At the bookstore where I work, we offer store credit to customers who bring in used books to donate. They get 25% of the cover price if the book is in good condition and is relatively new (published within the last fifteen years). It’s popular with our regular customers and gives us an ample supply of used books to resell.

One day, a young woman brought in three plastic bins. There were probably a hundred books in them.

Me: “It’s going to take me quite a while to look at them.”

Woman: “I’m fine with that.”

As I started pulling the books out of the first bin, looking at the date of publication, the condition, etc., she and I chatted. And then, she dropped a bomb.

Woman: “After I’m done here, I’m going to take them home and put them on Facebook.”

I stepped back and put the book in my hands on the counter.

Me: “What? You want me to do all this work, and you’re not going to leave them with us?”

Woman: “No, I just want to know what they were worth.”

I told her I would not be doing any more work for her. She yelled at me, screamed, called me an a-hole, but loaded the bins on her baby’s stroller and left.

Later, in a local Facebook group where people complain about customer service (and a lot of other things), she posted a photo of me, said I was the worst person she had ever dealt with, and said that no one should ever shop at the store ever again.

Luckily, some of the people in that Facebook group are customers, some of them know me personally, and they defended me. The owner learned of this, looked at the exchange in the security video, and told me I did the right thing.

My mom was driving my sister and me to the store for the weekly grocery run, using our roommate’s truck. At the halfway point, a police car going the opposite way flipped on the lights and turned around. [Mom] pulled over.

Mom: *To me* “Find where [Roommate] keeps the insurance.” *Muttering to herself* “Please don’t give me a ticket. I still haven’t paid the last one.”

I started digging through the dashboard.

Me: “I don’t see it.”

The cop walked up, did a visible double-take at [Mom], hesitated, and then recovered.

Cop: “Hi, ma’am. The reason I pulled you over is that you were going seventy-nine in a sixty-five.”

Mom glanced at me disbelievingly.

Mom: “Really?”

Cop: *A bit more confident* “Yes, ma’am. Do you have an ID and proof of insurance?”

Mom handed over her license.

Mom: “This isn’t my truck, and I can’t find the insurance. The truck belongs to [Roommate’s Full Name]. I’m trying to get him to send the insurance to me.”

Cop: “Yeah, I know [Roommate]. I went to high school with his daughter. Just get him to send you a copy. I’ll go run your ID while you get that sorted; I’ll be right back.”

He walked back to his car to run the license while Mom texted [Roommate], who sent a copy of the insurance through text.

Mom: “The signal out here is s***. It won’t load.”

The cop came back.

Cop: “Did he send it?”

Mom showed him the loading page.

Mom: “He sent it, but it’s not loading.”

Cop: *Waving his hand dismissively* “Don’t worry about it. I know there’s insurance. I pulled [Roommate] over three days ago again for drunk driving. Well, you were going seventy-nine in a sixty-five, but I’m not going to give you a ticket this time, just a warning.”

He handed Mom a written warning.

Cop: “Just remember to slow down around here. Tell [Roommate] that [Cop] says hi.”

He went back to his car and let us leave.

But here’s the thing. There isn’t a chance in h*** we actually were speeding. First off, the power steering is almost completely out on the truck, making my tiny mother, 5’3″ and ninety-five pounds soaking wet, have a LOT of difficulty turning, and the road we were on had a lot of curves, so we had to drive slowly. Plus, I have anxiety from literally everyone in my life speeding and a few almost crashes, so I regularly check the speedometer if I’m the passenger, and Mom never went over sixty-five. Plus, the truck is old and has trouble reaching seventy, never mind seventy-nine. Not to mention that we have a family tracking app that also tracks how fast you were going, and it showed an average speed of sixty-eight for the entire ride.

It turns out that [Roommate] has been a frequent flyer with the police department, repeatedly getting pulled over for drunk driving and gaining a laundry list of DUIs. It’s to the point that there’s a flag on his truck’s information. Any time an officer sees the truck, they pull him over because every time they do, he’s drunk at the wheel. 

We came to the conclusion that the double-take from the cop was because he realized it wasn’t [Roommate] driving, and the seventy-nine was essentially pulled out of his a** as a believable excuse to pull us over. That’s why we didn’t get a ticket for supposedly going fourteen miles an hour over the limit, which would otherwise mean a court date, a line, and points on Mom’s license. We don’t know if that’s actually what happened, but given the circumstances, that’s what we think.

I look several years younger than I am. I’m twenty-four but regularly get mistaken for sixteen and younger — even twelve at one point.

Mom was signing my little sister up at the middle school after moving states, and I was with them. We were sitting in a room with one of the counselors, getting my sister all checked in and filling out paperwork. Toward the end, the counselor looked at me and addressed me.

Counselor: “And are we signing you up for high school today, as well?”

I replied after a moment of silence.

Me: “I’m twenty-four.”

The counselor put her hand on her face and started laughing with a look of disbelief.

Me: “I’ve done my time; I’m not going back.”

Counselor: *Still laughing* “I get it. I’m still doing mine. Some of these kids…”

Me: “Yeah, there’s nothing scarier than a thirteen-year-old girl.”

The counselor continued laughing, paused for a long moment, and then responded in a serious tone.

Counselor: “You know, I have to say, that’s entirely accurate.”

In 2008, I have a nasty case of Stage 4 endometriosis with a large tumor and all the accompanying nastiness that endo brings to the table. I have scheduled my surgery for two weeks from the day in question, and I have all the appointments done but one more counselling appointment. I am ready.

My body decides to throw one last endo flare party, and none of my pain control medications are helping. This one’s BAD. Between the pain and the area south of my belly button acting like the elevator scene from “The Shining”, I end up in the emergency department.

I am attended by two nurses, we’ll call them Nurse Sunshine and Nurse Ratched.

Sunshine hooks me up to half the hospital and starts my IV, noting that I’m pretty dehydrated, with fluids and some nausea control. I show her the giant bottle of Industrial Strength pain meds I carry with me every day. She gets wide-eyed, says she’ll speak to my OBGYN personally, and then scuttles off.

One hour later, enter Ratched. It’s the middle of the night, and my doctor delivers babies, too. I give him grace for all that because he’s awesome.

Ratched: *Scoffing* “Why are you here?”

I explain. I make sure to explain that my regular pain control is not working. She walks to the in-room sink, starts washing her hands, and drops this gem.

Ratched: “I guess we could get you a [same pain med I take but half the strength], but just one! You really need to stop coming in here for pain meds.”

Me: “But that’s what I have—”

Ratched: “You junkies are all the same, taking up our time and resources for your little habit! I wish you’d all just disappear!”

Friends, I am in pain, bleeding out through my lady-business, exhausted, and finally hungry because of the nausea control meds. I have had enough of her. I pick up the GIANT bottle of prescription pain meds and throw it across the room to land in the sink she has just backed away from.

I stare at her. She starts hollering.

Ratched: “What the h***, you ungrateful junkie?!”

Me: “READ THE BOTTLE! THEN GO FETCH THE CHARGE NURSE! NOW!”

Nurse Sunshine comes back in.

Sunshine: “No need. I already did; I heard the whole thing.”

My doctor is right behind her.

Doctor: “So did I. [My Name], we do not throw our meds.” *Hands the bottle back to me* “We need that until our surgery, darlin’!” *Points at Ratched* “Out.”

While I was recovering from my surgery, Sunshine came up and told me Ratched was doing unit secretary work while she attended mandatory patient relations and anger management courses.

I work in a very busy pork BBQ place. A family has just sat in a booth I am serving. I introduce myself and ask if I can get them started with any drinks. It should be noted that I am a gay man and while I wouldn’t say I am overly flamboyant, the way I talk makes it obvious to most people that I am gay.

Customer: “Look, I know you’re gonna make a big deal out of this and call me bigot and whatever, but I don’t care. Truth is, I’m uncomfortable having a gay person serve me and my family tonight, so I’d like to have another server.”

Me: “Well, since you’ve been sat in my section, and we’re fully booked I’ll need to check in with my manager. I’ll go fetch her.”

My manager is a large, loud, amazing woman. She is also a Christian, although non-denominational, and has had zero moral or ethical issues with working with people of different religions and orientations. I tell my manager what the customer said, and she marches over to that table.

Manager: “[My Name] has told me what you said. Let’s not draw this out. I will not be moving you to another server’s section because of your intolerance. You can either choose to stay and be respectful customers, or we can say goodnight here and wish each other a pleasant evening.”

Customer: “So you are choosing to discriminate against Christians. So sad. You need to do better.”

Manager: “I am choosing nothing. I am giving you a choice and you are the ones choosing.”

Customer: “Look, I just can’t support them being gay. It’s against my faith so you’re choosing to go against my religion by not letting me choose my server.”

Manager: “Oh, no honey, your faith uses the same book as mine.” *Reveals her crucifix from under her shirt.* “But we all know it says a thousand other crazy things that you are choosing to ignore; like maybe the part about eating pork? You could also choose to make this one of them, but you don’t, so that’s something you’re going to have to deal with; you’re not going to make it our problem.”

The customer gets up to leave, mumbling about how it’s sad that Christians are being discriminated against in America. My manager later said:

Manager: “Funny, I’m a Christian and I feel right at home in America! Maybe it’s because I’m not an a**hole…”