After months upon months of having visitors pushing the right-hand door on their way out of the building and setting off the alarm, I have finally gotten permission from the boss lady to put a sign on that door saying, “Please use other door.” Halle-freakin-lujah!

I order a nice vinyl label for either side of the door with a large bold font and it arrives quickly. The day I put it on, I am joyful. My problems with the d*** door are over. I stick it on the door and go back to sit at my desk.

Reading this site as often as I do, I really should have known better. The very next visitor that went to leave… looked right through the sign — right at their eye level — and pushed the d*** door open, setting off my alarm.

They spoke perfect English, didn’t have any obvious impairment, weren’t a resident with a mental issue… and yet…

I hate people.

I’m from a tiny country in the North Atlantic ocean but live in Finland. Before I got the hang of the language and got a job, I was a regular at a local club in the town I live in. Some there spoke fine English, while others… not so much. It’s a clubhouse for young adults and older — usually around middle age/retirement — and some of the older ones are a bit… special every now and then.

This middle-aged club member is interested in me and where I’m from, so they start a small conversation in English.

Club Member: “So, where are you from?”

Me: “I’m from [Country].”

Club Member: “Okay, and where is that?”

Me: “It’s a tiny country in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean.”

I explain in more detail.

Club Member: “Oh, okay.”

They walk away. A little while later, the same person comes back to me.

Club Member: “So… where are you from again?”

Me: “I’m from [Country].”

Club Member: “Oh, right.”

They walk away again. A little while later, the same person comes back. Again.

Club Member: “So, how is the weather in New Zealand?”

In the late 1970s, I am a junior taking chemistry in high school. This is basic chemistry, essentially giving students the opportunity to get familiar with the methods and procedures they’ll need to use when taking chemistry in college. Because the school is located in a small town, it is on the small side, as well. This means that chemistry, biology, and other science classes share the same modest lab space.

We are using Bunsen burners to heat up small coils of magnesium which are placed in the bottom of little ceramic crucibles. The experiment is supposed to be demonstrating how heating the coiled metal will change the metal’s shape as it expands. Really basic stuff.

Before we get started, my lab partner and I notice some sort of off-white gunk baked into the bottom of the crucible. The gunk won’t rinse out, so I ask the teacher for a new crucible. The teacher takes a look at it and tells us to just use the crucible as-is.

Teacher: “It’s not going to affect the experiment.”

Me: “Are you sure? We don’t even know what this stuff is.”

Teacher: “I’m sure. Get started. You guys are way behind everyone else.”

So, we drop the coiled strip of magnesium into the bottom of the crucible and place it in the stand over the burner. We light it up and take turns observing the metal as it heats. We both speculate about the nature of the baked-on gunk while we wait for the coil to start changing shape from the heat.

I have just slid safety goggles over my eyes and leaned forward to look into the crucible when there is a loud BANG, followed by a streak of red flying past my ear and bits of shattered crucible flying all over the lab bench, floor, and me. My lab partner shuts off the burner while I make sure I’m not hurt, and then we turn to see what flew past me.

The chemistry teacher is about six feet away, using tongs to pick up something which seems to be melting its way through one of the plastic mats on the floor by another lab bench. There is quite a bit of smoke which reeks of burning plastic, and other students are scrambling to open windows to get rid of the stench.

The teacher drops the burning magnesium into a bucket full of sand kept handy for just that purpose and then comes over to make sure my lab partner and I are okay. Neither of us are hurt, fortunately, although we are both scared and excited the way people get when the danger has passed. The teacher is pretty pale, too.

He checks the lab record book and figures out that the gunk left in the crucible was a chemical leftover from a Chemistry 2 class the previous month.

Teacher: “Okay! Let’s never do that again. What just happened is called a ‘violent exothermic reaction.’ This was not what we were supposed to be learning about today, but everyone now has a better understanding of why lab safety is so important. It also emphasizes the importance of cleaning your lab equipment after each use. Any questions?”

I raise my hand.

Teacher: “Yes, [My Name]?”

Me: “Didn’t you say it wouldn’t affect the experiment?”

Teacher: *Looking pained* “That’s another important lesson: be careful of your assumptions. I assumed no one would have been stupid enough to leave a crucible coated with a known catalyst in the lab supply cage.”

My lab partner and I weren’t penalized for not completing the experiment, and the chemistry teacher called me “Boomer” for the rest of my time at school.

I did not sign up for Chemistry 2 class in my senior year.

I work night shift stock at a grocery store and often finish my shift at around seven or eight in the morning; it’s usually a ten-hour shift, sometimes twelve. Given the time, I’ve become a regular at a coffee place on the way home, more often than not being served by the same, rather pretty, female barista, and we sometimes have small talk on slow mornings. Obviously, I’m under no illusions that she’s nice to me for any other reason than that I buy coffee. 

One morning, I’ve just gotten off a twelve-hour shift at work and am walking across the parking towards my car. By sheer coincidence, the same barista who often serves me is walking towards the grocery store, though her eyes are on her phone and she has earbuds in, so I decide not to greet her.

However, I see out of the corner of my eye as she clips her smartphone onto the holster on her hip. She apparently missed the proper clasp and her phone falls a few feet onto the pavement. She doesn’t seem to notice, so I double back, pick up her phone, and call out to get her attention.

Me: “Hey, [Barista].”

She turns around, recognizing me.

Me: “You dropped your—”

The barista lets out a frustrated grunt, cutting me off.

Barista: “Oh, godd*** it.” 

Me: *Blinking, confused* “Huh?”

Barista: “Look, I know we talk sometimes, but you know it’s just because I’m literally paid to be nice to you, right? I’m not going to be closer than the coffee girl.”

She goes on for what feels like quite a bit of time, not quite yelling, but firmly telling me that she’s not interested. I do try to interject when she takes a breath with the same four words: “You dropped your phone.” However, she’s not paying attention. Eventually, I just stop talking and hold up her phone — which has a neon-pink case — next to my face, waiting for her to notice.

After another minute or so:

Barista: “…so you really need to not jump to conclusions. Just because someone is polite and gives you a big smile—”

She finally notices her phone in my hand and reaches down to touch her phone holster.

Barista: “Wait. How did you get that?”

Me: “You dropped it about ten feet behind you.” 

Barista: *Pause* “Oh.” 

She took her phone, looked at the screen to make sure it was still locked, and then turned around to resume her trek to the store without so much as a thanks or apology. I was still a regular at the coffee shop, up until a certain global disease made my job even more hectic. The barista still often served me, never alluding to the incident in front of the grocery store, and I never brought it up, either. I just decided it wasn’t worth it.

This story is part of our Best Of November 2020 roundup!

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I work at a locally-owned sports bar. It’s early spring, and it’s just warm enough for patrons to sit comfortably outside on the patio. On this particular day, the Naval Air Station that is about a mile away is doing touch-and-go rehearsals with F/A-18 Hornet jet fighters.

A group of six customers comes in, and they want to sit on the patio. 

Me: “Are you sure? The Air Force has been doing turn and burns all morning.”

Group: “We’re sure.”

I seat them on the patio, give them menus, and take their drink order. When I leave to get the drinks, two jets fly low overhead. They’re low enough that their engines set off every car alarm in the parking lot.

I bring the drinks back and get one person’s order before the jets are back.

Customer #1: “It’s really loud out here.”

Me: “Would you like—” *Interrupted by jet* “Would you like to sit inside?”

Customer #1: “No, it’s really nice out—” *Interrupted by a second jet* “It’s really nice outside.”

It takes me almost fifteen minutes to get their order because of the jets. After I drop off the food:

Me: “Can I get you anything else?”

Customer #2: “Some earplugs?”

They complained to the manager that I did not adequately warn them that fighter jets would be flying so low and so loud.