At one retail job, we closed at 10:00 and opened at 7:00. After closing, we were expected to clean up our departments and then, when we were done, go help the other departments not yet finished. It was a large store, but my department was easy to handle, and I kept moving all night, so I straightened as I went. I was always done by 10:30, which would have been a normal clock-out time.

But the other departments were a mess. More often than not, I would end up being there past midnight. Of course, I was scheduled to open the next day and had to be there before 7:00 for store meetings. Combined with my travel time, I was lucky to get five hours of sleep.

I started really reading my employee handbook, and I found an interesting passage stating that there has to be a minimum of eight hours between shifts. So, the next night that they had me go help another department, I said:

Me: “Sure, but it’s already 10:25. I won’t be able to help so much in the five minutes before I clock out.”

The manager was stunned.

Manager: “Why would you be clocking out at 10:30? Everyone has to stay to help clean up.”

Me: “Well, yes. However, according to the employee handbook, I’m required to have eight hours between shifts. You have me scheduled in tomorrow at 6:30 to open. So, I can stay to help, but does that mean I’m coming in later? Nobody else is scheduled to open my department. The next person coming in is at 9:00.”

They fretted and grumbled a bit and then said for me to clock out.

I didn’t have a bit of trouble clocking out on time after that.

Back when I worked at [Video Rental Chain Store], we would often cover other stores in our city — whether it was just because they were short one day, needed help with inventory, etc.

Another location was having their holiday party and obviously wanted all of their employees to be able to attend. They contacted our store to see if we could spare three people to cover their store from 6:00 pm to midnight. We sent one assistant manager and two regular employees. They got the keys and all the codes and were prepared to handle the evening.

Over the next few days, we started hearing chatter from the other store about something going wrong on that night. It was difficult to keep anything secret between the stores as a lot of people started at one location before transferring to another, and most of us remained friends outside of work.

It turned out that the assistant manager had made some changes to the receipts. We had the ability to add a message at the end of the receipt without approval from corporate — usually to advise of some promotion or something like that. For whatever reason, she typed in some rude message directed at customers. It was nothing blatantly offensive but definitely not something you’d want them to read. She meant it to be funny, but under those circumstances, it wasn’t.

The chatter was that this was a serious offense and that [Assistant Manager] knew there were going to be consequences, even though nothing was said by upper management.

Soon afterward, the store manager and district manager were there one day and wanted to know when [Assistant Manager] was scheduled. It was to be in another hour. They told us that they were leaving but to tell her to not clock in and to stay there until they came back. 

[Assistant Manager] showed up about fifteen minutes before her scheduled time, and we advised her of what the store manager and district manager had said. She saw the writing on the wall and just decided to quit instead, not wanting to get yelled at and fired at the same time, and just left.

The store manager and district manager showed up about a half hour after when [Assistant Manager] was supposed to clock in, wondering where she was. We said that she’d just quit and left. They both were stunned that she wouldn’t stay around at their direction.

I get why [Assistant Manager] had to be fired, but the amount of time between the incident and her quitting was about a week. Of course she was going to figure out something bad is coming. At the very least, they should have stayed around in the store if they needed to fire her.

One other employee got basically a slap on the wrist since he was aware of the changes to the receipt but wasn’t in charge. Nothing happened to the third employee since he was out on the floor the whole night instead of behind the counter.

CONTENT WARNING: Blood (due to disconnected tube during donation) , Needles
 

I used to sell plasma in college. It was an easy way to get some cash, and I usually just sat and read the whole time. For those who don’t know, basically, they put a needle in your arm with a tube attached. The tube goes to a machine, and the blood goes through the tube into the machine where the plasma gets separated from the whole blood. Then, a saline solution is added to replace the missing plasma, and it gets injected back into your body. The cycle repeats a few times, and the whole process takes about an hour and a half. 

After college, I moved to a different city and decided to continue selling plasma. I found a location and filled out the paperwork.  

Pretty soon, I was sitting on the chair getting hooked up to the machine. The attendant inserted the needle while he was checking over the machine to start the process. Satisfied he had done everything, he released the clamp near the needle to start the blood flow.  

Except he hadn’t attached the tube. 

Blood flowed out of that needle and all over my clothes.  

Luckily, he acted fairly quickly, closed the clamp up, and got everything connected for real. I finished up my donation and had to go home looking like I was in a knife fight. But they gave me a bag of anti-coagulant to soak my clothes and the blood stains came out with no problem. 

I figured that was a fluke incident and went back a couple of weeks later.  

This time, I paid closer attention to the attendant and told them about what had happened the last time. They were careful to get everything connected right.  

I don’t really have a problem with needles, but I didn’t want to look over and see one sticking out of me, so I asked them to tape a loose bit of gauze over the area.  

The first cycle of the machine seemed to be taking longer than usual. The person next to me was done with their first cycle before I was even at the part where my blood comes back in. Finally, I heard the sound of the machine indicating it was ready to pump my blood back in. 

What used to be an odd sensation and metallic taste in my mouth now was painful. I flagged down the attendant and told him that it hurt. He wasn’t taking me seriously and wasn’t very quick about getting to me. Finally, he came over and took a look.  

Attendant: “Oh… uh… you’re done for today.”

I was confused until he removed that gauze. My forearm had a swelling in it the size of a golf ball.  

It turns out that the needle was only inserted halfway into my vein, so my blood was coming out very slowly, and when it went back in, a lot of it was pooling under my skin.  

They assured me that it would get reabsorbed into my body over the next few days and there was nothing to worry about. I should just try not to use that arm too much and take it easy. 

What they didn’t say was that it would produce a deep purple bruise from my elbow to my wrist. I had to wear long sleeves for a while until it faded. At least I still got paid for that visit. 

But I decided that plasma donation was no longer for me.

I went to my nephew’s house for Thanksgiving this year. After we ate, a group of us were going to play a game in the dining room. Another group made up of my brother’s girls and a boyfriend (ages sixteen to twenty-three) was playing a game at one of the two tables in the living room. We decided the other table in the living room was better for our game, so we moved in there.

We were playing for a bit, and the other group was getting loud. Their game involved them slapping on the table. My nephew’s young daughter was flinching every time they slapped and cheered.

Nephew’s Daughter: “Guys, you’re scaring me.”

They didn’t hear her. My nephew spoke up and told them the other room was better for their game, and while they heard, they weren’t moving.

Finally, I turned around and spoke up to them.

Me: “Get moving, you kids.”

And they took their game and left.

Nephew: “To be fair, they were in here first, and we just came in and forced them out.”

Me: “And when you really think about it, isn’t that what Thanksgiving is all about?”

CONTENT WARNING: Death

After a short hospital stay, my brother unexpectedly dies. Of course, we are devastated, but we know that we need to clear out his apartment of a few things right away. He owned several guns, and we think those should be secured before we move on to other things.

Some family members and I go through his two-bedroom apartment looking for as many of them as possible. He was a bit of a hoarder, and his extra bedroom is stuffed with things. We manage to find most of the guns right away, but I discover something unusual in the bedroom closet.

A pot-bellied stove.

I don’t have time to dwell on it, but it comes up later when my mom is asking about the apartment. She says the stove was actually something that my dad had purchased at an estate sale (he was notorious for buying random things) and my brother’s live-in girlfriend at the time saw it and wanted to turn it into a planter. That didn’t happen, and into the closet it went and probably hadn’t been thought about in years.

Cut to a few days later when we have the time to really clean everything out and I’ve emptied the closet except for the stove. It dawns on me to check if there’s anything inside. I reach in, feel a plastic bag, and pull it out.

And it’s full of marijuana.

I knew he smoked when he was younger, and he told me he hadn’t for a long time. Or maybe it was his girlfriend’s before they split up. Either way, it had been forgotten. But it did provide a humorous story to tell at his visitation.

Because what else would you expect to find in the belly of a pot-bellied stove but pot?