I am a forty-year-old woman living in a small town near a national forest in Oregon. Most houses sit on a full acre of land, so homes are well spread out and unlikely to have the problems that come with crowded city life.

Our neighbor owned two houses; he fled the snow during winter but came up in spring and summer. He had some strange views on life and reality and seemed to think that the police were the remote control for life.

[Neighbor] called the police on me for “cooking chemicals.” For those who don’t know — or never thought about it too hard — cooking is a chemical reaction. Mixing wheat, water, honey or sugar, yeast, and salt and then putting it in the oven causes a chemical reaction that makes bread. So, when [Neighbor] overheard me mentioning this at a local store, he decided I was a drug user. Instead of a drug lab, the cops found my kitchen in a state of mid-dinner, with recipes piled everywhere and me obviously in the middle of making a gigantic pot of spaghetti sauce. They got to see my garage garden with grow lights, various vegetables, and tomato plants with baseball-sized tomatoes, some of which had clearly been harvested for the sauce that very day. It took a little explaining about cooking being chemistry for hungry people, but the cops left a little amused and a little annoyed at the waste of time.

[Neighbor] called the cops on me again another day, ranting about Satanists and witchcraft and evil rituals. I happened to be gardening, and heaven help me if I enjoy playing heavy metal music while stirring a gigantic bin of plant mulch with a shovel. [Neighbor]’s house is so far away that he couldn’t actually hear it. He just “happened” to walk by the property and saw me doing a dumb “I don’t know I’m being watched” dance to the music and treating my shovel like a microphone. Naturally, this was an evil ritual to summon the minions of the hot place while I buried the corpses of the slain. Naturally.

By then, I’ll admit I was annoyed, so I decided, “To heck with it. I’ll stir the pot. If he’s going to call the cops on me regardless, I might as well give him something that might actually drive him out of town.”

Incoming LARP party! I walked my dog through the neighborhood in absolute style. My hair was dyed red, and I made some intricate-looking fake tattoos in a loud blue color (very visible against my pale skin) and proceeded to parade past [Neighbor]’s house cosplaying as a video game character known to have incredible, mysterious Siren powers. A friend was with me and kept calling me by my character’s name, “Lilith,” in a voice loud enough to be heard.

[Neighbor] made a scream about unholy matrimony to soul-stealing devils and bolted off of his porch (where he liked to sit and stare at passersby), slamming the door behind him. 

The cops arrived at a BBQ with several of my friends comparing character sheets and discussing strategies to take down the Big Bad Evil Guy. The Game Master was running around helping people get on some of the more intricate costumes that required a second person to actually get into or get out of. The few weapons were clearly fake even on a cursory inspection, and my magic power involved me tossing a small bean bag at my opponents. All of the cars were parked on my looped driveway, so even that wasn’t an issue for anyone else in the neighborhood. It probably didn’t help the cops’ mood to find themselves smelling BBQ ribs and steaks (we went fancier than hot dogs and hamburgers) but not being able to partake while on the clock.

[Neighbor] got very quiet for the next few weeks before there was a “For Sale” sign in front of his house after the cops went to have a “little talk” with him.

Not too long after we got new neighbors: a family of three, who I never had problems with.

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I lived across the street from a mid-sized manufacturing plant. This worked out well because everyone was gone by 3:00 pm and there was no traffic.  

There was a very large concrete water tank literally across the street from my house. It probably was the size of my house. Not a problem. It had landscaping around it.

Then, they decided to demolish it over Memorial Day weekend, presumably because their employees would be gone. My friend worked for the company and told me they had gotten a reasonable bid from a professional demolition company but decided to rent equipment and have their maintenance workers do the work.

We spent the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend listening to some kind of pile driver booming every fifteen seconds or so. All freaking day. I lived 100 feet from this. Literally across the street. It stopped late in the day.

By Sunday, I had had enough. This was before the Internet, so I just called the company’s main number, and if nobody answered, I’d call the next number in the sequence. I don’t know what I was hoping to accomplish, but I was a mom on a mission. It was a freakin’ holiday. My next-door neighbor had a rare day off from her hospital residency.

Finally, someone answered, and he was from (you got it) the maintenance department. He told me to call So and So on Tuesday and get this taken care of.

Challenge accepted!

I didn’t wait to call on Tuesday. I called the police department and asked about the noise ordinance. They said it was legal for the company to make noise, but like I said, I was a mom on a mission. So, I asked the question of a lifetime.

“How many decibels?”

They agreed to come out, and a half-hour later, an officer showed up in a fancy black van, presumably filled with electronics. He asked me what my zoning was, and heck, I didn’t know. He said he would have to assume it was residential. (It was,) So, he stood on my lawn and held up whatever device he had, and then he went over to talk to the workers.

Work immediately ceased, and we got our peace and quiet back. My friend who worked there said the company had to pay a big fine.

Later in the summer, a demolition company came and finished in no time with very little noise.

And we all lived happily ever after.

I suppose.

A very thin woman in a wheelchair came to the returns desk with several containers of powdered baby formula in a bag belonging to another retailer.

Customer: “I got these as a gift for my friend in another state, but she doesn’t want them. Can I just get cash back?”

Me: “I’m sorry, you—”

Customer: “But it was a gift for my friend.”

Me: “I understand but—”

Customer: “Work with me here. I’m disabled.”

From down the aisle near the entrance, I hear a booming voice:

Voice: “Do not return that baby formula!”

A uniformed police officer rounds the corner.

Officer: “I thought that was you, [Customer’s Name]. I have an eyewitness stating you stole this formula from [Pharmacy Retailer] down the street.”

Customer: “I did not! I got it at that register right there!”

Me: “You said you got it out of state.”

Customer: “Oh f*** you! You know what I mean!”

The officer takes the formula from the woman’s hand, revealing a [Pharmacy Retailer] sticker sealing the lid. I had not seen the sticker before this because of her hand covering it.

Officer: “Okay, let’s go.”

He grabs the customer by the arm and pulls her to her feet.

Me: “What—oh.”

To my surprise, she tries to run but the officer stands his ground. She pulls on his arm for a few seconds before giving up.

Officer: “Yeah, [Customer’s Name] is a frequent flier with us.”

Me: “Oh.”

He escorted her out of the building and to his car. He returned to take my statement and thanked me for my time. I never heard or read anything about her being charged so I don’t know what happened. 

Related:
The More You Read, The Worse It Gets, Part 7
The More You Read, The Worse It Gets, Part 6
The More You Read, The Worse It Gets, Part 5
The More You Read, The Worse It Gets, Part 4
The More You Read, The Worse It Gets, Part 3

Our gas station is self-serve, and the customer tells me to fill up his tank to full. I am checking him out at the register when he starts complaining.

Customer: “That’s way too much! How much gas did you put in?”

Me: “We put in about 23 gallons, sir.”

Customer: “You couldn’t have put that much fuel in because my tank is only 23 gallons and I already had a bit of fuel in there!”

Me: “The fuel tank size can vary from what is listed, sir.”

Customer: “No! You’re conning me! I shouldn’t have to pay for that fuel!”

Me: “If you weren’t expecting us to fill you up that much, sir, I can offer a small discount? Next time it might be best to specify an amount instead of just asking us to fill the tank all the way.”

Customer: “No, no way! You’re conning me! I won’t pay!”

Me: “Sir, we will have to get the police involved if you try to leave without paying.”

He starts kicking off, trying to convince our other customers that we are con artists. In the end, my manager tells him to leave as he is taking up a space and we have a line of cars waiting. He reported him to the police as soon as he left.

I was working at Blockbuster as an assistant manager while I was going to school. I would go to classes during the day and work the closing shift. I’m not sure if it was a company or district policy, but they wanted the manager and assistant managers to work a variety of shifts with each one working at least one opening and one closing shift per week.

Me: “I don’t have a problem with that, but because of my class schedule, I’ll only be able to open on weekends.”

Manager: “That’s fine. No one really wants to open on the weekend, anyway.”

I had been there for about six months when we had a manager change. I explained to the new manager about my school schedule and the arrangement with the previous manager.

New Manager: “I don’t like that arrangement. I want my assistant managers to have more flexibility.”

Me: “I understand that, but I’m not going to give up school for this job. Consider this my two-week notice.”

I rarely saw the new manager because she opened on the days that I closed. I worked my normal schedule for the next two weeks. A few days before my last day, I looked at the next week’s schedule, and I was scheduled for my normal days and hours. I enjoyed the job, I got paid a little over minimum wage to talk to people about movies, and it fit my school schedule. The only reason I was leaving was that [New Manager] wanted me to be more flexible. I thought that maybe [New Manager] had changed her mind and was willing to be more flexible.

Since I had given my notice, I could have left my uniform on [New Manager]’s desk and dropped my key in the return box after locking up the store. But since I enjoyed the job and the hours I was scheduled for fit my schedule, I decided to continue working. The next week, I was still on the schedule. I kept working and I kept getting paid.

This happened for about six weeks.

Then, I went in to open the store on a Sunday after being off the previous day. I opened the door and went to turn off the alarm. The alarm said I had entered the incorrect code, so I entered it again. Same result. After the third attempt, the alarm started going off and the police were automatically dispatched. I went out front to get away from the wailing sirens and to wait for the police to arrive.

When the police arrived, I explained the situation, and I showed them my lanyard and that I had the key to the store.

Me: “I do work here, officer.”

Officer: “Can I talk to your manager?”

Me: “I’ve only met her one time, and I don’t have her number with me. But I can tell you where the schedule book is; that has everyone’s numbers in it.”

She went in and got the book and called [New Manager]. I could tell the officer was looking concerned as they were talking.

After she got off the phone, she asked me:

Officer: “Do you want to change your story?”

Me: “No. I am just here for my normal shift to open the store.”

Officer: “The manager is on her way down here, but she informed me that you used to work here but quit about six weeks ago.”

I nervously laughed and explained the ordeal to the officer. I could tell she didn’t believe me until I suggested she look at the schedule. She even commented that I was scheduled for four days the upcoming week.

[New Manager] finally arrived and talked to the officer. While they were talking, I took off my polo shirt and handed it to [New Manager], along with my lanyard and the keys to the store. 

New Manager: *Looking flabbergasted* “Who’s going to close the store next week?!”

The officer and I looked at each other, both looking even more flabbergasted.

Me: “Not me. I don’t work here, lady.”