I am a resident assistant in a hall occupied almost entirely by freshmen; in essence, I am a poorly-paid babysitter. A few days into the fall semester, the fire alarm goes off at around 11:00 pm. I usher all the sleepy freshmen out of the building and across the street, and we wait for the firefighters to give us the all-clear.

Eventually, we are able to go back inside, but that’s not the end of it. We have to check the student ID of every. Single. Person. Mind you, 650 students live in this building, not counting overnight guests. It takes a long time, but it’s necessary to keep students safe and prevent strangers from entering the building. 

Finally, everyone is sorted and the RAs can go back to bed. I’ve just fallen into a blissful sleep when I am awakened again by the sound of a fire alarm. I look at my clock and see that it is 3:00 am. Grudgingly, I get out of bed and we do the same song and dance. It takes the firefighters less time to do this round, and we end up going to bed within the hour.

I am appalled when, just before dawn, the fire alarm goes off again. I notice that far fewer people are outside than the previous two alarms, which I later learn is because many students elected to just stay in bed and endure the ear-splitting alarm — and make it that much harder for the rest of us, since we can’t get the all-clear until everyone has left the building. Finally, finally, we get back inside and I get a couple more hours of sleep before my 9:00 am class.

Later, I’m talking to my boss and discover the reason we had so many alarms in one night. There is a dining hall on the first floor of the building, and it was being renovated all summer. They had finally finished construction that week, but somehow messed up the wiring such that it repeatedly triggered the fire alarm. After the third alarm, they finally fixed it.

I have been working in the food preparation area of our store for quite some time, and I am on an overnight shift. Besides me, there is a person on register, and a manager who is very friendly, but follows the rules. A couple comes in with their three younger children around midnight.

The father orders a foot-long sub for each person, and when I see the order, each sub has the same meat on it, but everything else — veggies, dressings, and cheese — is different. I already know what this is leading to, so I am very careful since the store is empty.

I do each sub separately, printing out the tickets ahead of time and taping the ticket to the corresponding sub when I’m done with it. Finally, all five subs are finished and I call the number. The father picks up the subs and the family leaves the store.

I immediately rush a second set of the same tickets back to the manager, and she nods when she sees the order.

The customer returns just as I am walking out of the back and asks the cashier to see the manager. Our manager comes out, and the father shows her the subs. I notice they have moved the tickets around, and the father claims they are all wrong.

My manager helps me make a second round of the exact same subs, and refunds the cost to the man: $30. He walks out with free subs, and we have to log everything on the subs as waste and throw them in the garbage.

I look at my manager after we’ve finished, saying that I hate some people.

She sighs, and says, “Me, too.”

As I was walking along the shop floor at work, I saw a bloke in a wheelchair being pushed along by someone else. All of a sudden, he offered a person nearby a fist bump.

His companion protested, saying no one wanted to fist bump him. As she said this, the other person, a complete stranger, returned the gesture. The bloke’s face lit right up.

He offered his fist up to the next person they passed, which was me. I couldn’t refuse, not when it would make him so happy.

As they turned down the next aisle I heard the companion say, “Okay, it’s a fist bump day,” so I’m guessing he kept going.

Thank you, random gentleman. It may have cheered you up, but your happiness was infectious and now I’m walking around with a smile, too.

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It was my first week of working in a thrift store and it was our half-off sale day. People lined up outside of the store for hours prior to us opening, Black Friday style. Once the doors were opened people ran in, pushing and shoving to get carts and go to the furniture section. 

I looked over to our toy area and saw an 80-something-year-old woman ram a pregnant lady holding her toddler so that she could get a better look at the puzzles. 

I worked there for six more years.

I come from the Rust Belt. Joining the military to get good job training and post-service education benefits is pretty common in our area, and in 1982 my youngest sister enlisted in the Navy.

If you have ever been through boot camp, you are aware that the non-commissioned officers who act as drill instructors are a formidable bunch and can reduce a recruit to jelly with one ferocious glare. My sister, like the rest of her unit, was terrified of them.

One night, she was chosen to stand watch and dutifully set out to patrol the barracks, armed only with a heavy, Navy-issue flashlight. In the military, you always carry stuff in your left hand so your right is free for saluting. My sister was not yet “snapped in” to this, and from force of habit, during her watch had switched the flashlight to her right hand.

When the Petty Officer of the Watch showed up unexpectedly, [Sister], in a panic, snapped to attention and saluted. With her right, flashlight-bearing, hand.