I work security for a music venue, and since I’m one of the older guys, I usually get to roam the floor, but this day was different. I was stationed in the barricade between the crowd and the stage. The crowd started funneling in and filling up the space by the barricade immediately. I noticed that the crowd seemed to be older metal fans, so we didn’t expect it to get too rowdy.

The first act went on and the crowd was headbanging and lightly mosh-pitting along. Well, that didn’t sit well with the singer, so before the last song, he told the crowd to kick it up because security were his friends and they needed to earn their pay. Immediately, a guy crowd surfed to the front. I caught him and let him go.

The singer commented, “That’s what I’m talking about!” and then started their last song.

My coworker and I were almost overrun by crowd surfers, but we kept up until halfway through the song when a crowd surfer with no shirt, slick with sweat, came over and got shifted to the right at the last push of the crowd, and thus, we were out of position to catch him. He proceeded to fall through my coworker’s hands and hit my knee and bend it a little backward. I screamed, fell forward, hit my other knee against the barricade, and fell to the ground. Before my coworkers could help me out of the way, I got my head stepped on by a crowd surfer.

They wanted to try and stand me up, but I made them pull me out to the side. Once I calmed down a little, I noticed my knee didn’t hurt, so I tried to stand, but my right knee wouldn’t hold and I fell back down.

An ambulance was called, and the poor paramedics that showed up couldn’t lift my rather large self onto the gurney. I pulled myself up with the barricade enough to get the gurney under me and was wheeled out of the venue, to the cheers of the crowd. That was the first time I ever had a crowd cheer for me.

I ended up missing a week of work due to a hyperextension/sprain of my right knee, and then I was put on light duty for another week. But the venue changed their policy on crowd surfers to where you can once, but if you are caught again, you are kicked out.

I went to a fast food drive-thru. It’s super popular but I’m unfamiliar with the menu. They have order takers standing outside so far ahead of the order screen you can’t read it, so either you know what you want or the order taker gives you options.

I ordered the basics: a sandwich, fries, and soda. When I saw the menu, I noticed other items I would have ordered, as well. But oh, well. Their loss.

At the pick-up window:

Me: “Can I have a print menu so I can be prepared next time?”

Employee: “Sorry, but because of [health crisis], we can’t hand out paper menus due to germs.”

And they handed me a paper bag of food and a paper drink cup.

This takes place during the global health crisis. I’m in my twenties, but I have a chronic pain disorder that makes it difficult for me to manage stairs and carry heavy things. I can manage my daily life okay, but travelling often gets bothersome since I don’t drive and have to rely on public transportation. 

I’m travelling to visit my family for the Easter holidays and I’ve booked a train ticket. I don’t use any kind of mobility aides so my disability is not instantly visible, plus I’m overweight, so most people just assume I use elevators because I’m lazy. Since I’m used to getting the stink-eye for riding elevators, and I hate being late for anything, I’ve made it a habit to always have plenty of time to spare when I have to go anywhere by train.

I’m changing trains in Stockholm, and I still have some time before my train leaves. I’m waiting for the elevator to take me to my platform when an older lady with a walker comes up. She looks rather frail and is wearing a mask even though they are not publically recommended in Sweden at this point. I figure this is probably a person who would appreciate having the elevator to herself, so I let her go ahead of me.

While I’m waiting for the next ride, a mother with a child in a stroller and a whole bunch of bags is coming up to stand next to me. I’m still not in too much of a hurry, so when the elevator comes back down, I wave at her to enter.

Me: “Go ahead. I’m not in a hurry.”

Mother: “No, that’s okay. I noticed you letting that other lady go ahead of you already. I know not all disabilities are visible. We’ll take the next one.”

That was possibly the nicest thing anyone’s done for me during the entire health crisis. Thanks to her, I made it to my train with plenty of time to spare and didn’t have to stress myself out finding my seat.

Many moons ago, when I lived in New England, I used to work as an EMT. Long story short, I got burned out, went into security, moved to Florida, got a job as security at the resort I’m at, and moved up to Night Audit. This story happened when I was still working in security.

I am between my rounds, up at the front desk chit-chatting with the Front Desk Agent when the elevator opens and a family bursts forth from the elevator. The father is carrying his son, the mother is hysterical, and the daughter is all “meh” about what is going on. The son is bleeding rather heavily from his foot. The blood is just dumping all over the wood floors.

I direct the Front Desk Agent to get the medical kit from the back and go over to the family. In my “way too calm” EMT voice, I ask what happened, all while going to examine the kid’s foot after they put him on the tiled island in the middle of the room. I know what’s wrong before they tell me, mostly because the shell is protruding from the kid’s foot. Stepping on shells is an extremely common problem here. Sandals were invented for a reason.

I radio PBX and tell them to call 911 for a shell impaled in a child’s foot and to call housekeeping with a hazmat kit (mostly just a good mop, bleach, and a nice smelling cleaner) to clean up the blood. The Front Desk Agent brings me the first aid kit and I wrap the foot as best as I can, explaining to the overbearing, hovering mother why you never remove impaled objects. Then, I keep the foot elevated until EMS arrives, they take him away, the father thanks me, and the family goes away.

The whole situation lasts maybe fifteen minutes. I go about my day telling guests, “No, you can’t smoke by the pool,” and, “No, you can’t throw beer bottles at the birds,” and, “Stop throwing starfish into the ocean,” and, “Sir, stop trying to take selfies with that alligator.” (These all didn’t happen on the same day, I’d have quit.)

Fast forward a few days later. Someone that looks vaguely familiar approaches me. I realize it’s the father of the injured kid. He comes up to me, shakes my hand, and tells me he’s been looking for me for a couple of days. He then hands me a cash bill. I don’t look at it when he hands it to me; it’s kind of rude to marvel at a tip in front of the guest. He thanks me for helping his son. We chit-chat for a few minutes, and he thanks me again and then leaves

I take the bill out of my pocket. It’s a hundred-dollar bill. HOLY CRAP!

Security rarely gets tipped, but that’s way over the top.

I worked in a well-known retail store that was going through a major change. It had been REALLY difficult at times, with most of us almost quitting, but I was glad I stayed on board.

However, the return policy at the time was the only thing I could not stand; we barely had one at all. We would return any item, at any point in time, even without a receipt, and even if it was worn, stolen, nine years old, etc. My managers had even told me that if the items had the name brand of a completely different store on the tag, we were still to take it back. Corporate didn’t want to upset anyone, so all a customer had to do was insist that they had purchased it from us and our hands were tied.

I was alone at the register when a couple came in the door. The man had bandages all over his face, and the woman was holding an unpackaged air mattress that was only halfway in its box.

Female Customer: “I want to return this. It has blood on it from my boyfriend getting stabbed on it.”

My jaw hit the floor. I’d returned some questionable stuff before — bathing suits without hygienic liners, underwear that “didn’t fit,” shoes that had clearly been worn for years, etc. But I couldn’t even fathom what had possessed this woman to think it was socially acceptable to return a biohazard-laden mattress involved in an attempted homicide.

The man interjected.

Male Customer: “And I need cash back. We can’t get the receipt because our house is on lockdown because it’s a crime scene.”

I recovered as best I could and explained that, without a receipt, I could still do the return, but it would be given on a store credit only. Or, if they wanted, they could wait until they could retrieve the receipt, as it didn’t matter how long ago the purchase was.

The man started freaking out. He leaned over the counter, pointed at the stitches going up his neck, and yelled:

Male Customer: “I JUST GOT STABBED! AND YOU’RE GOING TO DO THIS TO ME?!”

He started yelling the same mantra to all the customers in the vicinity. The woman started throwing police reports and hospital records all over the counter to “prove that the event happened.” 

I thought, but did not say out loud, “Lady… your boyfriend has gruesome stitches on his face. I believe you. But that isn’t the issue here.”

Seeing this was going nowhere, I called over a manager. The manager was also shocked, but due to our return policy, her hands were tied. I understood that it was not her fault; she could lose her job if she refused to return the (possible?) crime scene evidence. She somehow talked them into taking the store credit and processed the return. She put on gloves and took care of the item according to corporate standards.

But I was left with so many lingering questions. How did they get the mattress out of the house but not the receipt? Did they bring it to the ER with them? Did I just become an accomplice in the disposal of attempted homicide evidence? And why does corporate train managers to dispose of biohazards?

The next day, the same manager told me:

Manager: “Don’t worry; if you want, you can request an HIV test, and the company will pay for it.”

Reassuring. I’m so glad I’m out of there.

Related:
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 29
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 28
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 27
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 26
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 25