I’m a cop. Our department just hired a new chief who previously worked as the chief in a city a couple of hours away. Since he’s new to the department and the area, the chief decides to ride along with every officer to get a sense of how we work and interact with the community we serve and with each other.

On the day he rides with me, I pull a driver over for speeding in a school zone.

Me: “I’m issuing you a ticket for going thirty-five in a twenty-mile-an-hour school zone. Please slow down, for your safety and for everyone else’s, too.”

Driver: “I’ve lived in this city my whole life, and my taxes pay your salary. Go fight real crime instead of harassing the people you supposedly serve.”

Me: “Information about contesting the citation is on the ticket if you’d like to contest.”

Driver: “See you in court. I’m going to the police station right now to talk to the chief.”

Me: “You’re welcome to do that. Our address is [address]. But the chief is actually riding along with me today since he’s new to our city and department. He’s standing right over there, and he loves meeting residents and hearing their thoughts. Would you like me to call him over? I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

Driver: *Going pale* “Uh, no, that’s okay. I’m running late for work, actually. I’m going to get going now.”

Me: “That’s fine. Be safe.”

Gotta love empty threats.

I work in a hotel. We had a guest staying with a woman that he said was his wife (it wasn’t) in a room for a few days. We never saw this lady, and the man said she was ill and kept extending his stay each day to give her more time to recover. At one point, the man came into the lobby.

Guest: “I need to have the sheets changed in my room. My wife soiled herself in the bed by accident.”

The head housekeeper went to the room with fresh sheets. What he found there was disturbing. Yes, the bed was covered in feces, but there were empty plastic vodka bottles strewn about the room, and the place smelled heavily of cigarette smoke, which is not allowed in the hotel. The woman remained in the washroom the entire time the housekeeper was there.

When the housekeeper told us about this situation, I made the decision not to allow them to extend another night if asked. I had already agreed to let him stay that night. The guest came into the lobby later that day.

Guest: “Can I extend my day one more night?”

Me: “I’m sorry, but we’re sold out. You’ll have to check out tomorrow morning at 11:00 am.”

Guest: “I understand.”

The next morning, the man left abruptly at about 9:00 am — without his “wife”. I sent the cleaner up to the room to see what was going on.

At the bottom of the stairs from the rooms, we have a courtyard. In the courtyard, there was a huge pile of the woman’s stuff: backpacks, shoes, garbage bags of clothes, etc. She was nowhere to be found and the room was empty. Assuming the man would be coming back for the clothes and stuff, I sent the housekeepers in to clean the room.

While they were cleaning the room, the woman arrived, walked into the room with a giant bottle of vodka, took off her pants, and laid down on the couch, refusing to leave. It was now past checkout time, so I was called to deal with the situation.

When I arrived, the woman was naked except for an open blouse, revealing a heavily tattooed, sixty-ish-year-old body that had seen some years of heavy drinking.

Me: “Ma’am, I’m afraid I have to ask you to put on some clothes and leave the premises. You do not have a room booked here for tonight, and it is well past checkout.”

Woman: “I’m not going anywhere. I need a nap.”

Me: “Ma’am, if you refuse to leave, I will have to call the police.”

Woman: “You go ahead and call the police.”

She poured herself a drink of straight vodka and shot it back.

I went back to the office and called the police.

Me: “Officer, we have a woman that refuses to leave a room she is not booked into. She isn’t staying here tonight, but she won’t leave.”

Officer: “Is she naked?”

Me: “Ummm… yes. How did you know that?”

Officer: “Oh, she’s a regular. We’ll come get her.”

And that was that. They came and took her away, but the belongings were never retrieved by anyone.

I was a member of a youth group for young men aged thirteen to twenty. We referred to each other as “brothers”. We had an event one Saturday evening, and I was asked to give three of my brothers rides home. The older two and I planned to get some beer after the event and then drive out to the desert and drink. We were all over eighteen — the drinking age at the time. I just needed to take the youngest, who was thirteen, home first.

To save a little time, I stopped at [Convenience Store] to get some beer before taking the youngest brother home. Knowing that it’d look suspicious, I parked on the side of the store so that the clerk wouldn’t think I was buying beer for an underage kid. I instructed him to stay in the car while I got my beer.

When I was second in line, my underage brother came in, walked right up to me, and asked where the bathroom was. I quickly pointed to the back corner of the store, hoping the clerk didn’t notice. (I also gave a hard eye-roll.)

The clerk IDed me but didn’t raise an issue about the young kid that had talked to me. I bought the beer, went out to my car, and waited for the young brother. I drove him home, and then we went out to the desert to drink and watch the stars.

On Monday, I ran into one of my other brothers at the college campus.

Brother: “Are you in any trouble?”

Me: “I don’t think so. Why?”

Brother: “I was at [Convenience Store] on Saturday at [time shortly after we left]. There were police there, and the clerk was giving a very good description of you to the officers.”

For the rest of my college years, I avoided that convenience store like the plague.

I used to be a night-time manager at a pizza place downtown. We were literally around the corner from a direct competitor. They had a carryout window and offered that service all night. We did not; we closed our doors at 10:00 pm and only offered delivery service after that.

We were quite friendly with the local police department, and they frequently sat in our parking lot at night to catch up on paperwork, watch for drunk drivers, etc.

One night at about 11:30 pm, I had a woman and a man start banging on our door. I spoke to them politely but loudly through the door.

Me: “We close carryout at 10:00!”

The woman went ballistic and started screaming and hitting the door, while the man just stood there watching trying to look hard. I asked another employee to keep an eye on me in case the situation escalated, and then I stepped out a side door in order to be able to actually converse with the couple.

The woman was absolutely nuclear at this point.

Woman: “We ordered our food! Where the f*** is our food?!”

Me: “If you called and ordered, it was probably our friendly neighbors with the carryout window.”

Woman: “You calling me stupid?! I called you guys!”

Me: “Can I ask you to check your phone and tell me which number you called?”

Woman: “I don’t have to! I know I called y’all, and it was you that took my order!”

Me: “There is absolutely no way I took a carryout order after we closed carryout.”

At this point, the man joined in and started taking a very aggressive posture and tone with me.

Man: “You’d better let us in and get our food!”

Me: “No.”

Then, the man shoved me and I stumbled back about three feet. He tried to swing at me and missed. At about the same time, the woman attempted to rush me, and there was a sound of “WOOOP! WOOOP!” and the flashing of blue lights behind them.

Astonishingly, this didn’t stop them from continuing to try to assault me; however, the two uniformed police officers that happened to have just pulled in took care of that very quickly.

Another squad car showed up. The couple was cuffed and placed in the cars and the officers were given a copy of the security footage. I asked the officer I was talking to if, for the sake of curiosity, he could possibly try to convince the woman to tell him the phone number she had called. He walked me back out to the car she was in and somehow convinced her to do this.

Woman: *Glaring at me* “[Number ending in 7272], you stupid f***!”

Me: *Smiling* “Our number is [number ending in 3030]. You called the number for Papa John’s. That’s why 7272 spells out ‘Papa’.”

I live in an apartment complex. Rather than one huge tower or block, it’s a series of one- and two-floor buildings each with twelve to fourteen apartments depending on the size and configuration. Some of the rules make sense and some less so; one of the rules is that people aren’t allowed to use outdoor grills at all. Right next to the buildings where it could be a fire hazard is understandable, but there are open fields and yards between the buildings where it should be safe. Still, no grills.

Despite this, I have to say that one of my favorite things about living here is the SMELLS. There are a lot of people from a lot of cultural and ethnic heritages — in my building, at least — and smelling all the different types of cooking and inspiring me to try more has probably contributed to my weight gain in recent years.

It also inspired someone else to organize a potluck between the whole building and the one next to ours! One Saturday, we all got together, set out tables, and brought unique dishes. You didn’t have to bring food to participate, but the organizer did ask folks to bring their own drinks and some way to label their dishes so folks had half an idea what they were grabbing.

There were bowls and crockpots and serving platters; Indian, German, Mexican, Southeast Asian, South American, Middle Eastern, and African — I think the only inhabited continent/area we didn’t have represented was Australia; snacks and appetizers and soups and entrees and desserts. Everyone was trying mostly everything, folks were getting to know each other, and a good time was had by all.

Then, SHE arrived. This woman came huffing and puffing her way across the street from another building. There may as well have been thunderclouds billowing above her head.

I was unfortunate enough to be part of the group that was closest to her.

Woman: “What the f*** do you all think you’re doing?!”

Neighbor #1: “Having a party?”

Woman: “THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEAN AND YOU KNOW IT!”

Me: “Nnnno? I mean, if you wanna join us, we’ve got plenty, but—”

Woman: “SHUT UP! WHO’S DOING THE COOKING?!”

From this point forward, she never talks in less than a bellow.

Neighbor #2: “All of us, potluck!”

Woman: “WHERE’S THE GRILL?!”

Me: “No grill, lady. We cooked these in our houses.”

Woman: “BULLS***! YOU CAN’T COOK INSIDE AND THEN BRING IT OUTSIDE! YOU’RE ALL COOKING ILLEGALLY, AND YOU’RE ALL GETTING EVICTED!”

And just like that, this tornado of rage spun around and marched back home, leaving everyone baffled. Much laughter was shared over the novel concept of “moving food from where you cooked it”.

Then, ten or fifteen minutes later, a couple of police cars rolled up with their lights blazing. I conspicuously noticed a few neighbors disappear; whether they had actual issues or just didn’t want to get involved, who knows? But the organizer and I were front and center as the police got out.

Officer: “Good afternoon. We’re here because of complaints that you all had an open fire pit going on.”

It’s usually not a good idea to laugh in a police officer’s face, but I really couldn’t help it. After a brief discussion and showing of what was going on — we didn’t even have anything playing music, which was also part of the complaint — the officers headed off. Thankfully, nothing else happened that day, but occasionally, I’d spot an angry face peering from a window to which I’d give a cheeky wave.

And no, nobody got evicted, but a new rule was put into place: any planned outdoor gatherings of more than two apartments need to be communicated with the main office. Thanks, [Woman], for adding bureaucracy to a friendly get-together!

Related:
Every Party Has A Pooper; That’s Why We Invited You