PTO: Plutonium Time Off

, , , , , , | Legal | December 5, 2018

(Part of my job is to be a go-fer for the office and the higher-ups — an errand girl, basically. One day, as I’m leaving to get something from the store, I see a couple of guys talking with three of our Loss Prevention and Facilities guys, all looking confused and somewhat alarmed. I don’t think much of it until I get back and see three cop cars in front of our loading dock investigating a truck. One of the LP guys points me out, and as I get out of my car, a cop comes jogging over.)

Cop: “Ma’am, you need to come with me.”

Me: “Wait, what? Why? What’s going on?”

Cop: “Ma’am, for your safety, you need to come with me.”

(I’m super confused but do what he says and walk over to the loading dock, where I realize one of the officers has a Geiger counter and is running it over everything in the truck.)

Me: “What’s going on?”

Coworker: “You know those guys I was talking to earlier?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Coworker: “Apparently someone from Turkey shipped a package to us to be picked up by those other guys, like we’re FedEx or something.”

Me: “But our building looks nothing like a post office.”

Coworker: “Exactly. And those two guys were from Turkey, too, and flew all the way out here to pick up their package with the intent of taking it back to Turkey. With those bombs being sent to some people lately, we figured better safe than sorry.”

Cop: “Ma’am, I need to you hold out your arms.”

(I do so, and it finally hits me as they’re running the Geiger counter over me.)

Me: “Wait, you think I was exposed to radiation?”

Coworker: “You were in the mailroom this morning, and they’re scanning everyone who was there.”

(Startlingly enough, my chest area measured as somewhat radioactive. It took the cops another ten minutes to realize it was my necklace, which had a reading of .001 from God knows what, and that I had not inhaled anything radioactive. I still don’t know what was in that package that someone in Turkey had to ship it to the USA to be picked up by a couple of guys and brought back to Turkey on their flight. I’m also amazed it wasn’t a fever dream.)

The Police Like To Check In Regularly

, , , , , , , | Legal | December 3, 2018

(I am a cashier on a busy Saturday. A woman approaches my till and begins placing numerous items on the belt. I scan them, and the total is well over $200.)

Customer: “I would like to pay with a check.”

Me: “No problem. Can I please see you ID?”

Customer: “Oh, it is stuck in my wallet and really hard to get out.”

Me: “I understand.” *though I think it’s strange* “Can you write your ID number on the top of the check?”

(The woman begins to fill out her check and write the ID number for me as I scan the last of her items. Suddenly, I feel someone staring at me intently. I look up slowly, and standing directly behind the woman is a police officer. He holds his finger to his lips to keep me silent and motions for me to continue with the transaction.)

Me: “Okay.” *trying to act normal* “Your total is [over $200].”

(As the woman hands me the check, [Police Officer #1] grabs her and immediately handcuffs her. I stand absolutely still, having no idea what on earth is happening. Then I hear yelling from the left and see [Police Officer #2] coming up with a gun drawn!)

Police Officer #2: *to a man a few customers down in my line* “Down on the ground! Now!”

Police Officer #1: *to me* “Ma’am, please finish ringing up these items, close your line, and give me the receipt.”

(I immediately did so, turned off my light, and motioned for the manager to come over. I explained the situation as best I could and everyone dissipated from my line. The police officer returned to get my information and a brief statement. He then shared with me that this woman and her boyfriend had just used a fraudulent check at the department store next door and were planning on doing the same here. She and her accomplice were arrested, and for the next hour or so, every customer stood in my line to hear all about the scary arrest. Bonus points to me: despite the activity, my till was perfect. I got a cookie!)

This Number Is A Different Animal Entirely

, , , | Legal | November 27, 2018

Automated Prompt: “…to report a sick animal, a lost animal, or any other animal emergency, press 0 for dispatch.”

(Thinking this will connect me to an animal control unit, I press 0.)

Sheriff’s Dispatcher: “[County] Sheriff Non-Emergency Dispatch. How can I help you?”

Me: “I’m sorry. I’m trying to get in contact with [County] Animal Services.”

Sheriff’s Dispatcher: “Yeah, we handle animal issues on weekends.”

Me: “Okay, well, I have a dog that was found by a couple of people here. I’m trying to find a safe place for him right now so the owner can retrieve him. Do you have anyone I can contact for that?”

Sheriff’s Dispatcher: “Well, if you can contain the animal safely, hold on to him until Animal Services opens on Monday, and then contact them to pick him up.”

Me: “I see. I apologize, but I’m a bit annoyed at the fact that we have a dedicated Animal Control, and yet it falls to the police to do their job on weekends.”

Sheriff’s Dispatcher: “Totally understandable, sir.”

(After that, I contacted a relative who had a dog crate to take him; we’ve taken him in for the time being. According to the website, the Animal Services’ office isn’t open until 12 pm Monday. Good to know my tax dollars are being used wisely. At least he’s cute.)

Bad Cops, Bad Cops…

, , , | Legal | November 25, 2018

(The police around where I am are pretty laid back, despite it being a bad area. I work in a hotel in the early morning at front desk. Our hotel offers free breakfast to customers. Sometimes, a non-customer will sneak in and help themselves, and they will be kicked out. One day, some cops come in and start helping themselves to breakfast. I don’t mind, since I like being on good terms with them; they’ve helped me MANY, MANY times with unruly customers. But then, they start coming in to eat EVERY DAY. I go to my supervisor.)

Me: *whispering* “Those cops… Is it okay if they eat here? Just making sure.”

Supervisor: “Yeah, sure. The GM loves them.”

(Months pass, and I hear rumors of some customers getting nervous for some reason, inquiring about the cops being allowed. My GM comes up to me.)

GM: “Are the cops eating here every day?”

Me: “Yes.”

GM: “They aren’t allowed to do that!”

Me: “Uh, but the supervisor said it was okay?”

GM: “Hmm!” *chews supervisor out*

(Then she went and told the cops that they weren’t allowed to eat the breakfast; a cup of coffee was okay, but no eating. They looked shocked, said okay, and left. I felt bad, since I was afraid they wouldn’t help me with dealing with violence-prone customers anymore. But it was the GM’s decision. After that, they only came in once a week or so… and I always played dumb! I do wonder, don’t the cops hate it when people do whatever they like? So, why do THEY do it?)

Get Dash-Cams, People!

, , , , , , | Legal | November 24, 2018

(In Australia it’s illegal to talk on or use your phone in any way while driving. You can use Bluetooth. I’m driving home, up a steep mountain, in a 50-kmph zone. A car screeches up behind me doing at least double that, until they almost hit the back of me. I don’t freak out, but I definitely have some choice words to mutter to myself. Then, as soon as it starts, they immediately back off and pretend to drive like a sane person. I’m watching the road, but I’ll admit I’m a bit distracted looking in the mirror. Then, I see flashing lights behind them and get excited they’re getting their comeuppance. Well… they don’t. The car moves out the way and the police car following moves past them. I assume at this point they’re headed to an emergency, so I, too, pull over to let them pass. The jerk driver leaves on his merry way and the cop car parks behind me. I open my window.)

Me: “Sorry, but are you stopping here, or stopping me?”

Cop: *getting out* “We’re stopping you.”

Me: “Oh. Why?”

Cop: “You were on your phone.”

Me: “Huh, actually, no, I wasn’t.”

Cop: “Yes, you were; you threw it in the back.”

Me: “No, it’s here.”

(I pat my pockets, assuming that’s where it is, then ruffle through my handbag. It’s in a pocket. In the meantime, a second cop has come out and is looking in my back window with a torch for the elusive phone I’ve supposedly thrown. It’s midday, in the middle of summer, and my windows aren’t tinted; dramatic much? I show the first cop my phone.)

Me: “Here’s my call log. The last call was at [time], and the last message was at [time]. Here’s a message from two days ago that says my data ran out, so I wasn’t online.”

Cop: “You deleted the records. Just admit it; your hand was to your ear.”

Me: “I am completely unaware of whatever I was doing with my hand.”

Cop: “Well, you were looking scared in the mirror because you saw us and knew you were caught.”

Me: “No, that’s because I was almost in an accident with that car behind me, who did a burnout up the mountain, and then drove at least twice the limit, before nearly hitting me.”

Cop: “Well, you were definitely on your phone.”

Me: “I don’t even know what to say. I wasn’t.”

Cop: “Well, just don’t do it again.”

(This was about five years ago and it still annoys me. For obvious reasons, but also because I forgot until after he let me go that I had Bluetooth and I’d have no reason to use my phone, anyway.)

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