I am in line behind a customer at a video game store. The cashier is trying very hard to be friendly, but the customer has the typical “ignoring what you are saying, even when it benefits me” attitude.

Cashier: “Would you like to pick out a third game? We have a buy two, get one free sale going on, and you already have two games. Your third is free.”

Customer: “STOP TRYING TO UPSELL ME! I DON’T WANT MORE OF YOUR CRAP!”

Cashier: “It’s… it’s free…”

Customer: “SURE IT IS. THAT’S HOW THEY GET YOU!”

Me: “I’ll take your third free item if you don’t care. Madden 2022 PS4.”

Customer: “Ha, I don’t care. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Sure, you can have my “free” item.”

Cashier: “Well, here’s your Madden 2022 copy, sir!”

The transaction processed, the customer begins to walk away in a huff.

Me: “Oh dang, don’t you know it? I don’t own a PS4! So crazy! I guess I’ll trade this in for cash?”

Cashier: *Catching on.* “Oh no, what a debacle! Here’s your [value] in cash, sir!”

Me: “Crazy! Thanks for the free money!”

Customer: “…wait, what?”

My family was moving across the country, and I was trying to sell off all of our large items. I had had luck using Craigslist before, so I put several items up on it. I specifically said local sales only, and that they had to pick up the items.

One item that wasn’t selling was our walnut dining table. It was over ten years old and had a few dings in it, but it was still in good condition. I was asking $100 for a table that we’d bought at $1200.

I finally got an offer, but a whole bunch of red flags were raised. The buyer wanted me to ship it across the country, and to accept a cashier’s check for $1500, out of which I was supposed to send him back the balance.

I replied to the email that all sales were local to the DC Metro area, and that they’d have to pick it up. (I didn’t even address that the payment would have to be exact, not $1400 more.) I got no response for about a week.

I then got a follow-up email demanding the “change” from their $1500 cashier’s check that they had express mailed to me, or they’d sue. (I hadn’t given my actual address to them.) Just in case, I went around all the entrances to my modular home. There were no express envelopes.

It’s been fifteen years since then, and I haven’t gotten any suit papers served to me, so I think I’m okay.

I’m not that big on Renaissance festivals, but my friends were, and we lived near one of the best in the country, apparently. So, friends from four states away would come down to visit in what to me was… the local fair thing fifteen minutes from where I grew up. Fine by me, a dozen friends from all over the country showed up to eat, drink, and watch jousting.

Rain was called for, so I wore waterproof hiking pants, a rain jacket, and a large hat. My friends all wore period garb, including big hoop dresses. Two friends didn’t dress up at all, so I wasn’t the odd one out. A MASSIVE downpour happened, and everyone got soaked but me. I wasn’t terribly far from my car when the rain happened, and I managed to get in it before the rain really hit. My outfit protected me from the light rain after.

But then…

As we were leaving seven or eight hours later, there was a traffic jam. That was fair; 16,000 people showed up for this one festival in a grass and mud parking lot. The road to leave was one lane in each direction and not far from a mall. It gets BUSY.

Normally, at a four-way stop, one car goes, then the one to the right, then the one to the right, and so on. For whatever reason, the police directing traffic had one lane of cars go for ten minutes or more. Then, the next line of cars would go, and for another ten to twenty minutes, only that lane was open.

In came [Woman]. She did not zero in on the cop directing traffic at the road, or his supervisor nearby. Oh, no. She beelined for the 100-pound “takes five months to grow a five o’clock shadow” teenage boy working there.

She demanded to know the hold-up. She argued that this was a waste of time and there was no one currently going within 200 feet of us. (The lane opened up was further off.)

He pointed out that even if he let her move forward, it was still a twenty-minute wait. She didn’t care. She was mad. It’s worth noting that it was 55F (12.8C) out, he was soaking wet, and she was dry — meaning she likely got there after the morning rain.

I don’t yell at women typically but will absolutely tell a man to behave himself in public. But lord, this teenage boy looked like he was going to cry.

Me: “Hey, lady! You, talking to the employee and not the manager! Get back in your car, and stop screaming like a drunk banshee!”

Woman: “EXCUSE ME! THIS IS BETWEEN ME AND—”

Me: “Between you and the underage child? The kid you outweigh by thirty pounds and twenty years? Sit down and be quiet. You sound like fingernails on a chalkboard on their third marriage, and I have delicate ears.”

Woman: “I AM JUST LETTING HIM KNOW THAT—”

Me: “So, call his adult manager over; she’s right there. Call the giant friggin’ cop right past him. He can’t hear you over the traffic, but I sure can. Go home! Go home and poorly manage a softball team. Let your anger out on the ref until you get kicked out of the game.”

Woman: “I… You…”

Me: “GO HOME AND POORLY MANAGE A SOFTBALL TEAM, AND LEAVE THE LITERAL CHILD ALONE!”

She got back in her car. When it was my turn to leave, I was about to apologize to the kid for making a bigger scene, but instead…

Kid: “Sir, thank you so much. I thought she was going to hit me. I just turned fourteen, and my aunt got me this job, and this is my first job, and I… My God, I thought she was going rabid.”

My friends were in the backseat, two of them crying with laughter still.

Friend: “I… am so cold. And soaking wet. And my feet hurt. And it’s all worth it to hear you shout out, ‘Step away from the underage boys, coach!’ Like Mean Girls!” *Pauses* “Wait, why aren’t you cold?”

Me: “My entire outfit is insulated and waterproof. I also got to the car when the rain started and took a nap for the twenty minutes it lasted.”

Years later, we were at a cafe in NYC. I got there five minutes after everyone else. I think I was finishing a slice of street pizza, and outside food wasn’t allowed.

My friends looked at me and said they wished I’d been there five minutes sooner. Apparently, an Entitled Jerk was going off on the barista until she nearly cried. Not enough soy? Too much soy? She couldn’t make a hot iced latte with hot foam and no milk? Something like that.

Me: “What could I have done?”

Friends: *In unison* “You could have told her to go home and poorly manage a softball team!”

When I was nine, Beanie Babies came out. They were just little $3 seals and puppies, and lions you could find at zoos and the science center, maybe the toy store as well. My parents would get me one, or I’d collect quarters from the couch cushions and buy one when we went to the zoo.

Fast forward three years. People are taking out second mortgages to buy them. People are naming their favorites in divorce filings.

I loved my happy little seal and the… wolf? I had but money sure is great!

I list mine in the newspaper ads, a woman comes over almost immediately. I had it listed as “used.” 

One eye is scratched. He’s missing a few whiskers. He’s more grey than white, even after three trips in the washing machine.

Woman: “I’ll give ya $80, but if he was in mint condition or you kept him in his bag, I would’ve given ya $200! Let that be a lesson to you.”

Lady, I slept on that thing, drooled on that thing, and sweated and snored on it for years, and you just gave me a year’s worth of allowance for it. If there are more adults like you in the world, I’ll never go broke!

My first year teaching was in a high school with a school population that was predominantly African-American. I think there were five non-Black students out of a total of 1,200 students.

My last name rhymes with a rude expression. After a couple of weeks, one student started walking by my open door during passing periods and calling out my name in a mocking tone, like he was saying the rude expression. I asked my students if anyone knew the student, but either none of them did or they didn’t want to narc on him.

Then, one day, I saw him in the hallway dressed in the uniform of our Army ROTC class. Knowing who the teacher/chief of that class was, I decided to ask him if he knew the student. I explained the situation to him.

ROTC Chief: “Did you catch his name?”

Me: “No, but I can describe him. He’s got a blond crew cut—”

ROTC Chief: “Oh, that’s [Rude Student]. I’ll have a talk with him.”

I never saw the kid at my door again. I guess if you want to be a troublemaker, don’t be the only blond kid in a school of brunettes.