I was lucky enough to graduate college right around when the health crisis hit. Finding a job in my preferred field became a lot harder, so in the meantime, I’ve been applying to just about every opening I come across. However, most of these jobs are retail or customer service, which I don’t have a lot of experience in. I tend to get passed over in favor of applicants who do, which is only to be expected.

But my not-at-all-tech-savvy father recently decided that the real reason I’m not getting hired is that I simply need to “show more initiative” by walking in and applying in person. He’s constantly trying to bring me to places that are hiring —- 99% of the time, I’ve already applied there online, of course — and will tell me to go in and ask the manager for a job, despite me explaining to him that pretty much no one does things that way anymore. Avoiding him is more or less impossible since I still live at home.

I’ve asked managers, in front of him, if they accept anything other than online applications, and I’ve taken pictures of signs telling job seekers to apply online. This generally works for only a few days before my father hears through the grapevine that someone somewhere got hired by just walking in, and it starts all over again. My heart goes out to every manager who’s had to put up with this kind of stubbornness before.

I’m in a crowded café working on a project at my computer, sitting at a table alongside the main aisle that runs down the center of the restaurant from the front door, past the counter, and out to the back door.

I’m very intent on the project and have headphones on, mostly tuning out my surroundings. However, I register the shape of a person moving past me, and as they get right next to my shoulder, my brain suddenly wakes up enough to think, “That’s a lot of flesh color.”

I turn around just to see the nude buttocks of an older man vanish around the corner and out the back door. My eye meets those of a couple of college girls sitting at the booth behind me, who look like they can’t quite decide if they’re horrified or about to burst out laughing.

Right about then, a manager sprints past us, on the phone with (I assume) the cops, and I hear him say, “No, he just came through again! He’s heading out the back door now!”

The stunned silence of the cafe slowly reverts to normal — if probably a bit hysterical — chatter again, and I later overhear the manager talking to a couple of his employees. Apparently, the streaker was a local elderly man who had been passively terrorizing a bunch of businesses in that general area for about two weeks. He’d just walk in, completely nude, and walk out again, refusing to speak to anyone. Turns out he was a dementia patient who was regularly slipping away from his not-so-conscientious “caretaker.”

All I can say is, I am so grateful that my project had me focused enough that I didn’t look up in time to see the approach, only the retreat!

I am sixteen, working at a hardware store return desk. At the return counter, we stand under a soul-sucking sign that states in bold letters that if the customer is not satisfied with their purchase for any reason, we will exchange or refund the price of the item. No lifesaving asterisk… no exceptions.

My favorite customer was a man that, over the course of four years, came in every few months to return a flashlight pack (that came with batteries) which he bought to use for work. He would use it until the batteries died and then bring it in and exchange it for a new flashlight with batteries. If we even tried to talk to him about it, a high-pitched “FOR ANY REASON!” screech would reverberate through the entire store… and I would just hand him a new flashlight.

He single-handedly brought that sign down. Great man.

I have just finished shopping and am making my way to the cashier. There are two cashier counters open, but for some reason, everyone is only queuing up for one of them. The other cashier is simply standing there looking at the queue and there is no “closed” sign or anything on her counter.

I move to the open counter and hand my purchases to the cashier, and she starts to ring them up without a word. Seeing this, several customers from the long line immediately switch over to my line.

The woman behind me rudely informs me that I was supposed to queue up. I point out that nobody was queuing here in the first place, and she chooses not to reply. 

I guess this is what happens when you simply follow the crowd without thinking.

I used to handle purses and shoes at my local thrift store, and among the various passes and fails of quality check, I’ve found a few gems and a few absolute nightmares.

The worst nightmare purse on record was a beautiful, beaded, white clutch that looked perfect… until I looked inside.

Someone had decided to shove their bloody, used tampon inside at some point, staining the entire inside bottom with menstrual blood.

Then, in a stroke of genius, the person had then splashed some sort of chemical inside the purse. The splash pattern of the poured chemical was clearly visible, and the insides were a creepy patchwork of rusty red and a deep shamrock green!

I was very grateful that I did those inspections with gloves on! It went into the garbage bag immediately.

Related:
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 26
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 25
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 24
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 23
On The Need For Hazard Pay, Part 22