A potential client from the fashion field comes to me because they want an exclusive web project for one of their fashion branches. They also ask if I’d be interested in doing this for free as “exposure”. Since I want something from fashion in my portfolio, I do not say no.

Me: “Well, okay, we can work out something. I think I’d like to have a fashion customer in my portfolio. I will prepare a contract for you.”

Client: “A contract? Why? Why do you need a contract if you work for free?”

Now that’s a red flag.

Me: “Well, not exactly for free. For exposure, right?”

Client: “Yes.”

Me: “Also, I need a contract to set all commitments, all boundaries, and a full project scope, so I don’t end up working endlessly for free.”

I prepare it and send it to them. All of my contracts include a clause that says I have a right to feature the project on my website and in any marketing material like presentations, and that I also include my copyright mark at the bottom section of a website.

Client: “Everything looks great, except that clause.”

Me: “What’s wrong with it?”

Client: “Our policy is not to allow it. We’d like people to think we made that ourselves and that we did not hire anyone else do it. Can you remove that clause?”

Me: “I thought you wanted someone to do this for free in exchange for exposure?”

Client: “Yes.”

Me: “So, how is this exposure if I am not allowed to expose it?”

Client: “Well, you will gain valuable experience! You will know that you, yourself, you made this.”

Me: “No, that is not what exposure means. Exposure is when I publish a website with my copyright, put on my website, and receive a good testimonial from a client. Usually, they also separately thank me in their Facebook or LinkedIn posts, etc. In this case, you are simply asking for free work by inserting some keywords like ‘exposure’, but you don’t really know what they mean.” 

The client never responded.

I worked at this dive bar in Vilnius that opened at 8:00 pm and closed in the wee hours of the morning, usually when public transport started running. It was quite a werewolf’s haunt past midnight. The types of shenanigans that went on there could fill a book, but this one was about an early opening because it was cleaning day. (It’s a dive, so no surprise the hygiene standards were low.)

There were some locals sitting at the bar. They were a thuggy-looking bunch, but they were always polite, and one of them nearly always beat me at chess, so we called them our “Elite thugs”. They wouldn’t drink much; they just liked hanging around from time to time. Later, some “tourist” — our name for people who come to check the bar out once and then never return — popped in and the evening continued. He sat at the bar and seemed friendly enough so we had various conversations, with him doing most of the talking.

Not long after that, one of the regulars showed up and joined us at the bar. He was a young guy (but legal, no worries), and he mostly kept to himself as he was not much of a drinker. The problems started when the “tourist” and the young guy got to talking, and after a few minutes, the conversation went downhill.

Tourist: “Yeah, I like this place. A real f****** bar. Not like those f** joints they have nowadays.”

Young Guy: “What’s wrong with f**s?”

The tourist looked like he’d been slapped with a wet rag.

Tourist: “You’re not a f**, are you?”

Young Guy: “Um… I’m gay, yeah.”

The tourist went ballistic. He started cussing at guy, hurling expletives, and listing an entire adult website’s worth of intimate homosexual acts. I’ll never know how these people know so much about this stuff.

I piped in.

Me: “Listen, bud, I’ve known this guy for a year, and I’ve heard more about homosexual sex s*** from you in thirty seconds than I’ve ever heard from him in a year I’ve known him. How about you go for a smoke and never come back, huh?”

That didn’t stop there, as the tourist started ripping at me with all the expletives in his — admittedly — quite expansive dictionary. The elites clearly got sick of this moron and soon chimed in. All four of ’em.

Elites: “You have a problem with [Young Guy]?

Tourist: “But he’s a f**!”

Elites: “We know he’s a f**. He’s our f**. We know him. We don’t know you!“

The tourist looked at me like I was supposed to stand up for him or something. Too dense.

Me: “It’s about time for that smoke, pal.”

After looking around one more time, the tourist cursed under his breath and darted out of the bar. We ask people to pay in advance, of course, so no problem there.

The young guy and I thanked the elite thugs for a timely intervention.

Me: “Beer, gents?”

Elites: “Nah. Peace and quiet are good enough. What a p***k.”

Thankfully, the tourist stayed “tourist” and never showed his face again. He probably went to some other joint to complain about f**s; the guy seemed like a pro at that stuff.

I am a web project manager in a good position, with really good working conditions, a very good team, and a very good salary. I am not looking for another job, but I also said to myself that I will always try not to miss good opportunities. I’ve had several job interviews, but none of them grabbed my attention. I’ve turned down a couple that were promising around ten percent bigger salary.

I am approached by one company; I was referred by some previous colleagues as a highly professional project manager. The company is a new one and I’ve never heard about them before, but I decide to follow my rule: never miss good opportunities.

We set up an interview and they tell me about the position and responsibilities. They always emphasize that they are only looking for an extremely skilled and professional person, as projects will be huge, and the person will need to manage big groups of people. They continue talking about work, and everything seems okay but too good to be true. I sense there is something wrong here.

Me: “Okay, it seems you are looking for a very skilled person. I know I fit this position, as you can see from my experience and references. Now, let’s talk about work conditions, salary, benefits — what you are offering.”

Interviewer: “Oh, about that. It’s a five- to six-hour job per day, and currently, this position is unpaid. We also cannot grant a personal car and laptop. Also—”

Me: “I am sorry, did I hear that right? This is an unpaid position?”

Interviewer: “Yes.”

Me: “You really expect to find someone so skilled, to work for free, like a charity? I really do not get why you do not look for students or interns.”

Interviewer: “What? They have no experience! We do not want such people!”

Me: “Of course they don’t. But what makes you think someone skilled will go for it? What makes you think I will quit my [salary] a year paying job just to work for free for you?”

Interviewer: “Well, if you really earn [salary] a year, you must have some savings.”

I started laughing. Then, I suggested we finish the interview and ironically wished them good luck in their search.

I am walking my family’s two dogs a little later than usual, when the streets are busier and more people and animals are around. One of the dogs spots people walking their dog and starts barking her little head off, so I do my best to pull her and our other dog away without causing issues for the other dog walkers. Just as we put more distance between the other dog and us:

Man: “HEY! LADY! EXCUSE ME!”

I turn around and there is an elderly man approaching me, spitting mad.

Man: “How dare you let your dogs go crazy like this?! If you cannot keep them controlled, you should keep them muzzled since they’re clearly aggressive!”

One of the dogs has been calmly sniffing trees around us and the other one is eyeing the man distrustfully and lightly growling since she dislikes raised voices.

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t see the other dog as we were turning a corner, and I did my best to control the situation—”

Man: “I don’t care! Your dogs are a danger and you’re an awful dog owner! I’ll call the police on you!”

Me: “Sir, I’m sorry—”

Passerby: “Hey, man, leave the girl alone! It’s not a big deal, and you’re causing more chaos at this point.”

Man: “NO! She needs to be punished! I’ll call the police on her! She’s disturbing the peace!”

This goes on for a few minutes before I get fed up, apologise to him again, and turn away to continue walking the dogs, with him shouting after me about how he’ll call the police on me for having aggressive dogs, But I think nothing of it, because hey, what police officer would go out because a dog barked at another dog?

Later, as I go around the block and start heading home, I see a police car pull up behind me and two officers get out. Surprised, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

Me: “Oh, don’t tell me he actually called the police on me!”

Police Officer #1: “We got a report about aggressive dogs in the area. Do you know anything about that?”

I recount the story as best as I can, starting to shake a bit from anxiety over this. While I’m telling the story, one of the dogs is gladly taking the chance to lay down and the other is making friends with the officers and getting petted by one of them.

Police Officer #2: “Well, clearly, this was a pointless call, as your dogs are clearly friendly and not aggressive at all.”

They gesture to the dog who’s basking in their colleague’s attention.

Police Officer #2: “Carry on, miss, and have a good day!”

Me: “Thank you! You, too, and I’m sorry for the trouble!”

Shaken, I returned home and told my mum about what happened. She was understandably upset, and my dad helped me walk the dogs the next few days, just in case the crazy old man came back again. The kicker? I remembered seeing the man before that day when I was retelling the story to my mum; he had come up to me to ask for directions a few weeks before and had even admired how well-behaved the dogs were, petting the very same dog he deemed “aggressive and dangerous”! Thankfully, I haven’t seen him since then, but I do hope he’s nicer now.

I am eight years old. Our music teacher seems like a nice woman until, in one class, she tells us we are to memorise the lyrics for six songs by next week, word for word. As we’re eight, our class is afraid to protest. During the week, we are all terrified, and my parents agree that the teacher is requiring too much. However, it being a different time and place, merely a few years after my country has become independent from the Soviet Union, people simply are not used to challenging authority.

The dreaded day comes. The teacher hands out empty papers and assigns us to write the exact lyrics to one of the songs. We are all quietly panicking, but we start writing down the lyrics as well as we can. She tells us to hand the papers over and that she’ll return them after lunch. It is a long and scary lunch break, but finally, it ends. She enters the classroom with our tests.

During that horrible week, no one has paid attention to the date. The first of April. She has not corrected or graded anything, only written, “April Fools!” on every test.

Painfully, I see later that I actually managed to write down the exact lyrics, word for word. The fact that she did not even bother to give us all As for effort really bothers me.