I work in a music store. Aside from packs of guitar strings, we also carry individual strings in all the different gauges.

One day, this guitarist comes in and asks to see the string box and proceeds to buy every single string in a particular gauge — for example, every high E in .09.

Me: “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why do you need so many?”

Customer: “I’m in a road band playing the hotel down the road, and I need so many because the acid in my sweat eats through them so quickly.”

Being a skeptical fellow, I say:

Me: “You’re s***ing me.”

Customer: “Nope, I’ll bring my guitar in tomorrow and show you!”

The next day, he shows up with his Gibson Les Paul (a very expensive electric guitar) that looks like someone poured acid on it in the typical wear areas.

Me: “How old is your guitar?”

Customer: “Two years.”

I was shocked. I’d never seen that kind of damage and haven’t since. It looked far worse than fifty-year-old guitars I’d seen.

Not a bad customer, actually quite a nice guy, but with a problem I’ve never heard of and haven’t seen since!

I used to work as a stocker at a fairly large grocery store that had numerous smaller versions of said store. Funny enough, I was always looked to as a manager/supervisor by everyone, including those who have been there far longer than I have.

While I was in the backroom sorting merchandise in their sections, one of the senior coworkers comes storming into the back absolutely fuming. I should note that she has been working for the company for several years and is largely considered one of the nicest people ever, but so many people mistake her size and demeanor and push her around. I, on the other hand, am far larger and I use this to my advantage to help with all of the heavier freight.

Coworker: “Hey, you got a second? I need your size for something.”

Me: “Sure, what’s up?”

My coworker explains that a customer started calling her a b**** and demanded to know where a product was located. When she attempted to help the man, he got even more hostile and “demanded to take him to a man who would know where s*** really is.”

Because I highly respect her, my demeanor instantly changed from jolly to a giant on a warpath. I had her show me where the customer was at and to go ahead and tell him that she got someone. I stood at the end of the aisle where he couldn’t see and was trying to get into my “manager” frame of mind.

Coworker: “I got my manager and he’ll be here to assist you shortly.”

Customer: “WHERE THE H*** IS HE THEN?! It’s s*** like this is why you women are so f****** useless!”

At this point, I had enough and came around the corner like a bull out of a chute and beelined for the customer.

Me: *As dark and as intense as I could make my voice.* “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

The customer turns around and sees a mountain in front of him and knew that mistakes were made. He stumbles over his words, but can’t get them out.

Me: “You have one of two options: You either apologize to her RIGHT NOW and I might let you keep shopping here, or I will literally chase you out. Make your choice.”

The customer absolutely freaked out and bolted for the door. There’s usually an officer present and I reported the customer to him and told him that if that customer ever came back that he was to be turned away immediately. The officer was on super good terms with the coworker and was visibly upset by what happened and so he said that he would chase him off if I pointed him out.

I work in surgical recovery. We sit with the patients while they wake up from anesthesia and make sure they keep breathing. It’s normally not too spicy, especially compared with some other things I could be doing right now. Health crisis, anyone?

Then, there’s this guy. He’s middle-aged, rude, and entitled, and he’s simultaneously sure that he’s HILARIOUS and that he’s the center of the universe. 

As he’s being wheeled away to his room upstairs, he tells my fellow nurse, who is young, fairly attractive, and female:

Patient: “You’ve been a good dog.”

All conversation and movement stop for a long moment. We all stare, dumbfounded. 

Coworker: “I’m sorry, what?”

Patient: “I said you were a good dog. It’s a compliment.”

Without further ado, he departs our lives. I glance at my coworker.

Me: “Did that really just happen?”

In 1980, I was working in a music store as a piano and organ salesman. One day, the music director for the college came in looking to buy a seven-foot grand piano; the one they had had been stolen.

Yes, you read that right. A seven-foot grand piano, weighing about 900 to 1000 pounds, was stolen. It was in the middle of the day, with students and staff everywhere.

Pianos in institutional settings like a college may need to be moved from room to room to performance hall, so they sit on what’s called a grand dolly — a three-legged frame with small three-wheeled platforms that the legs sit in — allowing it to be easily moved.

How did they do it? They backed a truck into the loading dock, some guys in identical jumpsuits walked into the music department, said, “We’re taking it to be serviced,” and rolled the piano out to the freight elevator and onto the truck. Away it went, never to be seen again.

They tried to take the nine-foot, but it wouldn’t fit in the elevator.

I am teaching American literature to juniors — kids roughly sixteen to seventeen years old. The class is usually taught chronologically, starting with colonial literature, and I try to show how history is directly reflected in literary styles and topics. 

We’ve finished Romanticism and its death in the Civil War and have moved on to Western expansion (cowboys, Native Americans, the Wild West, etc.) and the literary genres of Realism and Regionalism. I’m grading a short quiz over what we’ve covered so far.

Quiz Question: “Identify one technological advancement in the US that led to increased popularity in the style of either Realism or Regionalism.”

Student’s Answer: “The Transcendental Railroad.”

My Only Thought: “Totally far out, pardner…”