(I work at a popular donut chain in this state in one of the very few without a drive-thru. Most of the stores close at eight, but have a drive-thru open until midnight or later. I get a phone call ten minutes before eight.)

Caller: “How late are you open until?”

Me: “Doors lock at eight.”

(The caller then promptly hangs up. As it’s getting close to closing, I start going through the counts and moving most of the racks and pots to the cleaning station. At eight, I go and lock the doors and shut off the lights. Thirty minutes later, as I’m bringing the leftover donuts to the dumpster, I almost get taken out by an SUV. The driver and passenger get out and run to the door. I take a picture of them, holding my watch up so the time can be seen, as well, because I’m pretty sure this is going to be a complaint.)

Driver: “Are you f****** kidding me?! That b**** said they were open! Why are the d*** doors locked?!”

Passenger: “This is an injustice! We’ll have her job with this one!”

(They haven’t noticed me at the dumpster, and they tear out of the parking lot. The next morning, the owner is in the store and pulls me into this office.)

Owner: “So, I heard you closed the store down early and laughed in a customer’s face while they were politely trying to ask you if they could just get a coffee and sandwich.”

Me: “That’s ridiculous.”

Owner: “The man said he called at five and asked if you were open, and they showed up at six and you’d locked the doors in his face.”

Me: “First of all, the only call I got was at 7:50, and the people didn’t show up until 8:30; they were making all sorts of noise and being all sorts of rude.”

Owner: “Do you have any proof of that? At this point it’s your word against his.”

(I pulled up the picture I took showing my watch and the customers. The owner shrugged and I went to start my shift, without an apology, and I left two weeks later because if he wasn’t going to have my back in that situation or admit a customer could have been wrong, I didn’t need that job.)

(When I’m in junior high school, my mother cannot, by any stretch, get my Language Arts teacher’s name right. For the sake of exemplifying how she butchers it, we’re going to say my teacher’s name is Ms. Knightly, and she always says, “Ms. Kin-ig-hit-ly.” The hyphens are just for show; she says it at a normal pace. After the first report cards and the subsequent Parent-Teacher night to discuss students’ progress, this conversation follows.)

Mom: “Ms. Kin-ig-hit-ly had nothing but praise for you.”

Me: “Knightly, Mom. Her name is Ms. Knightly.”

Mom: “Oh, okay. Yeah…” *goes on about my other teachers* “…but Ms. Kin-ig-hit-ly adores you.”

(Different versions of this story play out almost daily following this meeting, with no change ever being made. I figure the inevitable reality is she is never going to get it right, so I stop caring so much once she realizes she should never address my teacher by name if she sees her. Later that same year, my grandmother dies. We make funeral arrangements, and this happens:)

Mom: “The closest funeral home to her church and the cemetery would be Knightly Funeral Parlor.”

Me: “Where?”

Mom: “Knightly Funeral Parlor.”

Me: “What’s my teacher’s name again?”

Mom: “Ms. Kin-ig-hit-ly.”

Me: “Mom, it’s the same as the funeral parlor, down to the spelling. You just pronounced that perfectly.”

Mom: “Really? Huh.”

Me: “So, what’s my Language Arts teacher’s name?”

Mom: “Kin-ig-hit-ly.”

(No, she wasn’t screwing with me. So, some form of the first conversation continued until I transferred schools and no longer had Ms. Knightly. And it continues to this day when my mother decides to reminisce about my school life and comes to my year with Ms. Knightly.)

(I take escalated calls for a national insurance agency. In insurance, any time a change is made to your policy that impacts the cost, the company must notify you. The notification can be in mailed paper form, or email/virtual if you’ve set it up that way.)

Me: “Thank you for calling. My name is [My Name]. The previous representative said you had some concerns about the paperwork you received. How can I help?”

(The customer goes on to explain that over the course of the year she has received many copies of her policy. She has made as many 12 changes due to failure to return forms and other things. She explains that she is old and her time is precious at her age — her words — as she doesn’t have much of it left, and that we shouldn’t bother her with mailings, because then she has to call us.)

Me: “I want to be respectful of your time. You received this mailing because of a discount we finalized on your policy. There’s no action required on your part. You will not receive anything further unless you make other changes, I assure you.”

Customer: “You’re just trying to harass me with all this paperwork. I don’t even know what coverage I have! Your company just wants to overcharge the elderly and harass us.”

Me: “I’m sorry for the confusion. The documents you have there outline all the details of your coverage. Again, I want to respect your time, but I’d be happy to review those coverages if you need me to. Also, we are not charging you anything more; we’ve applied a discount. How can I help?”

Customer: “You can stop sending me stuff. I’ve gotten so much stuff this last year…”

(The customer continues on a long rant, and I continue to apologise and ask how I can help, only to ultimately assure her over and over again that we are not sending any additional paperwork.)

Customer: “So, you’re not going to do anything about this?”

Me: “Ma’am, you literally just instructed me not to do anything. You said not to send you anything, and not to make any changes. So, yes, that’s right, I’m not going to ‘do anything.’ Is there anything else I can help you with?”

(This went on for thirty minutes of her “precious time.”)

(My uncle’s car of twenty years was going through a major rough patch; it required a week-long trip to a mechanic almost monthly. This raised a few alarm bells since a car that left a mechanic shouldn’t need another a month later. Before he brought it back again, I convinced him to let my mechanic — who happens to be one of my oldest friends, us having been best friends since we were four — take a look. Naturally, this involves getting his hands and a few tools inside. After reminding him the two of us know almost nothing about cars, he gives us his professional opinion.)

Friend: “To fix your car, I’d have to replace part or all of the engine. That’s already pretty pricey, but to get at certain parts of the engine, I’d have to pull apart the car’s frame. Since that complicates the job and makes more work, the cost of fixing her would be enough to buy two cars. And that’s before we add on fees for the rental car you’ll need in the months she’ll be on the lift. If you don’t fix it, it’s worth more as parts than as a car. I say you should trade her in for a new car and not spend one more penny on her.”

Uncle: “Do you mind if I talk to my mechanic first? Just to hear him out?”

Friend: “You can, but could I come along? Just to ask a few questions you guys might not know to ask?”

(After a little cajoling from me, my uncle agrees, and the three of us drive up the highway to his dealership, each in our own car due to schedules conflicting. I’m going to take this opportunity to repeat that I know almost nothing about cars, so the technical parts of the conversation sound like a trombone to me. The comprehensible parts are as follows:)

Mechanic: “Nothing too bad. It’ll be ready tomorrow afternoon. Job’s more annoying than it is hard.”

Friend: “What about his [car part]?”

Mechanic: “Used, but not worn out.”

Friend: “And how exactly did you check that?”

Mechanic: “Same way as any other. [Outlines a complicated-sounding procedure].”

Friend: “And what were the results?”

Uncle: “He said he checked it and it’s fine!”

Me: “I think [Friend] wa–“

Uncle: “It’s fine!“

(This basic conversation loop a few more times, each time detailing a different part of the car. Eventually, my friend throws up his hands and walks out. Once he is gone, the mechanic continues talking with my uncle, and I completely tune them out. When I rejoin, my uncle has decided to trust his mechanic and leaves his car for another day of repairs, which turns into a week of repairs. But the story doesn’t quite end there. Since he doesn’t yet know he’ll need a rental car, I have to drive him home, which means taking the highway. And he opens his mouth.)

Uncle: “I shouldn’t have listened to you!”

Me: “What was wrong with involving [Friend]?”

Uncle: “All he did was get in the way! He wouldn’t listen one bit to my mechanic!”

Me: “He wanted to analyze the exact results himself, not just hear, ‘It’s fine.'”

Uncle: “Well, [Mechanic] told me that [Friend] poking around might have damaged something, so I might not have a car tomorrow.”

Me: “[Friend] is a more competent mechanic than that. Any problems weren’t his doing. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he saved you some money by tightening up a few things.”

Uncle: *scoffs* “And you’re trusting the [racial slur]!”

(For the record, yes, my friend is black, and we are white. I pull over the car and hit the brakes.)

Me: “Trusting the what?”

Uncle: “The… the…”

Me: “Get out!”

(He tried to backpedal some more, but I wasn’t having it. I grabbed my keys, got out myself, and physically pulled him out of my car. I got back in and drove off, leaving him to walk back along the highway. He made his way back unmolested, but not one bit wiser.)

This takes place in the 50s. My grandma and her first husband didn’t work out. They legally separated and lived their own lives, but didn’t get a divorce. She met my grandpa and had my aunt while she was still married to her first husband.

When she went to register the birth certificate, the clerk put her husband’s name as my aunt’s father. When she said that her husband wasn’t the father, my grandpa was, and asked to change the name on the certificate, the clerk refused. She said that my grandma should have just “kept her legs closed and stayed faithful to her husband.”

My grandpa had to legally adopt his own daughter. My grandma divorced her first husband and married my grandpa before they had the rest of their kids.