I maintain cars for a living. Where I work, we have in-ground pits; once we pull the car in, we can do anything we need to do underneath the car without having to lift it in the air. Of course, this can make it not very obvious when we’re actively working on the car, so to keep ourselves safe, we make sure to take the car keys from whoever’s driving it to keep them from starting it when it might be dangerous, damaging, or both.

Unfortunately for the customer in this story, even that isn’t enough of a deterrent for some people.

We had two such bays in my store and thus could work on two cars at a time. On this day, one car needed a few things up top, so I moved over to the other car to keep being productive while my coworkers sorted it out.

We got the new car guided in, and I opened the hood, took the keys, and otherwise got everything all set up for an oil change, just as the customer wanted. I climbed down under the car, pulled the drain plug, removed the oil filter, and then I was needed back over at the first car again, so I let everything drain while I walked over to do that.

It was at that point that the customer of this car (which I had just pulled the drain plug out of) decided he was done. So, he got out of his car, closed his hood, grabbed his keys, and drove off.

Without a drain plug or oil filter.

I still don’t know what happened to him, but I never heard from him again.

I’m what you’d consider an old lady. A few years ago, I worked at a grocery store. For the summer, they would get a few sets of outdoor furniture. It was my job to get the box sets from the back when they wanted to purchase.

One day, four guys, all in their thirties, purchased the largest set we had in one box. I confirmed they had a vehicle that would accommodate the furniture, and they did. A full-size pickup. Perfect!

I headed to the back to get it out of storage, load it on a flat cart, and return to the front of the store. By myself. No assistance.

When I approached the customers, they confidently told me to step aside while they loaded it. Sure. No problem. Except they kept trying to get a two-handed grip on the large box. After several failed attempts, I asked if I could make a suggestion. They straightened up and said sure.

I positioned the cart at the base of the tailgate. The box was already taller than the tailgate, so I lifted from the bottom, using the tailgate as a lever, and slid the heavy box into the tailgate. Closed the tailgate, stepped back, and said: “Thank you! Have a great day!” And went back into the store.

Best day ever working retail! They didn’t say another word.

I worked at a fast-food burger place named for the founder’s daughter. At that time, we didn’t have trash cans for the customers. Instead, we bused the tables and wiped them down after the customer left.

Every Wednesday night, one particular church group came by late in the evening and usually stayed about half an hour after our closing at 11:00 PM. The first time I worked, when they came in, I was assigned dining room duty. When 11:00 PM hit, they were still in the dining room, chatting. I went back to get a vacuum, but my manager stopped me and said I had to wait until they were done. I couldn’t even put away the salad bar because some of the church group ordered all-you-can-eat salads. But I did have to keep it stocked as they kept going back for seconds (and thirds, and fourths…). I also had the task of refilling the salt and pepper shakers, but of course, not the ones on their tables.

This night, they were exceptionally chatty and were still at it at midnight. We were usually all finished with closing by midnight; however, I was still way behind because of the group.

My manager came out to scold me for not being cleaned up, but I pointed out that she told me not to do most of my closing duties until they left. So, she and the other closers came out to the dining room and just watched them. They didn’t get the hint and stayed until 12:20 AM.

When they finally left, my manager told the other closers to help me finish. I went right to their table to bus it and saw a $20 bill folded sticking out from under a tray. “Yay!” I thought, at least this’ll make it somewhat worthwhile. However, when I picked it up, I felt it wasn’t a real bill. Instead, when unfolded, it reveals some proselytizing literature. I showed it to my manager, who just sighed, grabbed it, and threw it in the trash.

We didn’t get out of there until 2:00 AM. And management couldn’t do a darn thing to keep the church group from doing this on subsequent visits.

I used to work in an e-marketing role for a small book publisher. Publishers are in many ways ‘my people’ (I love books) but in many ways also… not.

For example, trying to explain that they couldn’t just upload a book cover in 300 Dpi to a website field that was 150×250, and expected something far more reasonable like 72 Dpi… Yes, the HTML/CSS squished it to the desired size on the webpage, but it wasn’t like the big social media sites of today, which process the images on the fly; it would still be the full size ‘squished’ into a small box.

Their refusal (and it was refusal; these people preferred Quill and Ink over typewriters…) to learn the basics, coupled with their insistence they could manage their own authors in the modest web-shop this company ran, would come to bite them, hard, one day.

Bear in mind that the following took place after me sending warnings that it would happen through every channel, every day, for weeks.

They had a deal with a hugely popular website to publish a theme book based on the website’s core business of frat boy humor.

They made a landing page for visitors of said website to order.

On said page, they put the cover of the book; A4 format, 300 Dpi.

Again, against all my warnings.

So, one fine morning, I arrived at work, took three steps up the steep Dutch stairs to my office.

Someone shouted: “We are live!”

I counted out loud: 3… 2…

Someone shouted: “The website is down!”

They didn’t heed my advice any better after that.

Still, great people, my people… except for tech-savvy.

It’s 7 AM, and I’m at the restaurant, letting maintenance guys work on equipment in the kitchen. They have two trucks parked behind the restaurant. We don’t open for four more hours. We’re not a breakfast place, never have been. For eighteen years, we’ve opened for lunch daily at 11 AM.

In front of the restaurant is an empty, morning sun-lit parking lot.

Grandma comes to the door, pulls, pushes. She gives up. Defeated.

Twenty-something grandson pulls, pushes. Also defeated. Honestly, I’m not sure if he could’ve opened it even if it had been unlocked.

The hours of operation and the deadbolt are unforgiving.

Mom goes to open the door for poor Grandma. Yank. Yank, YANK HARDER! She, too, is defeated.

But then Pop swaggers up. His pointless shades at this early hour are perched on his chiseled face. His cargo shorts are full of magical and mystical Fatherhood tools. He’s been waiting for a worthy opponent. He knows his feeble mother and sissy son can’t be trusted.

His white socks are pulled up over his bulging calves, and they strain, even with his New Balance tactical tennis shoes, as he launches himself against the door.

Taken aback that his frontal assault isn’t successful, he grabs the door and, with the power of Odin, his forefather, pulls at the door as if he’s straining to lift Mjolnir to prove his worthiness. The door is still standing.

Finally, he resorts to his last hope. You might be thinking, “Look at the Hours on the door!”

But you’d be wrong. He calls the restaurant. I debate on whether to answer and decide that this should be a learning experience.

Mother and Grandma are peeking into a window, gazing at the chairs stacked on top of the tables. There are no lights on in the dining room.

Pops is standing near the door, cellphone in hand, tapping his bright white New Balance shoes in anticipation of the fight that will soon be happening. He WILL get his family French toast at this steakhouse at 7:05 AM!

Lanky son with his long curls hanging over his eyes looks up briefly. Pushes the hair away from his eyes as he stares at the Hours of Operation.

You can actually see the gears turning inside his head as he desperately tries to figure out what the clues are telling him.

Finally, he slowly lifts his entire arm and points at the sign.

The family slowly retreats to the safety of the shiny black Suburban. They’ll soon forget this defeat as they search for bacon and eggs. So, they’ll be back. Not realizing that we never open for breakfast. They’ll try again soon. Soon.