I worked for a major private security company in Hawaii as a site supervisor for quite a unique property. This location was a 400-ish-acre valley that had once housed munitions for the United States Navy. Created in 1935, it was either nearing completion or already in service when Pearl Harbor was attacked. We have reason to believe it also served as an internment camp at some point during the war. When the Navy left in 1993, they left behind 200 or so munitions caves which were blasted into the sides of the mountains making up the valley. These massive bunkers would become industrial storage for rent sometime in 2005.

On this particular day in 2017, we had just experienced massive storms that sent the property’s river over the low-lying bridge between the two halves of the valley, rendering it unusable to any of our tenants.

I found out about this as soon as I came to work. I drove directly through our lower gate system into the forest to close the gate that would block access to the bridge so no one would get the bright idea of trying to Oregon Trail the river and get swept all the way down to Pearl Harbor.

When I arrived, I found that the water was about two feet over the road deck and moving furiously. I took my pictures, locked the gate, and started documenting the closure of half of the property.

One of our tenants rolled up behind me. He was a long-time member of the valley and was well aware of the bridge issue when we experienced heavy rains.

Tenant: “Hey! Open the gate!”

Me: “Sorry, I can’t. As you can see, the bridge is underwater.”

Tenant: “How do I get to my unit?!”

Me: “Sorry, [Tenant], but as you are well aware, when this front bridge is out, it means E row is inaccessible.”

Tenant: “I don’t give a f***! Open the gate!”

I sighed and gave his vehicle a once-over. He was driving a two-wheel-drive 1985 Ford Ranger that was sagging horrifically due to the trailer hooked up to it. He had about as much hope of getting to the other side as I did with my 2013 Mazda 2.

Me: “Sorry, no. At that depth and speed, you wouldn’t make it across with that vehicle. It’s against policy for me to let you try.”

Tenant: “What did you just f****** say to me?”

Me: “I said no.”

Tenant: “Do you know who you work for?!”

I deposited my report into my clipboard and closed it with a smile.

Me: “Yes.”

I proceeded to give the tenant a rundown of the admittedly very complex chain of command that the property used at the time, at no point mentioning his name.

Me: “Feel free to contact—”

Tenant: “Bring your supervisor down!”

Me: “I am the supervisor, and no one above me is in yet; it’s only 7:00 am.”

Tenant: “Well, I want that d*** gate open right now! I’ll take the risk!”

Me: “No.”

This went back and forth several times with the tenant getting angrier and angrier. Other tenants pulled up, watched in amusement, and left.

Eventually, the tenant told me that he was just going to wait until I left and cut our lock, and he was not very pleased when I reminded him that he was a tenant, not an owner, and that willful destruction of company property would get him evicted and trespassed.

Tenant: “I don’t f****** care! Maybe I want to leave this place! You can’t stay here all day.”

Me: “You’re right. I can’t!”

I reversed my own car and blocked the gate off, summoning my staff member to bring me the truck. I left my personal car blocking the gate system. Now, if, for some reason, the lock was removed, there was still a hatchback blocking access.

The tenant eventually left and filed a complaint against me only to be told off by my direct manager.

About four months after leaving, in April of 2020, I saw on the news that, during another storm, someone disregarded the orders of security and attempted to cross under similar circumstances. They were washed away as soon as they made contact with the water in a heaver and taller vehicle than what the tenant had that day.

The driver was lucky to survive and had to be rescued by helicopter while his truck was, of course, a total loss.

In around 2011, one of my good friends was getting rid of his piano. It was a full-sized weighted keyboard that he was getting rid of to make room for the MIDI equivalent so he could use it on his computer to compose music.

As I was the only one in our friend group with experience selling things online, I created the post under my own information, and as offers and things came in I shared them with my friend who owned the piano.

It didn’t take long for the scammers to start replying. They came at us with all kinds of flavors of scam. “We’ll money order you the money plus $500 extra for the guy picking it up.” “We’ll send our mover with a check for the amount plus some extra.” “We will trade you for an equivalent in [Random Store] gift cards.”

Of course, each of these replies only ever referred to the piano as “the item” or “the furniture” and never by name, so I could tell someone was just canvasing the website and shooting out these scam messages.

Finally, I had enough and replied to one of the scammers.

Scammer: “Hello, I am interested in your item. Is it still available?”

Me: “Yes, it is available.”

Scammer: “Agreeable. We would like to extend an offer of $500 plus an extra $500 given upon receipt of the item.”

Me: “That is more than double our listing price. How generous of you!”

Scammer: “We would like to meet you soon; please provide a location for pickup. The driver will pay via check to be used at any bank to receive payment.”

Me: “For sure. We can meet at [address for the local police station] any time you want.”

Scammer: “I work late and will meet you at 2300 hours.”

Me: “All right, see you then.”

Obviously, I didn’t go anywhere, having much more fun trying to convince my friend to take the trade offer of a professional soft-serve ice cream machine out of a restaurant that was shut down.

The next day, I got this message.

Scammer: “You f*** f*** guy, you.”

I legitimately didn’t know who this was because they used a different name and totally different contact information.

Me: “Sorry, who is this?”

Scammer: “Who is this? Who you think, you f*** f*** guy, you! F*** your mother, you f*** f*** guy. You think you’re funny?”

Me: “Yes.”

Scammer: “F*** you! You waste time, f*** f*** guy, you f*** guy.”

Me: “Is that the only swear word you know? This is getting kind of boring.”

Scammer: “You owe me money! I meet you, I get money from you.”

I proceeded to tear into this man, more than likely teaching him several new swear words as I told him exactly where he could shove his driver, truck, and checks.

All of the scam contacts stopped — literally all of them.

Without all the scam messages getting pushed through, I noticed that I had missed a legitimate offer and got in contact with the woman that had made it. We closed the deal and sold the piano that day.

We should have gotten the ice cream machine, though. It was such a good deal.

I decide to go for a drive because there really isn’t anything to do with a combination of bad weather and ongoing lockdown mandates in Hawaii. My adventure takes me to a town where I come across a small ramen shop in a strip mall. The largest business here is a grocery store that sits among a variety of small restaurants, and the parking lot is extremely cramped and small.

When I arrive, I end up behind a Hyundai Sedan. The woman in the Hyundai parks in a five-minute parking stall which is clearly marked as such with three signs as well as banners painted on the ground across the front of each stall. These spaces have the advantage of being pretty much right against the doors of the restaurants and seem to be for picking up to-go orders.

I take the stall directly behind the stall she selected, across the aisle, which, as far as I can tell, is the only other available stall in the entire parking lot.

I sit in my car for a moment as I am on a phone call with one of my friends, and as I am sitting there, the woman gets out of her car, looks at the five-minute parking sign, looks at the painted stall markings, looks back at the sign again, and gets back into her car. She starts reversing and it soon becomes clear that she is attempting to back into the space I took, so I lean on the horn and flash my high beams to alert her of my presence. For the record, my car is almost NEON red; I don’t understand how she didn’t see me. She pulls back into the five-minute parking stall and gets out of her car.

I shake my head and resume my phone call when it becomes clear that she is attempting to talk to me by shouting from her car to mine. I wind down my window.

Woman: “Hey! You need to move!”

Me: “What?”

I open my door, look at the ground, and look for overhead signs just in case I have accidentally parked in a handicap stall or loading area, as some of these small shopping centers have bad markings. I find that my stall is a normal vehicle stall.

Me: “What do you mean?”

Woman: “You weren’t supposed to park there.”

Me: “Why?”

Woman: “I was trying to park there!”

Me: “No, you weren’t; you parked there! I even waited until you turned your car off before turning in.”

Woman: “Well, this is five-minute parking.”

Me: “Yes, I am aware; it is clearly marked as such.”

Woman: “I need to go to [Grocery Store]. That’s going to be longer than five minutes, so I need you to park somewhere else!”

Me: “Oh, no, I have business here, so I’m going to keep the stall.”

Woman: “No, you have to move! That stall was empty when I arrived! You shouldn’t have taken it.”

Me: “But you parked there, not here! You can’t claim a parking space just because it was open when you arrived. You chose your space. I chose mine.”

Woman: “Well, I didn’t see the five-minute parking sign.”

Me: “That’s not my problem, lady.”

For the record, if she had a handicap placard or plate, or even if she had just asked nicely, I would have moved because I am literally there on a whim to eat at this random noodle shop. I have nothing but time to burn and could gladly find a new place to be, but now I am irritated by this entitlement, and because of that eating, at this ramen shop is now my number one priority.

My outright refusal to cater to her needs, as well as my brusque response, do not please her as she gets out of her car and starts approaching mine, all huffy, pulling out her cellphone.

Woman: “You have to move.”

Me: “No, I don’t, and I’m not going to.”

I shut my car and the lights off finally.

Woman: “Well, I don’t—”

Her eyes catch my movement as I turn my dashboard camera to face her and she stops mid-sentence, staring at this black square mounted under my rearview mirror.

Me: “Yeah! That’s a dashboard camera, with audio, and it has been recording this whole time, so guess where you’re going to end up?”

This was an empty threat; as good as this camera is, it would not have — and in fact, did not — catch the whole conversation since it was situated inside the cab of the car. The woman, however, did not know that, and all the fight seemed to blow out of her as soon as she thought her behavior was on camera and subject to be posted to the Internet.

She turned on her heel and pretty much ran to the grocery store.

The woman ended up leaving her car in five-minute parking. By the time I left the ramen shop, it had already obtained a parking violation from the mall’s onsite security, though I doubt those carry any weight at all.

The ramen shop was amazing, by the way.