(At the office where I work, we have one engineer who, despite delivering good work, has a tendency to brag with obviously made-up stories to boost his ego. While this is tolerable — barely — after a while he starts to fabricate stories concerning clients and our business. One day I go to his desk to ask something and there is another worker sitting there.)

Me: “Hi. Where’s [Engineer]? Has he moved desks?”

Coworker: *laughing* “Sort of. You know his story about [Client]? How he cheated them out of a six-digit figure, and how [Boss] thanked him personally because we were on the verge of bankruptcy at that moment?”

Me: *sighs* “Yes, verbatim by now.”

Coworker: “Turns out he told that story to [Intern]…”

Me: “Wait… Isn’t [Intern]’s father working at [Client]?”

Coworker: *grinning* “Yep. [Boss] was able to limit the damage, but [Engineer] is no longer working here.”

(It’s early morning and I am shopping. The store has been open for maybe half an hour and there are almost no customers. The cashier has just made small talk with the customer in front of me. I can easily tell she’s unhappy since her work hours have been cut short lately. I am buying three items. She scans a bottle of oil, then attempts to scan a soda; the way the sticker is on, however, the register refuses to take it. She types it in by hand.)

Cashier: “1.74€… That’s wrong. Give me a second.”

(I watch as she voids the soda again, then presses the button for price reduction, types the 1.04€ in and tries to scan the soda. When it refuses she just huffs and sets it aside, saying she’ll do that once my third item is through. That item scans, automatically reduced to 1.04€ because she forgot to take the reduction out.)

Me: “Oh, now it rang that up as the other price.”

Cashier: “Hmm, let me see.”

(She finishes the transaction like that, I pay via card, fully aware of what has happened, and still perfectly okay that I will have to pay full price. She takes the receipt, looks it over, and sighs, hands it to me, and nudges my items over.)

Cashier: “You know what? I didn’t see a thing. I’m so done. I don’t care anymore, and the manager always grumbles about how we need to cash people faster, so I will just adhere to that. You really got an awesome deal.”

(I thanked her profusely, told her I could fully understand, since I heard her previous chat, and that she was doing a good job. You’re awesome, lady! And I hope you didn’t get in trouble for that.)

(I’m at the till of a supermarket. My items are scanned and I need to pay 2,36€. I hand over 2,50€. The cashier takes the money, puts it in the till, and closes the lid, before handing me my receipt and no change. It’s maybe important to know that in these parts of Germany, a friendly roughness and sass is normal, and “customer is king” obedience is not a thing.)

Me: “Sorry, but you forgot my change.”

Cashier: “No, there was no change. Look at the receipt.”

(I look at it and it indeed shows no change, as she hit the button for me paying the exact amount.)

Me: “I’m sorry. I mean, it’s just 14 cents, but in the future please make sure to put in the right amounts and give out the correct change. If your drawer comes up with the surplus cents, just drop them in the charity tin, okay?”

(I’m about to leave when the cashier decides to quite loudly address me again while ringing out the next customer:)

Cashier: “Well, if you are cheap enough to try to scam 14 cents from me, I am sure you need the money more than the hungry children in Africa.”

(People in line look at me, and some snigger. I am quite embarrassed, and pissed enough to not let this go.)

Me: “No, I’m sure I gave you 2,50€, and I want my change.”

Cashier: “You have some nerve. Do you need 14 cents that bad to risk my manager calling the cops on you?”

Me: “I think your manager is needed, indeed; please call him.”

(She finishes the next customer and turns to me again in a totally sarcastic tone.)

Cashier: “All right, all right. Here, let me give you some money out of my own pocket, as you are oh-so-poor. But, I’m sorry, will 15 cents do? I don’t have it any smaller.”

Me: “Get your manager, or I will ask shop security for help finding someone.”

(She huffs and puffs but calls someone over on her headset, giving me dirty looks. The manager comes over and, before I can explain anything, the cashier talks to him.)

Cashier: “She says I did not give her her precious 14 cents of change. I offered to give her the money from my own pocket, but she wants to make a scene of it, I guess.“

(The manager takes me aside and offers me 15 cents, as well, but I demand that her drawer is counted out and any surplus put in the charity tin. He grudgingly agrees, another cashier takes over, and we all go into an office in the back. Security joins us, as well. All the while, the cashier gets more and more agitated, even “generously“ offering me 5€ because, “maybe I made a mistake after all,” and, “I don’t want you all to waste your time,” etc. Turns out, there was a reason for her sudden change of heart. After counting the bills, the amount that should have been in the till was already almost covered. With the short change, it came up over by 58,12€. The manager told her to wait in his office and offered me my change, and asked me to keep things to myself, as he would deal with the cashier himself. I agreed to not get police involved, as 14 cents are really nothing to call them over, but again asked him to let the money go into the charity tin, which he agreed to. He left and let the security guy accompany me to the exit.)

Security: “Between you and me, she had it coming. We all had a hunch about her. Every cashier counts their own drawer, and any surplus, which is usually not much, goes into their pockets. Some people like to tip, and as any minus has to be paid out of their own salary, as well, it usually balances itself out. She was always boasting about her plus, though she never said how much. She must have been at it for a while and never got called out, so she got cocky. I’m sorry for your trouble, but thank you for standing up to her.“

(The minute my brother graduates from medical school, my family turns him into their private doctor. Every little ailment or problem is run by him, even if it’s something completely normal. Our grandparents especially tend to call him at the oddest times to ask about this thing hurting or this bit feeling weird. One day in my kitchen, I burn myself very badly all over my upper arm. I don’t have time or money to go to the ER or see a doctor, so I just treat it the way I learned in first-aid class. It heals fine, except the area of skin is now a darker shade than the rest, and rougher.)

Brother: *noticing the dark, scarred areas a few weeks later* “[My Name], what’s that? It looks like burn marks.”

Me: “Yep. I burned myself with boiling water, but I treated it this way–” *explains everything I did*

Brother: “Okay, luckily you did do everything properly, but I’m still angry. You’re literally the first one in the family to actually need my medical expertise, and you didn’t ask for it?!”

Me: “I didn’t want to bother you like the grandparents do all the time.”

Brother: “You had second degree burns! Maybe even third! You should’ve seen a doctor, like your own brother.”

(I agree now that I was young, naive, and quite dumb not to call him. I’m planning to cover the scars with tattoos, anyway. My brother has requested at least one tattoo dedicated to him to remind me of my own stupidity.)

(In Germany, there are well-established networks that place young people with social, cultural, or environmental institutions as full-time volunteers for one year. Everyone involved knows that the volunteers are basically cheap labour, but many of the institutions, including hospitals, nursing homes, schools, and museums, would not be able to operate the way they do without them. The year after my graduation, there is an even higher need for volunteers than usual; the Parliament has decided to no longer draft young men for compulsory military service, which means the end of the alternative community service that tens of thousands of men do to get out of military duty. With no indication if enough men that would normally be drafted will volunteer for the networks without the incentive, many institutions worry. I decide to apply to a cultural volunteer network. Even though it is volunteer work, the volunteers do get some benefits. In that network, the institution pays for the volunteers’ insurance, provides either a place of living or financial compensation for rent, and give a monthly allowance of 300-350 Euros. In order to volunteer, you have to fill out an application online. Then, you get a list of institutions that match your profile, and you pick those that will be given your application. If the institution is interested in you, they contact you to set up an interview. After I submit my application, I am contacted by the network with a list of institutions very similar to the ones I chose that had gotten very few applications, asking my permission to send my application to them, too. One place I applied to is a well-known concentration camp memorial, [Institution #1]. On the second list is another camp memorial in the same state, managed by the same public agency, but way less known. I decide to apply to them, too. A while later I get a call from them.)

Woman: “Hello, this is [Woman] from [Institution #2]! We received your application and wanted to invite you to an interview!”

Me: “Great, I would love to! Since I am from another state, would it be possible to arrange something for [date]? I already have an appointment with [Institution #1] that day.”

Woman: “Sure, no problem! It’s only about 30 minutes by car from them to us! When is your appointment?”

(We agree on a time that should give me plenty of time to drive there after my first interview. On the day of the interviews, my mother drives me to [Institution #1]. The employees I am interviewing with lead me around the memorial site before settling into an office.)

Employee: “There are four volunteer spots. One day a week, the volunteers will man the information desk, after solid training, but the other four days you would work in a department of your choosing. After six months, we would like you to consider giving one-hour tours to tourists once or twice a week, but if you are uncomfortable with that, we can figure something out. We have a flat in town that our volunteers share. It’s only ten minutes by bus from the flat to us here. You would also get a public transport ticket that covers [most of the state] and an allowance of 350 Euros, as well as insurance.”

(At the end of the interview:)

Employee: “Before you leave, I wanted to tell you that we really liked your application. Yours was one of the few ones we got that really gave some insight into the applicant, instead of just standard answers, and it was a joy talking to you. There are several more people we will see the rest of the week, so I cannot guarantee you a spot, but you will definitely be on our shortlist!”

(I return to my mother with over 45 minutes left until my second interview. I really like this first place and the interview went great, so I am in a good mood. However, it soon turns out that the travel time the second place gave me was wrong. A few minutes before my interview is supposed to start, we make it to the town, but the navigation system is directing us out of it again, so I give them a call.)

Me: “Hi, this is [My Name]. I am afraid I will be late. The drive took longer than expected. I am at [Location] right now; I’m not sure how much longer it will take.”

Woman: “Oh, that’s no problem. You just came from [Institution #1], didn’t you? People are often late when they come from there. It should take you about 20 minutes to get to us from where you are right now. See you!”

(I am now really annoyed. This is clearly the same person I talked to before, that gave me the 30-minute estimate. In reality, with no traffic worth mentioning, it has taken us over an hour. When we reach the memorial site, there is nothing but fields in the middle of nowhere, with one single building in the middle. I enter and wander around for several minutes before I find an occupied office. The woman inside turns out to be my interviewer, and the person I talked to on the phone. While my first interview turned into a pleasant conversation that touched on all the topics important for both sides, this one is way more sterile.)

Woman: “Great, you finally made it. I have your application right here, so let’s get started. So, as you can see, our facilities are mostly underground in the mines below us, with a small surface exhibition here in the building. As a volunteer, you would be trained for seven to ten days before you start as a guide yourself. Only small two-hour tours for the start, but a month after the start of your training, you would lead the full-scale tours, ranging from four- and five-hour tours to whole-day programs, on your own, six days a week. I know it’s a bit more than the work at [Institution #1], but it is really rewarding to know you are really needed, isn’t it?”

(The last sentence is said in a tone that sounds rather condescending. I am a bit dumbfounded, both by her tone and her demands, but even more by the fact that I have not even had the chance to say a single word, other than my name when I entered the room. I am even still in my jacket, so little time has passed. The woman waits for an answer to her last statement, so I say the only thing my stupefied brain can come up with:)

Me: *quietly* “I guess?”

Woman: “As for the benefits, we will cover your insurance and give you an allowance of a total of 300 euros a month. There is also room in a flatshare in town that we provide! I assume you have your own car?”

(I stated in my application that I have no car, and nowhere in their profile has the need for one been even hinted.)

Me: “No, I was not aware I needed one.”

Woman: “Oh, well, we are not connected to public transport, so you will have to find a way to work on your own. You can use a bike, I guess; on the road you got here on it should only take about 40 minutes from the town centre. It could be a bit problematic in winter when it snows, but I guess we might be able to arrange for someone to give you a ride with their car if it gets too bad.”

(The street she talks about was ten minutes by car, uphill, on cobblestone, only barely wide enough for two cars to pass by each other. I become even more shocked by her nonchalant voice when she says this, but manage to pull myself together enough to get through the rest of the interview. However, it does not develop into anything good. I return to my mother, still in disbelief, and tell her the whole story on the drive home.)

Mother: “Honey, if they offer you a spot, you’ll say no! I mean, I know very well that this is cheap labour, but what they are asking is insane! The other places were at least nice about it and offered you something in return; this is ridiculous! I do not know how they expect to get any of their spots filled like that, especially this year!”

(Several weeks later, I get a call from the woman from [Institution #2].)

Woman: “Hello! This is [Woman]! I would like to offer you the spot as a volunteer at [Institution #2]! Before you decide, I should tell you that [Institution #1] has already chosen their volunteers, too, and you are not one of them, nor are you on the list for substitutes should one of their picks decline, so do not wait out for an offer from them!”

(I declined, stating that I thought I was not a good fit for what they were looking for. She brushed it off, saying that she got the feeling I might not like being that far away from my family, and quickly ended the call before I could correct her on that. I never heard from [Institution #1]. I eventually decided to not volunteer at all, but went to university in the fall. While I have not regretted that choice, I grew more and more convinced that [Institution #2] wanting me for one of their volunteers had resulted in the agency that runs both places removing me from the shortlist of possible picks for the spots with [Institution #1]. When the children of family friends have applied via the same network in the years since, I have always made sure to tell them to avoid that second memorial site, and to not allow additional applications to be sent to small institutions that are in any way affiliated with any of their original pick. Doing so has very likely ruined my chance to work in a great place.)

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