I work in an office at a college. Students can come to dispute resolution to try to handle difficult situations. Typically, we see arguments about shared spaces or mediate complaints about class policies.

This time, we got something a little different. A student has requested to speak to the board and shows up holding a few sheets of paper.

Student: “Look, I’m sorry to waste your time on this, but I’m out of options.”

Board Lead: “Don’t worry about our time. We’re here to handle any issues you’re having trouble with. What’s going on?”

Student: “I live in [Dorm], and every Saturday morning, there’s someone out playing the bagpipes. It starts at 9:00 am every day. It’s the first thing I hear every Saturday.”

Board Lead: “That’s outside of quiet hours, but I think we all know that most students are still asleep on Saturday mornings. You could certainly try a noise complaint based on how loud they—”

Student: “That’s not the problem!”

He begins to wave his papers around, and I see they’re stacks of sheet music.

Student: “He’s playing the d*** song wrong! That’s not how Scotland The Brave goes!”

That was years and years ago. Now, whenever the board misses the mark on what a student is actually upset about — which happens a lot — someone will inevitably add, “That’s not how ‘Scotland The Brave’ goes!”

This happened about twenty years ago.

My mother and I go out to buy some food, and we successfully find everything on our list. We head to the checkout and chat with the cashier as she rings us up.

Cashier: “Oh, wow, hahaha. Okay, a ga— Gall-gallen-ga—”

She turns deadly white, eyes opened wide and staring into space as she struggles to speak.

Mom & Me: “Are you okay?!”

Cashier: *Faintly* “Yeah, I just-just-just—”

Mom: “You ‘just’ need to sit down!”

The cashier seems upset but is still speaking faintly.

Cashier: “My manager…”

Mom: “We’ll explain to him. [My Name], take her to the chairs near the entrance. I’ll find someone to call a manager.” 

Working in retail myself, I know it’s a big no-no for customers to come behind the register, and ESPECIALLY for them to actually touch the cashier, but she hasn’t regained her color and she’s starting to recover her senses enough to be visibly upset.

I speak gently as I put one hand on her shoulder and the other on her back.

Me: “Here, come with me. Don’t worry. There are chairs right here. Come sit down. I’ll sit with you. It’s okay. Do you need water? We were buying water bottles; I can get you one.”

She continues to protest about her manager and insists that she’s fine, but she clearly isn’t.

After a couple of minutes, my mother returns with a manager. He takes one look at her and shakes his head.

Manager: “Did you drive or take a cab today?”

Cashier: “I got a ride. She’s picking me up.”

Manager: “Good. You stay here until she arrives. Ladies, you can come back to the register. I’ll finish ringing you up.”

Me: “I’ll sit with her until we’re ready to go.”

The manager nodded and started ringing up the rest of the groceries for my mom. I sat with the cashier and tried to calm her. She was slowly regaining some color and seemed to be focusing again, and she told me her shift was over in just a few minutes anyway. Because of this, we chose to sit with her until her ride came to get her, and when her friend came in, we warned her about the cashier’s sudden distress. Thankfully, her friend was able to get her up and walking steadily, and they headed out the door together.

Whatever it was that happened, I hope she recovered quickly.

My fiancée suffers from a somewhat rare neurological condition called Parenthesia Neurologica, which is connected to traumatic nerve damage caused by not one but two car accidents. One aspect of Parenthesia Neurologica is that she has mobility issues and finds it difficult and extremely painful to walk more than short distances. However, like many people with a disability, her disability is not easily seen or noticed unless she is attempting to walk. As a result, we occasionally run into what I call “The Disability Police”.

The most common occurrence is when I am driving the car with [Fiancée] in the front passenger seat, park the car in a marked disabled parking spot (with the disabled parking tag hanging from the car’s rearview mirror), and get out of the car. They see me easily walking around the car to open the door for her and start screaming, “You’re not disabled! You can’t park in that disabled person parking spot!”

Particularly when we go grocery shopping, we go to supermarkets that have powered scooters so that she can ride and drive around the store while shopping. On a recent visit to our local supermarket, I did what I usually do: I parked the car, went into the store, found a scooter with a fully charged battery, got on it, and drove it out to our car so that [Fiancée] wouldn’t have to walk from the parking lot into the store and get the cart herself.

Normally, this is not an issue, but this time, some self-appointed “Disability Police Person” saw me walk into the store and start driving the scooter out to the parking lot. She started chasing after me, screaming.

Woman: “You’re not disabled! I saw you walk into the store without any problem! Thief! Thief! I’m going to call the police!”

Knowing how things are in our little Cape Cod, Massachusetts town, I just decided to park the scooter next to our car and told [Fiancée] to stay in the car.

A police car pulled up, and Miss Disability Policewoman started telling the officer that I was not disabled and had taken one of the scooters for disabled people and was attempting to steal it. The officer came over to our car.

Officer: “Hi, [My Name].” *Looks into the car* “Hi, [Fiancée]. By the way, [Fiancée], thanks for the cookies you baked and brought over to the police station last week. We really loved them.”

Miss Disability Policewoman’s mouth dropped open, and when the police officer helped [Fiancée] out of the car and onto the scooter, it looked like the woman wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere and hide.

The police officer then turned to her and addressed her in a voice a parent might use on a misbehaving, bratty child.

Officer: “Miss, I suggest you go somewhere else, mind your own business, and stop harassing my friends.”

She scurried off, got in her car, and left.

[Fiancée] loves to bake and cook, and she drops off cookies and brownies at the local police station and firehouse. She doesn’t consider it a bribe but considers it just being a good neighbor and realizes that our local police and firemen don’t get paid a big salary or get properly appreciated.

I work in a pizza place. We have a new general manager while the old one is on home rest after a motorcycle accident. (He is fine, just a broken leg. It could have been worse, as he said.)

The new general manager proceeds to chase away the old crew because she is a nasty person who gets complaints from crew and customers, but her stores run well, so management just shrugs.

I am one of three remaining old hats who knew a better life under the old general manager. My hours have been cut to roughly fifteen a week. I am making minimum wage — $7.25 at the time.

One night, I go to bed around 11:30 pm. I then wake up at 12:00 midnight to a “Blorp, Glub, Blorp” sound from my bathroom. I get up to look, and dirty water is coming up my toilet, which is beginning to overflow.

I begin to bail it into the bathroom sink. (I HATE getting my hands dirty, so keep in mind that I am bailing dirty water and screaming internally the whole time.)

I have to keep bailing, non-stop, from 12:00 midnight until my landlord wakes up at 5:00 am to hear my voicemail. He calls me back and says he’ll have a plumber over ASAP, but no businesses are open yet.

At 6:00 am, I call my work to tell [General Manager] I won’t be in… but she’s not in yet. I know she was scheduled for 6:00 am because I photograph the schedule.

By 7:00 am, she’s still not in.

By 8:00 am, still not in.

At 9:00 am, no [General Manager].

At 10:00 freaking am, an hour and a half before my shift, [General Manager] is FINALLY in! And this is our conversation.

Me: “I won’t be making it in. My toilet has literally been spewing dirty water since midnight. I have been bailing water since midnight.”

General Manager: “That’s no excuse.”

Me: “No, I’m pretty sure it’s an excuse.”

General Manager: “You need to give us three hours of advance notice to call in.”

Me: “You mean like how I left a message at 6:00 am?”

General Manager: “I never heard it.”

Me: “And how I called back at 7:00 am? And 8:00? And 9:00? And 10:00? AND YOU CAN HEAR MY TOILET IN THE BACKGROUND?!”

General Manager: “Well, I did not hear you at 6:00 am—”

Me: “Because you were four hours late! How is that my problem?!”

Keep in mind, I’m STILL bailing water while I have my cell phone on speaker.

General Manager: “Well, you did not give me three hours of warning. You need to come in, or you will be written up as a no-call, no-show.”

Me: *Sarcastic* “So, you want me to stop bailing water, let my apartment flood, and lose every bit of furniture on the left side of my apartment. For a minimum-wage, part-time job flinging pizza?”

General Manager: “It’s called being a responsible adult—”

Me: “Oh, like you ‘responsibly’ got to work four hours late?”

General Manager: “Either come in or face the consequences.”

Me: “’Kay!” *Hangs up*

Her “consequences” are cutting my hours to zero. I still spend the next two-ish months walking the 2.5 miles to work weekly to see that I have zero hours until she finally pulls me aside.

General Manager: “Stop checking. You are no longer on the schedule.”

Me: “So, I’m fired?”

General Manager: “Yes.”

Me: “There now. Was saying that so hard?”

For the record: a root from the tree out front had grown into the pipe and the two upstairs apartments were flushing things that did not biodegrade. These things got caught in the roots and caused a blockage.

My apartment, being the basement apartment, was the first stop for all the backed-up water.

And no, neither apartment was kind enough to stop using water while I waited for a plumber, even though the landlord called them both to let them know that water was backing up into my apartment. One of them even started their dishwasher. Sigh.

Every year, the church down the street from my house has a small fair involving a lobster meal, craft tents, and a flea market. I attend with my mother and sister, and one year, my sister brings a friend. 

The four of us get our meals and find an open spot on the lawn to eat. My mother and sister finish well before us, so they go to see what’s for sale. [Friend] and I chat between ourselves as we finish our own food and drink, and she winds up pulling the head off her lobster entirely. A few minutes later. I tease her about something, and she immediately reaches for the lobster head.

Me: “Ohhh, no. No!”

She throws it at me, and I kick my foot up to block it. Not only do I block successfully, but somehow, I bring my foot up at the perfect momentum and angle, launching the lobster head up and over me to land in the grass behind my back. 

We’re both stunned, and then we start loudly shouting and cheering at how absolutely awesome it was. 

Friend: “Let me throw it at you again!”

Me: “NO!”