My dad is, well, let’s just say he’s a “denier” about the current health situation, and he has spent quite a while trying to convince me not to get vaccinated. Like parent, like child, of course, and we’re both too stubborn to listen to each other. He’s currently giving me the cold shoulder because he finally found out I got the jab behind his back. It’s also important to note here that I am studying Public Health.

Mom: “You know, I think he’s more upset about the fact that you refused to even listen to him.”

Me: *Voice dripping with sarcasm* “Ah, yes, because I’m going to trust the word of a man who works in a refinery and who hasn’t taken a health or science class in — what, thirty-five years — over the word of my professors who have degrees and years of experience in the field.”

My mom just shrugged at that. Maybe now that I am vaccinated, he’ll finally leave me alone.

I work for a major financial company. I was the manager of the branch in question. I worked long hours there. I was usually there from a few hours before open until significantly after close. I was the first person to arrive in the morning and the last to leave at night. It was exhausting.

We were running on (essentially) a skeleton crew, so I had to be familiar with every position from janitor on out and fill in for anyone who was sick.

We were in a dense commercial block, with small antique shops, restaurants, other financial companies, and even a theatre.

I started getting headaches at work. Some days, they were so bad I threw up in the bathroom before driving home. It seemed that the longer I was at work, the worse I felt.

I started seeing the gas company van parked on the block more and more often. In a local restaurant, while enjoying lunch, I overheard that all of the commercial spaces near ours were complaining about gas smell.

One day, one of our clients complained of a gas smell in our branch. I didn’t smell anything. None of my coworkers smelled anything. But the guidance was clear on what to do; we called the gas company and reported that there was a gas smell.

We were told to leave the building, so we did dutifully, complaining the whole way. The gas company showed up with their tester. As he brought the tester device near my office, it started clicking. It started clicking really fast. The gas company guy turned to us, quite pale, and asked how we hadn’t exploded yet.

They evacuated us a few more blocks away. I remember a fire company person asking me if I was dizzy or nauseous. I was, but it was normal for me, so I was confused and didn’t know how to answer. I wish to this day I had answered, because my spouse had apparently noticed that I was mentally deteriorating the whole time, and even now, five years later, I’m noticeably slower and less mentally capable than I once was. 

After they aired out the first floor with large vans that had large fans, I was brought back into the office to unlock the door to the basement, where the gas concentration was strongest. By now, I’d sent all my coworkers home with a promised full day’s pay.

I unlocked the door a bit nervously and was hustled away from it again while they went into the basement.

Earlier that year, in January, we’d gotten a new furnace. It turned out that they hadn’t joined the unions correctly and the furnace was leaking out gas at a prodigious rate. What actually saved us from an explosion was that there was very little oxygen down there, mostly just gas and carbon monoxide.

The basements of all of the commercial buildings on the block were separated by old crumbling brickwork, so the gas from my office was leaking into the neighboring commercial buildings, too. They all had to be aired out. All of the gas problems on the block were the fault of my faulty furnace.

And I was the one who’d suffered the most exposure to it, as we kept our secure documents in the basement, and I was the only one with the key, going down there every day, multiple times a day to retrieve or return documents.

I still work for the company, but in a different district far away. I still don’t know how to get compensation for any harm I may have suffered in those working conditions.

Since I’m having no luck with my job search, I agree to volunteer at the charity cafe my mum runs through our church. I wouldn’t normally because I have trouble standing for any period of time, but having been shut for six months due to a certain global disease, new restrictions mean that they need someone at the door to take details for contact tracing, which I can do sitting down.

Mum and [Second-In-Command] usually go in at 8:00 and Mum bakes fresh scones and pancakes while [Second-In-Command] completes the new and extensive cleaning routine. The other volunteers arrive between 9:30 and 9:45 to open at 10:00.

This morning, I arrive at 9:30 and ring the bell to be let in. It’s a miserable day and the cold and wet has gone to my joints, so it’s a two-crutch day. [Second-In-Command] lets me in and I can immediately hear someone grumbling in the corridor.

Second-In-Command: “Don’t say a word. She’s been here for fifteen minutes and I wish I hadn’t let her in.”

I recognise one of our regulars, who’s known to be difficult, standing in the corridor. As soon as she sees me, she starts shrieking.

Regular: “I’ve been here for twenty minutes and they won’t let me in the hall to sit down! It’s disgraceful! I demand a seat!”

Second-In-Command: “We’ve been through this. We can’t let anyone in until we finish the cleaning, and that won’t be until we open at ten.”

Unfortunately, my station is in the corridor facing her, and the second I sit down and start taking my coat off, she starts screaming again. 

Regular: “Preferential treatment! She’s getting preferential treatment because she’s her daughter.”

Second-In-Command: “She has a disability and can’t stand. And that’s where she does her job.”

Regular: “What if I had arthritis?”

Second-In-Command: “Do you have arthritis?”

Regular: “No, but what if I had a seizure?”

Second-In-Command: “Then we’d get you immediate medical attention from the trained nurse whose daughter you’re screaming at.”

Regular: “I’m going to complain to your minister! You can’t treat me like this! You will let me in now.”

Second-In-Command: “The answer is still no.”

She shrieked and sulked and demanded for the next thirty minutes until we officially opened and she got into the hall to sit down. Then, she started grabbing anyone who went past her table to try and get them to sympathise with her. Other regulars actually came out to apologise for her behaviour. My mum had to tell her she had to stop disturbing everyone else or she’d have to leave. 

She swore we’d lost a customer, but I think we can live without her £1.50. If she’d asked nicely for a seat, we’d have got her one, but screaming at everyone got her nowhere. And she’s guaranteed that if she arrives early again, she won’t be allowed in the building before opening time.

I work for a famous sub sandwich shop. We have a regular evening customer that all the employees complain about because she’s super picky about how her sandwich is made and takes forever to have her sandwich made correctly, but I’ve never served her as I usually work the morning shift.

We have a couple of staff changes, so the manager asks me to switch to evenings, and on my first shift, I’m on the veggie station. The cashier recognises this customer as she comes in and gives me the heads-up.

The order seems to be going normally until the sandwich reaches me. I ask what veggies she wants.

Customer: “I need to do these one at a time. Lettuce.”

I put lettuce on the sandwich.

Customer: “Tomato.”

I put tomato on the sandwich.

Customer: “Sorry, that’s not right. Can you take them off and put them on again?”

Me: “Okay.”

I take off the tomato slices and put new ones on.

Customer: “Oh, no, I don’t need new ones. You can put the same slices on… but they’re not right. Can you take them off and put them back, please?”

Me: “Um…”

I take off the slices, hold them in my hand, and put them back on. The customer smiles.

Customer: “Okay, and now cucumber?”

I put on the cucumber slices.

Customer: “Sorry, can you take them off and put them back on?”

Me: “Uh, yeah.”

I do.

Customer: “They’re still not right. Can you do that again, please?”

Me: *Suddenly realising the problem* “Would it be better if you couldn’t see the sandwich? I can do it like this.”

I hold up the sandwich paper nearest the customer so she can’t see the actual sandwich.

Customer: “Er, maybe? Right, can I have onion?”

I put onion on the sandwich so the customer can’t see.

Customer: “Oh, my God, yes! This works! Olives and peppers, and then barbecue sauce, and that’s all!”

I complete the sandwich. The customer thanks me and the cashier several times and then pays and leaves. The cashier and other employees are staring at me, and as soon as the customer is out the door, they all ask what happened.

Me: “I have OCD. I have to redo some things until they feel ‘right’. I figured she’s the same, so if she can’t see what I’m doing, it can’t be done ‘wrong.'”

She’s been in every week and is just as quick to serve as other customers as long as she can’t see her sandwich being made!

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My partner is in the latter stages of recovering from a serious car accident. At this point, it’s pretty obvious that he will have a permanent limp, and I’m trying to convince him to get a cane so he can get around better. 

Partner: “I don’t want people to look at and treat me like I’m an old man!”

Me: “You’re only twenty-eight. I think you’ll be fine, hun.”

Partner: “Nope. Not getting one.”

Me: “Okay, think about it this way: it gives you a weapon that’s socially acceptable for you to take literally anywhere.”

He looked at me and opened and closed his mouth like a fish a few times before huffing at me. He got a cane!