On Thursday, I order clothes online. I get the message that shipping will take about five days. On Friday morning, however, I receive three emails in a row. One says the item is due for shipping, one that it’s shipped, and one that it will arrive today. I’m at work today so I figure the deliverer will just leave it at the neighbor’s or on my own doorstep, as usual. I live in a large apartment building.

I return from work to find a note on my door that the package was delivered to an address on the first floor. I live on the fifth. Wondering why the h*** they would leave it with neighbors four floors down, I go down there to retrieve it. I end up going there several times, as no one answers the door. After the fifth time, I leave a note on their door, politely asking if they could just leave the package at my front door once they get home.

Saturday passes without any sign of my package. Just when I am about to go down — again — to see if the neighbors are finally home for once, someone rings my doorbell. I open and see my package on the doormat and a very angry looking package deliverer standing there. He glares at the package and back to me, feet impatiently tapping and arms crossed.

Deliverer: “Why the h*** weren’t you home? I came here three times on Friday!”

Me: “I was at work, as one could expect. I had a note on my door that it was delivered on the first floor, so I went there several times but no one answered the door.”

Deliverer: “I just got home, too, you know; I work full days! You have to be home when you get a package!”

Me: “I didn’t even know that it would be delivered on Friday until the very last moment. There was no way I could get off from work to wait for a package. And why was it even delivered at [address four floors down]?”

Deliverer: “That’s where I live! Duh!”

Me: “I’m sorry. I had no way of knowing that.”

Deliverer: “Well, you should! Everyone knows here! In the future, if you have a package and you decide not to be home, go by my place. I have them. You have to be home when I deliver your package!”

Me: “Listen, I’ve rung your doorbell five times, and you weren’t home, either!”

Deliverer: “I was working!“

Me: “So was I! So what’s your problem?”

Deliverer: “Be home next time!” 

He stomped off, leaving me to pick up my package from the floor.

The health crisis is well in progress when I make a post-gym visit to a chain grocery store. Though I have some residual hearing that I make the most of with hearing aids, I’m actually quite deaf. I walk in wearing a hoodie — rain is likely, and I’d rather not have a dripping umbrella in my car — and a folded red bandana as my face covering, which that very chain has been selling heaps of since the beginning of the crisis.

As I’m going down an aisle, coming opposite me is a dude in his thirties with a very… curious face covering. Imagine Scarecrow’s mask from the Batman series, but with a country camo aesthetic. I’m still a bit foggy from the gym when Country Scarecrow aggressively asks me a question as we walk past each other.

Country Scarecrow: “ARE YOU IN A GANG?”

I’m roughly the same age as him, short, pasty, and vaguely fluffy, with no ink or piercings to claim. I fit no one’s image of a gang member unless it’s a gang dedicated to show tunes and ice cream.

More confused than anything, I keep on walking as my brain processes the vaguely hostile question. I continue getting my provisions, and several minutes later, at the other end of the dairy section, I spot Country Scarecrow, and this time I’m ready.

When we get closer, he again starts asking if I’m in a gang, if I’m a Blood or a Crip, yada yada yada. I put my basket down and let my hands do the talking.

Me: “I’m deaf; do you sign?”

Country Scarecrow looked confused, so I repeated the signs I used and also gestured to my colorful hearing aids. I then pantomimed writing, and that did Country Scarecrow in, and he stomped off in a huff.  

Whatever rise or confrontation he wanted out of me was foiled by his inability to understand my minimal use of ASL. If I run into him again, I look forward to practicing my Español on him.

I’m a pizza delivery driver on my way to a marina where the customer lives on their boat along with several others that are all docked there. My instructions state that I have to call the customer when I get there to be directed to their particular boat. It’s about 8:30 and night has fully set.

I am on the phone with the customer.

Me: “Hello, sir. I’ve arrived at the marina and am calling to find out which boat you’re at. I’m currently in front of the bar at the end of the dock.”

Customer: “All right, you’ll have to cross the railroad bridge to get to us.”

Me: “A… railroad bridge?”

Obviously, continuing down the dock wouldn’t lead to any kind of “railroad” bridge, so I ask the customer if he can direct me from the bar. At this time, a man exits the bar to smoke a cigarette.

Smoking Man: “Oh, hey, pizza. Who’s it for?”

Since people on the docks tend to all know each other, I show him the name on the ticket while speaking with the customer.

Customer: “Just go to the railroad bridge and cross it and I’ll be just past it.”

Me: “Sir, it’s dark out. I don’t see any kind of railroad bridge. Could you please tell me what direction I need to go from this bar on the edge of the dock?”

Smoking Man: “Railroad bridge? Sure you’re in the right place?”

The customer insists that there’s a bridge once more and hears the man next to me over the phone.

Customer: “Hey, is there someone else there?”

Me: “Yes, he seems to be just as confused as I am about where this bridge is supposed to be.”

Customer: “Hey. Ask him if he’s ‘Herman Munster.’”

About a minute passes of me trying to get the customer to get back on track so I can get his food to him, but he insists I ask the man next to me if he’s “Herman Munster,” a name I know belongs to an old TV show character.

Me: *Giving up* “They want me to ask if you’re Herman Munster.”

At this point, the Smoking Man and the customer laugh, and the customer hangs up. Figuring I’ve been conned into a prank order, I begin to leave.

Smoking Man: “So, do you know where to go now?”

Me: “No. They hung up on me just now, so it’s likely this was a prank. Just gotta take these pizzas back.”

Smoking Man: “Hang on a second. I’m sure some of the guys inside would want some pizza.”

He goes inside, and a woman is sent out to keep me company while he searches for money. I keep a look out for anyone that may be coming or signaling to me to bring them their pizzas. About five minutes pass and the man returns with $40 to pay the $27 bill and tells me to keep the change. After I’ve left and gone down the road, my phone rings and I answer.

Customer: “Hey, where are you at with our pizza?”

Me: *In disbelief* “Sir, I left. You laughed at my expense and hung up on me. I thought you were pulling a prank on me. And even if I turned around now, I found someone that wanted to buy those pizzas from me.”

Customer: *Angrily* “YOU SOLD OUR PIZZAS?! Why would you think we were pranking you?”

Me: “Sir, your directions made no sense, you insisted I ask a stranger if he was ‘Herman Munster,’ and you laughed at me and hung up. What part of that sounds like it would be a legitimate order?”

Customer: “My wife and I are very hungry. We want our food!”

Me: “Sir, if you’d like, you can call the store and replace the order and they’ll have no problem rushing it back out to you.”

The customer hangs up before I can finish. When I return to work, my manager wants to hear my side, apparently believing that I sold the pizzas to someone else IN FRONT OF THE CUSTOMER.

Me: “One, if they had seen me, they could have claimed their pizza. Two, they goofed off on the phone with me, laughed at me, and hung up on me. To me, that says they were screwing with me.”

My shift manager called the owner and explained to him what she was told by both the customer and myself. In the end, it turns out that our boss agreed with my decision, and since the customer was still getting their order remade at full price, there was really no harm done. There’s now a memo in the works outlining the protocol for such situations. I walked away with a $13 tip and was given a pat on the back for saving the store money, another driver made the delivery, and hopefully, the customer learned a valuable lesson in phone etiquette when speaking to a person that’s trying to give them something.

The owner of the store I work for is great. If he isn’t busy with management duties, he will be on the floor helping customers with the other employees. He takes customer service seriously and is always polite to customers unless they’re rude to him first.

Customer: “I’d like to make a complaint about a rude employee!”

Me: “Perchance did you get their name?” 

Customer: “No.”

Me: “Hair color?”

Customer: “The blond guy.”

Me: “Ah, I don’t think I can help you much as that was the owner.”

Customer: “Wow. The owner? I’m never shopping here again! I can’t believe the owner is so rude! The nerve!”

Me: “Sorry about that, sir. Have a nice day!”

Later, the owner comes up.

Me: “A customer complained to me about how rude the blond guy was.”

Owner: “Probably the guy who interrupted me with another customer, demanding I cut him a key, despite there being two other available employees at the key counter.”

Me: “Probably.”

My local dollar store has taped Xs on the floor to aid with social distancing. I am in line and standing at the appropriate distance but not precisely on the mark.

A snarky woman behind me is grumbling about how slow the three cashiers are but I guess she gets bored when no one will join in and agree so she decides to turn her attention to me. She loudly clears her throat.

Woman: “You’re supposed to stand on the X!”

I turn to see a fifty-something woman, who fits all the stereotypes of entitlement, staring daggers at me. 

Remembering a meme I saw yesterday, I prepare a response.

I look up at the ceiling and down at the X, and then take a deliberate step to my right.

Me: “Uh-uh! I’ve seen too many Roadrunner cartoons to fall for that crap!”

And just like that, the angry woman was snort-laughing. She was almost pleasant to the cashier when it was her turn. I might have been proud of myself if the joke had been from my own brain, not the Internet.

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