, as well?”

Regular #2 & #3: “Nope, we need menus, thanks.”

I laugh a little and say:

Me: “All right, well, let’s calm our pants for a moment.”

I look at [Regular #1].

Me: “What can I get everyone to drink?”

Regular #1: *Petulantly* “Well, I guess I need new pants.”

I try to keep the mood light and chuckle.

Me: “No, you have pants; you just need to calm them a bit. What can I get everyone to drink?”

Regular #1: *In a sing-song voice* “I smell no tiiiiiip.”

I’ve already considered him rude for ordering before his group even had a chance to sit and then being upset that they are being given the chance to look at menus, so I say:

Me: “That’s okay. I still get paid at the end of the day.”

It wasn’t until I got back to my station to put in the order that I realized what I had said. It seems my BS tolerance is greatly lowered when I’m on no caffeine. I’ll have at least one cup of coffee during my shift now.

CONTENT WARNING: Fatal Car Accident

I am never late for anything unless something way out of my control happens. My coworkers laugh about the time I was going to be on time instead of my usual twenty minutes early and I panicked so much I called ahead to tell them I would be… on time. For weeks, they would call me to tell me they would be on time for their shift. It’s all in good fun; I don’t mind at all that being punctual is what I’m known for.

One day, honestly, everything goes wrong for me. We lose power overnight, which means my phone goes flat, which means my alarm doesn’t go off. I am working an earlier shift than normal, so my body clock is no help. When I get into the car, it beeps that it is on E, so I have to go get fuel in order to even make it to work.

All told, it’s seventeen minutes after my shift starts by the time my frazzled self makes it through the door. I’ve resigned myself to being made fun of when I walk in.

Manager #1: “[MY NAME]! Oh, my God! Thank God. Are you okay?!”

Me: “Hey, [Manager #1], sorry I’m late. I—”

Another manager scurries over.

Manager #2: “Oh, my God, [My Name], I’m so relieved you’re here! Are you all right?”

I once again start answering only for another coworker to come running over with a worried look on his face.

Coworker: “[My Name], holy s***. Can I give you a hug?”

I hug my coworker. It’s not that unusual — I’m a big hugger if people are comfortable with it and I’ve known him for years — but I notice that everyone looks like they’ve been crying or just incredibly upset and are stunned to see me standing there.

Me: “Okay, guys, I get that I’m late and that’s weird, but what the heck is happening?”

My manager very somberly told me that they were all joking around about me not being there super early when someone told them that a few blocks from the store a young woman driving a red sedan — the same colour and size as my car — had been hit and killed by a truck running a red light during the time I would have been driving to work. When they tried calling me, my phone was turned off and no one could reach me. They tried my girlfriend’s phone, but hers had also run flat overnight so it too was turned off.

So, that’s the story about how my being less than twenty minutes late to work had an entire store of people convinced that I was quite literally dead.

In the early 1980s, I was in the Marines. I was stationed in Japan for three years and picked up some basic — very basic — Japanese.

After I got out, I signed up with a temp agency to keep some income rolling in while I went to school. My first time out, I was sent to fill a job at a car factory that was under Japanese management. (I did not tell the agency that I spoke Japanese because I really didn’t, so this was a pure coincidence.)

All senior managers and a handful of mid-level managers at this plant were Japanese, but the rank and file were locals. This was also in the middle of Midwestern corn and soybean country, and the population was about 99% white — German or Norwegian, with a sprinkling of Scots. 

My job was pretty low-level, early-1990s administrative work, sorting mail, filing, and answering the phones. I was in the far-left corner of the Human Resources area, right across the aisle from one of the Japanese managers. I got the impression that he, along with the other managers, preferred to do business only with other Japanese staff, and only in Japanese.

One day, the phone rang, I answered it, and it was [Manager]’s wife. She evidently had misdialed, as I was not in his department and up until then had never had any dealings with him.

He was engrossed in papers on his desk, so I coughed politely.

Me: *In Japanese* “Excuse me, [Manager]-san. It is your wife.”  

The look on his face was priceless. Oddly enough, my desk was moved to the far right corner of the HR area the next day.