Way back when, I used to be a tour guide at a tourism park. Our workplace lacked any formal structure for dealing with lost property, and we generally just dropped everything at reservations with those long-suffering souls who were also responsible for directing tour groups, selling tickets, answering phones, and acting as the information desk. The rest of us were generally tied up for most of the day and weren’t always able to roam the park looking for sunglasses and water bottles.

One day, when I happened to have nearly two hours without a booked tour, an older husband and wife approached me at my station.

Woman Guest: “Hello. We might have lost a hat.”

Me: “Might have?”

Woman Guest: “Yes, my husband has a bucket hat, and we can’t find it. We might have left it on the bus, or at our hotel, or at the last place, or it might be here. Normally, we wouldn’t bother, but the hat was a gift from our granddaughter, and it has sentimental value.”

Man Guest: “Sorry to bother you.”

Me: “Not at all! Let’s head to reservations and see if anyone’s handed it in.”

So, off we went. Reservations didn’t have any lost property at all from that day, so I walked around the entire park (a sizable distance) and spoke to every employee I could find in every department with the couple in tow. Not one employee had seen the hat. The couple and I also retraced their steps throughout the park, carefully checking every seat and every stop for rogue bucket hats. Nothing.

The entire time, the husband repeatedly apologised for taking up so much of my time, while the wife repeatedly listed all the places the hat might be that weren’t in our park. I repeatedly reassured the husband that it was fine and repeatedly responded to the wife with murmured acknowledgments and the occasional, “Did you give them a ring?”

After more than ninety minutes, we had checked everywhere, and we had not found one stray shred of fabric of the hat.

Me: “I’m sorry that we haven’t found the hat.”

Woman Guest: “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

Me: “Sorry?”

Woman Guest: “How are you going to find the hat?”

Me: “…Ma’am, the hat is not in our park. I’m not sure what else I can do to help you find this hat. Will you be travelling back today on the same bus? Do you need a contact number for the bus company, or your previous stop?”

Woman Guest: “What are you talking about?”

Me: “To check if they’ve got the hat.”

Woman Guest: “Well, aren’t you going to find it?”

Me: “…”

Woman Guest: *To her husband* “I can’t believe this!” *Back to me* “You said you were going to help us. What happens now, hmm?”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry we didn’t find your hat, but I need to get back to work.”

Before his wife could start berating me, the husband loudly spoke over the top of her.

Man Guest: “Thank you, and have a good day.”

Woman Guest: *Sneering* “Yes, thank you for alllll your help.”

I just about ran from that couple, and I barely made it back in time for my next tour. Short of calling the other businesses directly or pulling a bucket hat out of my broad-brimmed one, I’m not sure what else I could have done for them. I understand sentimentality, but believe it or not, people, being a tour guide doesn’t make you a wizard.

Most days, weather permitting, my floof and I will head to the local dog park at about the same time. (I am aware that dog parks have a lot of risk associated, so I’m very careful. My floof less so, but I have thumbs, so he has to listen.) As we’re usually there around the same time every day, I recognize most of the dogs and their parents. Fairly frequently, new friends show up and everyone gets to know each other. It’s a good time. A lot of social norms (for New England, anyway) are relaxed, so it’s not really weird to wind up talking to strangers, and as a rule, if someone you don’t know is trying to get your attention, odds are you should probably see what they have to say before dropping the hammer.

One morning in particular, a dog is engaging in a thankfully more rare form of icky things dogs do sometimes: finding a nice fresh dump on the ground and promptly rolling around in it. (I pick up my dog’s messes when he drops them; other people are less conscientious.) I don’t recognize the floof that’s vigorously applying dog cologne, but that’s no problem; there’s one unknown dog and one unknown owner.

Having rescued a dog previously who was a notorious poop roller, I decided the owner might like a heads-up since she’s talking on a cell phone not watching her dog and nobody wants to be in an enclosed space with a diarrhea diver.

I mosey over and wave.

Me: “Excuse me.”

The dog’s owner pivots to look at me, covers the bottom of her smartphone, and hisses:

Owner: “I’m on the phone!”

Well then, my mistake. I mosey back over to the group of people I know, and we all watch the woman’s dog find five further fresh piles of feces to frolic in.

Eventually, she finishes her super important phone call and summons her dog to leave, and right after she attaches the leash, she shouts:

Owner: “AUGH! Why didn’t anyone tell me he was rolling in s***?!”

I raise my hand and wave.

Me: “Hey, ma’am? Yeah, hi. You were on the phone.”

She turned beet red and made hasty tracks to her car. She hasn’t been back since. I don’t know why. Her dog was awesome.

It’s a nice, sunny weekend so some of my husband’s extended family, including his elderly grandparents, decides to have a day out at a park by a river. There are around twelve of us with kids attending.

The park has a lovely playground but only a few picnic tables available. My husband, children, and I arrive first and plan it early enough to snap up one of the four picnic tables, which is closest to the disabled parking, and all the other tables are occupied quickly. While we’re waiting for the rest of the family, my husband walks with my youngest to buy some snacks while my six-year-old son and I sit at the table and play some games together while we wait for everyone to arrive.

At about 10:45 am, another family arrives, and one of the ladies in that group walks up to the table next to us, which is full of people who have set up with blankets and look quite comfortable. She asks them something I don’t quite hear. She then walks back to her family, whispers something, and then sits down at my table with my son and me while the rest of her family starts to move forward toward us.

Me: “Hi, excuse me. We’re waiting on my extended family to arrive and there are a few of us. You’re welcome to sit for a few minutes, but they should be here soon and we’ll need the space.”

Lady: “Oh, I spoke to that table, and they said that they weren’t going to be staying long and that I could have the tables.”

Me: “They might be leaving soon, but we’re not. We’ll be here the whole day.”

Lady: “I thought you were together.”

Me: “I don’t know those people; I haven’t even spoken a word to them.”

Lady: “But I need both tables. We’re having a family day out. They said we could have the table.”

Me: “We’re having a family day out, too. We’ll only use the one table but we’ll be using this one. I don’t know those people.”

Lady: “But they said I could have the tables.”

Me: “They might have been speaking for their own table, but they have no say over this one that my son and I are reserving for my family.”

I had to say the last part very pointedly and make sure my voice was assertive. I knew at this point that she was trying to bully me from the table because it was just me with my young son; she thought, with her family moving toward the table, I would get uncomfortable and just move. 

The lady sat and glared at me for a few moments. Then, she stopped her family and said, “She won’t move.” They walked off and found a spot in the grass to sit for their picnic, watching us for a while. I made a pointed stare at them when my father-in-law arrived, bringing my husband’s elderly grandfather who is blind, and his wife who has back issues and can’t walk far.

Despite the lady claiming they’d said they wouldn’t be there long, the family at the table next to us sat at the table for several hours and only left about half an hour before we did.

Ever since one day at the picnic park in a remote area of Cape Breton, I have had a fear of outhouses and port-a-potties. I was alone in the park. I stopped at dusk for a bathroom break, entered the primitive facilities, and closed the door behind me like normal.

But something went wrong. The door jammed.

In a moment of panic, I jiggled the door handle to no avail. Finally, I had to kick it open. In my extreme panic, I kicked the door so hard that it actually came off its hinges. Come on, now, admit it; you’d have done the same thing in that situation!

I called the park the next day to inform them of my mishap and to let them know one of their outhouses needed some repairs. I was lucky that time. In seconds, I was free and back in the fresh air.

Now, you would think that this is something that would only happen to someone once in a lifetime. I imagine being locked in an outhouse is not a very common thing… unless you’re me. I have plenty of luck if you only count the bad kind.

It was a lovely morning, many years after the incident with the outhouse in the picnic park. I packed the car and left for my first road trip of the season to the Cape Breton Highlands National Park.

Along the way, I stopped at the picnic park for a rest and to use the restroom. A picnic park in a remote area. With an outhouse for a restroom. With no one else around.

I see it now. I didn’t see it then. Déjà vu.

I entered the tiny building and closed the door behind me. The lock was a primitive one that pushed down to lock and pulled up to unlock. Something went wrong on the other side of the door. The lock jammed. And there I was, once again, locked in a dark, smelly outhouse in the middle of nowhere… alone.

All I was thinking was, “This can’t be for real,” as I jiggled the lock. It didn’t take long for panic to set in, and jiggling the lock turned into banging on the door. When that didn’t work, I tried kicking the door down. It had worked before. It didn’t work that time. Tears started streaming down my face and my heart started racing. I started screaming even though I knew no one was out there.

It felt like I had been in there for an eternity when I heard it: a car, and it was getting closer. It stopped. I heard a car door close. I heard the gravel being disturbed. Footsteps. I screamed while simultaneously kicking and banging on the door

Me: “Help! Please help me! I’m locked in the bathroom!”

I heard a voice — a soft but inquisitive voice.

Voice: “Hello?”

Tears were streaming down my face, and I was shaking so badly I could barely utter the words.

Me: “Please get help! Get me out of here!”

I heard the handle jiggle for what seemed like an eternity, but it was probably only a few seconds before it swung open to reveal an older woman with a look on her face that I can only describe as shock and trying to hold back laughter.

I must have been quite the sight. After all, I was crying like a baby and probably looked like I’d just experienced the most terrifying ordeal of my life. I’d just spent longer than the average human can tolerate in such conditions. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had burst out laughing at my misfortune! I wouldn’t have been able to hold it in as well as she did.

Fortunately, I can laugh about it now… at least until the next time I find myself in such a situation. They say bad things happen in threes. I’m about due for my next outhouse adventure any day now!

I work at a local tourist spot as a food services supervisor, and we have a few different food outlets in the park. As a supervisor, I’ve had to deal with all kinds of challenging customers, including some that have turned out well (communicating with deaf customers, a Korean group who wanted $200 worth of hamburgers — twice) and not-so-well (a customer who wanted a free bottle of water and screamed at me, an Asian man who accused me of discrimination, a lady who said abusive things because she lost $2 in a vending machine, and all sorts of silly food requests/complaints). Fun times.

One of the dumbest ones I came across, though, was dealt with by a coworker of mine.

Near the very end of the day, a lady came up to our fish and chips window.

Customer: “I want a four-piece chicken strip combo. I want it split four ways for my four children.”

Coworker: “Sure, but since the combo comes with a single small fries, each of those four portions would include just one chicken strip and a few fries.”

He repeats this a couple of times, but she impatiently tells him that’s okay. When she comes to pick up her order:

Customer: *Irate* “What is this?! Each of these portions needs to have at least two strips and a small fries!”

Coworker: “If you’d like eight strips and four small fries, then that will be [higher price].”

Customer: “No! I’m only willing to pay [price of a single combo]! Why are you so incompetent?”

The fish and chips place is in a remote location from the main kitchen, so there is no manager there, and my coworker isn’t about to make her more chicken strips and fries for free, so finally, he tells her:

Coworker: “This outlet is now closed. If you have any more issues, you should take it up with the manager.”

The customer left as he closed the shutter, but then she came around to the side door of the building and screamed at him some more. Even when they closed the door, she waited for them and followed them across the park when they walked back to the main kitchen… where they were able to meet up with the manager and she was asked to leave the park. 

We don’t allow meal-splitting anymore; if customers want something split, we’ll give them plates and knives and they can do their own portions.