I’m twelve and in the seventh grade. I’m deaf and wear hearing aids. My science teacher is out sick, and we have a substitute. I’m sitting at the front of the class.

The substitute approaches me.

Substitute: “[My Name], headphones aren’t permitted during school.”

Me: *Confused* “What? I don’t have headphones.”

Substitute: “You have them in right now!”

Me: “These are my hearing aids.”

Substitute: “TAKE. THEM. OUT.”

Me: “I can’t. I need them to hear.”

Substitute: “NOW!”

Me: “No.”

The substitute rips my hearing aids out and stomps them. I start crying, both from the pain of having my hearing aids wrenched from my ears and from anger. Another student stands up.

Classmate: “Those were his hearing aids, you motherf*****!”

Substitute: “Office. Now.”

The student went to the office and returned with the vice-principal in about five minutes. The whole class was yelling at the substitute, and I was sitting there bawling.

The vice-principal sent the substitute out, regained control of the class, and comforted me. At the end of the day, the substitute was fired, the district paid to get my $3,000 hearing aids replaced, and the student who stood up for me was awarded $5 at the student store.

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I graduated massage school in 1986 and promptly started working at a place in a very well-to-do town. We had acupuncture, chiropractic, and other modalities, as well as massage therapy.

I quickly developed a roster of regulars with standing weekly appointments. One particular fellow was my standing Tuesday 6:00 pm for years. He was always right on time, impeccably dressed, the model of a perfect executive. (Nice guy, too.)

But one Tuesday, [Regular] didn’t come in and didn’t call. With most people, I would have assumed they’d just flaked, but [Regular] had never flaked on anything in his life. I was concerned.

It turned out that [Regular] had gone in to have a lipoma removed — I knew he had it, of course — and during what should have been very minor surgery, his heart stopped. They had to resuscitate him.

He called the next day.

Regular: “Sorry I missed my appointment yesterday. I was dead.”

Best excuse EVER.

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I work in a small independent bookshop. Due to the current health crisis, it is recommended that any merchandise touched by customers should be quarantined for seventy-two hours before being offered back for sale. We have set a couple of large baskets in the middle of the shop, and there are hand sanitisers in several places along with large signs asking people to sanitise their hands and to only touch books they want to buy, and if they decide not to buy a book they have touched, to place it in the basket so we can quarantine it.

A customer comes in and browses for a minute or two, then pulls a book, looks at it, and puts it back on the shelf. I go over and take the book and drop it in the basket.

Me: “Hi, sir, if you touch a book can you please put it in the basket?”

Customer: “What? Why?”

Me: “If any books are touched, we need to quarantine them for three days. It’s fine if you want to look at books; just please put them in the basket when you’re done instead of back on the shelf.”

Customer: “I used sanitiser.”

Me: “I’m sure you did, but I’m afraid we still need to quarantine anything that’s been touched.”

He looks into the basket, which has about a dozen books in it.

Customer: “So what if I want one of those books?”

Me: “Well, if there’s one on the shelf, you’re welcome to buy it.”

Customer: “What if it’s the only one?”

Me: “It will need to be quarantined.”

Customer: “So I can’t buy it?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry, but any books in the basket are not for sale.”

Customer: “Well, that’s just stupid.”

Me: “Sorry, sir, it’s the rules.”

Customer: “What about this, then?”

He walks up to a shelf, rubs his hands over his face, and then rubs his hands all over all the books.

Customer: “Are you gonna quarantine all these, then?”

Me: “Yes. Yes, I am. Thanks for that.”

I started piling the books in the basket. He just stared at me and then left quietly.

I’m watching my oldest daughter, who is twenty-two, play with my youngest daughter, who is ten. [Youngest] has her arms around the other’s ankle, playfully trying to tug [Oldest] off the couch. My oldest is “struggling” in [Youngest]’s grip.

Youngest: “Come play!”

Oldest: *Flailing dramatically* “You’ll never take me alive!”

[Youngest] wraps her arms around [Oldest]’s foot and pulls.

Oldest: “Oh— Ouch! Hang on.”

Youngest: “Did I hurt you?”

Oldest: “It’s okay; that’s just the foot I had surgery on and I guess you pressed on the site. Here.”

She offers up her other foot, instead. [Youngest] wraps her arms around the other foot and tugs.

Youngest: “Come play!”

Oldest: *Flailing* “Never, I say! Never!“

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I’m a bubbly, gregarious woman who’s been with the company for over four years. Last year, an older man came and joined our team. He’s a lone wolf who works away quietly in his office, only joining us to eat his lunch silently while the rest of us chat. He has a service dog that he keeps in his office and, one rough day, I ask him if I can pet his dog for comfort. He invites me in and I sit on the floor for his Schnauzer to come console me. This starts to become a semi-regular occurrence where I go in to visit his dog right before home time.

At first, we don’t talk past the pleasantries, but after a few weeks, I begin talking to him. It is one-sided talk about stock market issues, which I was just dipping my toes into, or a huge hack that has just happened. A few weeks after that, he begins to respond and my soliloquies become a pleasant back and forth where I learn that he has a full and interesting life. We begin sitting together at lunch and I start dragging him into the group’s conversations.

Months later, as I sit with his dog smushed bodily against me, he quietly thanks me for inviting me into the group.

Me: “What? No. Of course. Everyone thinks you’re great.”

He lowers his head as he confesses to me that he was let go from his last two jobs because of harassment claims from women.

Coworker: “I’m on the spectrum, so I have a really hard time interacting with people. I can’t read people so I can’t really tell if I’m being inappropriate or something. I figured it would just be best to stay quiet here so I wouldn’t upset anyone.”

Me: “Man, that’s horrible. My dad’s on the spectrum so I guess you kind of remind me of him. Everyone here likes you, and listen, I’ll let you know if I see you’re making anyone uncomfortable, okay?”

He smiled and nodded as I extricated myself from under his adoring dog so we could all go home.

He’s doing great and feeling safe in our group. I think it helps that I grew up with an autistic father. I subconsciously keep him focused on a topic, but not bogged down. I also make sure he’s heard but doesn’t overwhelm the discussion. Other coworkers have started doing the same thing.

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