I am waiting at my gate in a very busy airport. I’m not sure about the details, but I think an earlier flight was canceled and this has resulted in an overbooking event for the flight I am currently witnessing boarding.

A gate attendant is talking to a young guy.

Gate Attendant: “I’m sorry, sir, but we need to reschedule your flight.”

Young Guy: “You’re bumping me? You can’t do that, I’m—”

Gate Attendant: *Cutting him off* “Sir, I know it’s frustrating, but due to unforeseen circumstances today, we have had to make a lot of rearrangements for a lot of passengers. It is now impossible to get you on this flight.”

Young Guy: “I understand, but I—”

Gate Attendant: *Cutting him off, again* “Sir! Please, I understand, but there is nothing I can do. Please stand aside while we sort out your travel arrangements.”

I see the young guy stand aside and start rustling through his backpack while I see this gate attendant start arranging luggage transfers, figuring out who will fly where, and getting him on another flight, as well as getting another family set up. The young guy tries to get her attention again while she is doing all this, but she continues to hold up her finger and tell him to wait.

When she finally stops, he hands her some paperwork that he has taken from his bag.

Gate Attendant: “Sir, please understand—”

Young Guy: “No, you please understand! You can’t bump me because I’m military and traveling under orders.”

I’ve never served, but apparently, they legally can’t bump you if you’re traveling under orders.

Her shoulders sagged, and she got on the radio and started undoing all she’d been doing and arranging everything to get him back on that flight.

After a few military deployments, I am back to civilian life after some (mostly recovered) injuries, and a slight but manageable case of PTSD. I am not one to sit idle, and I enjoy driving, so I am doing pizza delivery and ride-sharing while I look for a new job.

It is a weekend in the daytime, and I get a delivery order for twelve pizzas! I guess it’s for a nice big summer party or something. I load them into my car and get to the address. I carry all twelve boxes to the front door and ring the bell. I hear a little voice from inside.

Voice: “Can you bring the pizzas around the back? We’re all outside!”

Me: “You got it!”

I carefully make my way to the side of the house, where the side door to the back garden is open. I walk through and immediately get a blast of water to the face. 

I’ve walked into a firing squad of children holding water guns. There must be at least fifteen of them, all aged between five and ten I would guess, and within seconds I am absolutely soaked.

Me: “Please! Stop! This is my uniform and I need it for my shift!”

The kids are wailing maniacally and aren’t stopping. In an attempt to save myself I block them with the pizzas. Finally, an adult shows up and the children stop for a moment. Ominously they all run over to a bucket and start refilling their weapons.

Adult: “About time, we ordered those over an hour ago. You can put them on the table.”

Me: “Sir! Your children just soaked me completely!”

Adult: “Oh, no! Did they get the pizzas?”

Me: “Sir, I protected the pizzas with my body, which is now soaked! I need to wear this uniform for the rest of my shift and I need to now drive back and get my car wet, dry my clothes, delaying any more runs and tips I can get tonight.”

Adult: “Oh my god! So sensitive! They’re just kids, god! Here, take this for your troubles.”

On top of the cash for the order, he hands me a single five-dollar bill, on an order of twelve pizzas and after the liquid firing squad.

Me: “Are you serious?”

Adult: “You’re lucky you even got a tip! You took so long!”

Me: “And you were lucky I saved the pizzas. Not anymore!”

I throw all the money at him, pick up the pizzas, and start walking out.

Adult: “Hey! What are you doing?!”

Me: “Going home to dry my clothes, and throw my own pizza party. I quit, and it’s because of customers like you!”

Adult: “Hey! Get back here! I need those pizzas! I need to feed all these kids!”

Me: “Not my problem.”

I storm out fuming, with all the pizzas. I follow through on my threat and go home. I get an angry call from my boss, but after I explain what happened and my PTSD, he calms down (he had also served). He says he will have to still charge me for the pizzas, but will give me a staff discount, and he asks if I will be back tomorrow. 

I tell him thanks, but that wasn’t happening. I was back the next day with my (dry) uniform, the money for the pizza, and the happy news that the house I delivered to yesterday had been blacklisted.

My father told me this story about a colleague of his during World War II. Their work was based at Supreme Headquarters, so their security passes were clearly marked “SHAEF” (Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force).

UK trains then had compartments seating eight people, joined by a corridor running the length of the carriage. [Colleague] was in a compartment along with several civilians and a Colonel. The Colonel was complaining loudly and at length that he couldn’t stand bloody civilians, that he hated bloody civilians, and that he would be glad to go back to France next week with [Regiment] and get away from all these bloody civilians.

Colleague: “Excuse me, Colonel. Could I have a word with you in private in the corridor? It’s very important.”

[Colonel] blustered a lot but eventually agreed. Once in the corridor, [Colleague] produced a security pass.

Colleague: “I’m from Supreme Headquarters, Colonel. Do you have anything to say that I can put forward in mitigation when I report you for revealing troop movements to civilians?”

Cue the total blubbering, pleading collapse of the Colonel.

In the 1980s, I worked for a naval architecture firm. We had a standard PBX phone system, where phone calls would be answered by our receptionist, and then she would manually forward the call to the employee.

We initially had a woman working full-time as the receptionist but eventually had a woman from a temp agency take the job. When the receptionist needed to take a lunch break, one of the department secretaries would go up front and answer the phones. If they weren’t available, our office manager (a woman) would take over the post.

And if she was also unavailable, some other professional-level (engineer or tech writer) woman would be asked to cover.

As I took care of the technical side of the phone system, I knew how to operate the front reception phone. One day, the office manager asked the female tech writer that sat near me to cover the lunch shift in reception. She was a bit overwhelmed, as she had an assignment that needed to be finished by close of business.

Me: “I could cover the front desk.”

Office Manager: “No, you can’t. Your salary is too high to cover that position.”

Me: “I make two dollars less per hour than [Female Tech Writer].”

Office Manager: *Sheepishly* “Oh.”

She walked off, and she ended up covering it herself.

What she couldn’t admit was that company policy was to have females answer the front phone. Men answering phones? We couldn’t have that!

When I was a little kid, my father’s friend took his pet bats with him everywhere. He kept them sleeping in his military trench coat. As we were in route to the CCCP (the Soviet Union)/Berlin the border guards said that no such animals were to enter the People’s Republic.

Father’s Friend: “No worries. My darlings need their night exercise anyway.”

And he let them loose. I protested.

Me: “They will never find you on the other side of no man’s land!”

But when we arrived on the other side, he whistled a tune, and the bats joyfully flapped to his arms.

When we reached the border on our way home, [Father’s Friend] did the same, and the bats returned once again.