I used to be bullied in junior high school by the “popular kids” back in my home country, so I have always tried to distance myself from those kinds of popular kids so as not to be bullied.

Fast forward to my university life. I do not have a job and am just living off of a piece of bread and a bowl of oats a day. I only have $20 to survive for the next two weeks. 

Out of nowhere, a classmate of mine — the popular kind of kid — whom I have never actually talked to invites me to come over to his place to cook together and have dinner with his housemates. Instinctively, I refuse, but after a bit of persuasion, I decide to come over. 

I go there and help with the cooking and they all like it! I used to cook at home, so I can actually cook pretty well. He then comes up with the idea to make this a daily routine where they all buy the ingredients and I’ll be the one doing the cooking. This really helps me a lot, since I can cut my expenses for food. 

Later on, it turns out that he actually realised that in the cafeteria, I mostly sat by myself and only had a piece of bread for lunch. Then, one day, he decided to ask me to come over for dinner. This really reminds me that there are actually good people out there, that really care about others.

I went to a private school from second through seventh grade. Each year, my school and the nearby private schools held a competition called Math Olympics. Basically, it was a Saturday where you took a math test against people in your grade, and people got ribbons for the top five scores.

I placed second in third grade, and was all prepared when the time came around in fourth grade. Like a spelling bee, there was a qualification round during class one day, where two “olympiads” and two alternates would be chosen.

The teacher passed out our tests during math time, but as people started getting to the last problem, she found that many people were asking for help. She went around just repeating, “Number 20 is a pattern,” to anyone with their hand up, dealing with other questions if they were on a different problem.

By the time my tablemate got to problem 20, I had already turned in my paper and picked up my book to read. He put his hand up, having been too involved in the first 19 problems to catch what the teacher had been saying, but there was a note on the board saying that she’d give a hint about it.

After what felt like a long time without the teacher coming over, he started waving his hand, trying to get attention. Eventually, he made small sounds when she walked by, which she did at least three times after I started paying attention. It was annoying, so I just leaned over and said, “Number 20 is a pattern.”

That, the teacher noticed. She snatched the boy’s test off the table before he could even pick up his pencil again, and told us both to stay in the room while everyone else went to lunch.

We sat there, alone, long enough to take our lunch boxes from the backpack area, eat lunch, and throw away our trash before our teacher brought back the principal.

The principal took us one at a time to tell her what happened, and I told her the truth of the situation — that the teacher had promised everyone a hint, but was ignoring my tablemate, so I told him exactly what she had been telling everyone else.

Despite explaining myself as best I could, it was deemed cheating, so neither of us were allowed to compete. I went on to win first place in later years, but I still find it unfair that I got labeled a cheater for that.

My family and I were sitting down to eat at a pretty popular barbecue joint.

In a booth a few feet away was a middle-aged couple talking to a friend of theirs over the walkie-talkie function of the gentleman’s cellphone at max volume.

The rest of the diners and staff were clearly annoyed, but the couple was so engrossed in their conversation they had no idea how ticked off everyone was getting.

Finally, my father got up and sat down right behind them, leaning over the man’s shoulder.

The man said, “Excuse me?”

My dad said, “Sorry, but I just couldn’t quite make out what you guys were saying, but since you wanted us all to hear I just had to come over.”

The couple practically ran out of there while the dining room cheered.

I retired at age sixty, not rich, but comfortable. I lived alone in my house, as my wife had passed and my kids moved out long before. But instead of downsizing, as everyone tried to convince me to do, I decided to take a different path. I converted my basement into a small bachelor-style apartment. Very small. It had just a kitchenette, bathroom with shower, laundry room, and one living space. I got the basics that someone would need: microwave, towels, plates and bowls, and a few food items.

I then started visiting some local charities, a soup kitchen, and a homeless shelter. I volunteered a few times, but spent time getting to know a few people that were in need. After talking to one particular man, I decided to put my retirement scheme into action, and offer for him to stay in my basement apartment to get him back on his feet. He was obviously thrilled and grateful, and we wrote up a rental agreement: three months for free followed by three months at a very small price — about the cost of a single night in a decent hotel — if he hadn’t found something better by then. The only real limits I put in were that he was to be the only tenant, and I would enter to use the laundry once a week at an agreed time.

It started fantastically. My new tenant and I were becoming friends, and he was getting his life sorted out. He got a job within walking distance. He began to look healthier and happier. After three months, he said he would rather stay, which was fine by me, and he paid the agreed rent for month number four. Then, it started to fall apart.

He stopped talking to me when we crossed paths. He began to complain when I used the laundry, even though I never did it unannounced. When rent for month five came around, he complained that it should still be free and paid only part of the agreed price. As month six arrived, I found out he had no intention of leaving or paying. I’m not sure what changed, or why. I’m convinced there was no alcohol or drug use. But he became angry with me, saying that I should have done more if I really wanted to help him.

After seven months, and being paid rent for only one and a half of them, I had to evict him. It required the presence of police and the changing of locks, and afterward, he came by the house at random times for weeks. It was an indescribable nightmare.

I had originally intended to do the same thing for a different needy person every year, having the tenant during the cold Canadian months. But this was four years ago, and I haven’t had a tenant since.

An older pickup truck was left at the far end of our parking lot for repair. Apparently, it would not start. I am bored, so I grab the keys and go out to see if I can start it. Why it was left so far away, I have no idea. I don’t plan on being out for long, so I don’t bother to put on my coat. Minus 20C? That’s nothing… So, I get in and close the door. I slide the key into the ignition and turn it, nothing.

I give it a couple of seconds and try it again. Still nothing. Not a sound. No whirring, no clicking, not even one measly little click. I give up after trying a couple of more times. Only mildly disappointed, I reach for the door handle. The handle flops down as soon as I touch it, broken. No big deal. I reach for the passenger door and pull on that handle. That, too, falls down.

Uh-oh… I look down for the window crank. Missing? I look over at the passenger door window crank. That’s missing, too. You’ve got to be kidding!

The rear passenger window will never move. It has been fixed firmly in place since the day the truck was built. Nope, no sliding hatch at the rear window, either. And to top it off, I didn’t bring my phone. Cut off from the entire world, in a parking lot, at work.

Now what? I am at the far end of the parking lot – a good 100 meters away from the store entrance. It is -20, and I am locked in with no coat. The truck is facing away from the store so frantic waving won’t do much good. The windows are starting to fog up and I am starting to feel the cold. If someone even bothers to look from the store into the parking lot and see the back of the truck, they will not see my head. And with this old, worn-out bench seat, I can hardly see over the steering wheel, the curse of being 5’3”. No one will see me from the back or the front. On my left is a long strip mall, but a huge mountain of snow is in the way. I’m pretty much isolated.

I wonder how long it will take for someone to realize that I have not returned, and then how long after that before they start to look for me — if they even try. Hours? Days? Weeks? I start writing my last will and testament in my head — a lot of good that will do.

Finally, I see someone driving towards a store over the right side of the hood of the truck. [Nearby Store] is open! The gentleman gets out of his car and walks towards the store. He’s only about 50 meters away. I have a bright idea: honk the horn. That will get his attention, and of course he will come over and open the door for me. I push on the horn… Silence. I push it harder. Still nothing. I pound on the horn. Not even a fart. Whoever said silence was golden got it so wrong!

Maybe, just maybe, I have been locked up so long that I have gone deaf, or my ear drums are frozen, or this old rust bucket has extremely good sound proofing. The horn has to work. I look over to see if he reacts to my frantic pushing on the horn. Nope, no reaction. Apparently, the horn doesn’t work; either that or this truck is equipped with an ultra-high-frequency horn that only dogs can hear. Either way, I’m screwed.

Resigned to my fate, I come up with an idea for those that eventually find me. I will make a scratch in the door for every day that I survive in the truck. At least they will know how many days I survived in the wilderness, a mere fifty meters over the right fender from [Nearby Store]. The doors are so scratched up already, they probably wouldn’t even notice my survival scratches. When it rains…

I sit there for a few more minutes. It’s probably my imagination, but the air seems to be getting stale. Locked in a dilapidated old pickup truck. Who cares about being embarrassed? I just want out!

Something catches my left eye, beside and behind my left shoulder. No way! Duct tape? I look over my left shoulder, with a near perfect shoulder check, and find a thick plastic sheet duct taped over where the back seat side window used to be! YES! Why didn’t I notice that before?

I may not be able to blow bubbles with bubble gum or swim more than four feet at a time, and I don’t weigh enough to operate a skid steer, but I can proudly say that I can tear my way through a plastic bag. Oh, yeah! Woot… Woot…

It takes a while, but the plastic was really, really thick, okay?!

I squeeze through the slit I made in the plastic window — thankfully, I weigh less than 130 pounds — and drop to the ground head first. It is not the prettiest of exits, but no one knows I am here, anyway. Who cares? I am free!

I dust some of the snow off my clothes, feel a slight bump on my forehead, no blood. Good!

I feel like I just broke out of prison. I am sure the guilt about ruining a perfectly good plastic-n-duct tape window will diminish soon… Yup, gone already, no guilt left at all. Suhweeeet! And I was still clocked in, too! Nice!

I race back to the shop at least a half hour after I left. Whose bright idea was that, anyway?

I’ve learned my lesson. Next time I am bored, I am going to stay put and just close my eyes. I am never again going to underestimate the value of being bored.