I am a pharmacy clerk doing the last part of my shift when I see a man hobble in with an untidy look.

Man: *Hurriedly* “Do you have any gloves?”

Me: “Uh… what do you need those for?”

Man: “I need use-and-throw ones. I had a biological trash bag explode on me. Well, okay, actually, it was a biohazard one… Y’know how it goes.”

Uneasily, I pull out a box of latex gloves.

Me: “Would a hundred-pack be good?”

Man: “Yes. Yes, it will. Can I get some medical-grade disinfectant and bandages while I’m at it?”

Me: “Uh… sure.”

I gave him what he asked for, and as soon as he got the bag, he slammed down a 50-Euro note and ran out without picking up the change. I was left uneasy; just what the heck actually happened to make him rush so much — and need all that stuff to boot?

I used to date an autistic girl, and we were having a fairly good time together. To test our live-together resolve, we went on holiday around Northern Italy.

The first few days around the smaller cities were fine, but when we got to Milan and had to use the metro after a long day of walking, things went downhill fast. The crowds, noises, smell, and tiredness compounded together and made her start having a meltdown while on the train, and with nowhere quieter and calmer to take her, both of us were stuck on that noisy train.

Suddenly, I noticed a guy wearing big headphones gesturing at me as he dramatically removed them, and I looked at him.

Guy: “Hey, does she need any help? Anything I can do?”

Me: “I wish there was something to be done here — she’s tired and the noise bothers her — but, y’know, we’re here and still have four stops to go.”

Guy: “Would giving her my headphones help? They’re noise-cancelling.”

Me: “Uh… are you sure?”

Guy: *Dismissive* “I’m going to the end of the line, and I was just listening to music, anyway. I’ll live.”

I reluctantly accepted his offer, taking his headphones and giving them to my girlfriend. She put them on, and soon enough, she calmed down enough to sit down on a seat and not on the floor, and she got off the train more cheerily than she had boarded. I quickly thanked the guy and then left.

We eventually broke up, but I will never forget the time a random stranger offered to lend away his headphones to soothe a distressed young woman.

Fifty years ago, I worked a summer job in a factory in New Jersey. We didn’t actually manufacture anything. The widgets were made in the UK and shipped to us so they could be labeled, “Packaged in the USA.” We sat on an assembly line and boxed blister packs of the widgets.

One day, the machine that formed the plastic started acting up and oozing out gases. We called over one of the managers who were known as engineers — although I tend to doubt they had degrees.

Coworker #1: “Something’s wrong. The machine is spreading gases that make our eyes hurt.”

[Engineer] nodded and turned to [Coworker #2].

Engineer: “Do your eyes hurt?”

Coworker #2: “Yes.”

[Engineer] nodded again and turned to [Coworker #3].

Engineer: “Do your eyes hurt?”

Coworker #3: “Yes.”

And so on. When he reached the end of the line, he went back to [Coworker #1].

Engineer: “See? Everyone’s eyes hurt.”

And he walked off.

I’m a college student. To save money, I drive to a friend’s house near campus, park, and bike the rest of the way instead of paying for a park-and-ride pass that starts at a ridiculously far away location. 

Due to the traffic, student driving, and general chaos in our town near the university, it’s a given that if you bike, you will eventually get hit by a car. It all boils down to how severe the accident is. After six years of biking at least twice a week, nearly every week, I let my guard down for a moment and got hit. 

A car was pulling up to a stop sign while I was in the bike lane and, a bit annoyed at a previous encounter with a driver parked and idling in the bike lane a block back, I mentally told myself, “This guy is going to stop.” A moment later, as I was perfectly aligned with his oncoming bumper, I thought, “Aw, s***, he’s still coming.”

The next minute saw me extricating myself from my mangled bike, several onlookers running over to check on me, and the panicked driver getting out and yelling about not seeing me at all.

After doing a quick check of myself and only finding a badly gashed hand and a scraped knee, I sat up and, in a moment of shock and anger, spat the first thing that came to mind.

Me: “Dude, don’t you know what a f****** stop sign is?! God d***!”

A police report, a trip to the ER, and an insurance scuffle later, I got a nice card post-insurance claim from the driver. He apologized for running the stop and offered to pay for my bike repairs. He also included, word for word, the definition of a stop sign from Wikipedia.

I have a minor deformation of my jaw. Although it sticks out to me like a huge sign every time I see a mirror or picture, in reality, it’s a very, very minor thing. Consequences are purely cosmetic. There are people living with much worse deformations that cause them real health dangers and even pain. I’ve just got a slightly prominent chin. Mostly, I pretend it’s not even there.

I’m at work, about a half-hour before I clock out, and it’s been a pretty decent day all in all. Then, along comes a rude couple.

The husband is a typical business jerk: he thinks he shouldn’t have to wait in line, demands attention immediately, thinks his job is the most important and can’t wait, etc.

But it is his wife that gets to me.

Entitled Wife: “Well, why don’t you sell this resume paper in five-sheet packs? We only need five sheets! We don’t need fifty! You should sell five-sheet packs; that’s what we need!”

After her husband walks off to get something, she sidles over to me, and in a hushed voice, she says:

Entitled Wife: “May I ask you a question?”

Me: “Okay?”

Entitled Wife: *Moves up closer* “Well… I say this, you see, because my husband is a doctor, and my son was born with the same…” *does a sort of weird grimace and gestures to her chin* “…condition as you, and I was wondering, have you seen a specialist about it?”

I give her a “WTF?!” expression, and I respond after a moment of stunned silence.

Me: “Yes?”

I mean an orthodontist, who admittedly probably did quite a bit to tone down my deformation with some clever teeth-moving. I’ve never seen a plastic surgeon because of a lack of money.

Entitled Wife: *Peering at me over her glasses* “And…?”

Me: *Stammering* “And… and I’m fine?”

Honestly, I am getting angry now that the shock is over.

Entitled Wife: “Oh… Okay. You’re sure?”

Me: *Disgusted half-laughter of WTF-ness* “Yes. I’m sure.”

Entitled Wife: *Sympathetic gaze* “Because you know, some people with this condition aren’t aware. It might seem rough, but there is a solution for these problems.”

Me: *Through my teeth* “I’m fine. Really.”

Entitled Wife: *With a brittle smile* “Well… okay.”

And she drifts away.

Lady, what the f*** is wrong with you?! It’s bad enough to go up to a total stranger and ask if they’ve bothered to see a professional about their ugly face, but to then follow up with wanting to know what the doctor said?! That’s none of your business! And her fake-motherly-concern nonsense just made me angrier. Don’t go trying to pretend like your cattiness is some kind of concern.

I was seething. Thank the gods I got to go home then. (My poor coworker had to take over helping them.) My boss was practically shaking with rage when she came to see if I was okay and told me not to let them get to me.

My coworker hugged me and shouted, “YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL!” loud enough for the woman to definitely hear.