I was working for a temp agency in the 1990s, and they sent me to a “business center”. It was a small mall in the 1980s and had now been turned into four or five businesses in the same space, sharing the general facilities — lunch room, copy machines, etc. I was brought on as a tech as these businesses really weren’t big enough to have their own IT departments. I was told that the previous guy in the position, “Joe”, had left for a more stable job, and everyone in the place was sorry to see him go.

The first week I was there, I started finding problems with the guy. I came into one place and was told a computer was acting up. The business owner looked like she was about to burst into tears.

Owner: “When the last computer did this, Joe said it was broken and I had to get a new computer.”

I fixed the problem in five minutes with a free antivirus program and set up the rest of the computers in that office, as well.

Me: “What did Joe do with the old computer?”

Owner: “Oh, he took it home for parts since it wouldn’t work anymore.”

And all that week, I kept running into things that were really simple fixes, but good ol’ Joe had either taken all frickin’ day fixing them or announced that the machine was borked and had to be replaced. And Joe was apparently the designated recycler.

One owner said Joe was always in the office, working on the system; he’d be all day working on that computer. It turned out that before he’d left, he’d tried really hard to convince the owner to turn that tower over to Joe, and Joe would replace it “for free”. But the owner decided not to do that; he told me he just didn’t trust Joe all that much.

After taking a look at the computer, I could see why Joe wanted to take it with him; it was full of adult material grabbed from the Internet. After I showed this to the owner, Joe became persona non grata at that place.

It gets better.

It turned out that Joe couldn’t hack it in the real world and ended up going back to the temp agency. He asked for his old job back, but no, I had that position. So, he came to the facility and tried to bug me into quitting. I reported him to the agency, and he was written up and told not to return to the facility for any reason.

And when he did return to the facility, I informed building management, who called the police. Upon seeing the po-po, Joe took off like a cheetah, trying to exit the building through the back door — but failing because it now had a lock on it due to a break-in a few months previous.

After he tried (and failed) to resist arrest, the cops called in a request for his records and found out that Joe was wanted for suspicion of dealing. I had been talking to the cops at the time, and upon hearing this, I had my own suspicions. I went to check that computer that Joe had spent so much time on.

Sure enough, hidden in the files was a partial record of Joe’s activities back when he’d worked there. I printed out the file, handed it to the cops, and told them I’d send them anything else I found on the computer.

The next day, the feds showed up and took the computer. Joe went to prison for five years.

I’m a disrupted operations manager for my airline, and this happened in March 2021, soon after I returned from maternity leave.

Due to industry-wide staff reductions in most airlines in 2020, mine included, now that the flights are restarting in a “normal” fashion, we are a bit understaffed. This means I sometimes have to take over duties I normally don’t do, such as check-in, during this period.

I am staffing one of the check-in counters for a flight to Boston.

Me: “Good morning. Passport and reservation number, please.”

Passenger: “Here. Can I place my bag?”

She hands me a US passport and the reservation paper.

Me: “Of course, ma’am. Did you pack your bag, and was it always in your possession?”

These are mandatory security questions.

Passenger: “That’s none of your d*** business! Who do you think you are? Get me your supervisor right now, you hussy.”

She starts yelling up a storm, while my coworkers and the other passengers stare at her, and I call the police.

As soon as they arrive, she turns toward them and demands they arrest the “Irish-Mexican” filth that dared to question someone of her “status.” (I’m pale-skinned with auburn hair, and Portugal equals Mexico to this woman, apparently.) The police take her aside, and the commanding officer come to talk to me.

Commanding Officer: “Hey, [My Name], what’s happening?”

Me: “The passenger refused to answer security questions, and she was spewing insults at me.”

Commanding Officer: “Really? What do you want to do?”

Me: “Check-in and boarding denied due to disruptive behaviour.”

The commanding officer nods and then goes to the passenger to inform her that she is going to the security inspection room and that she’s going to miss this flight due to her behaviour. Her screaming begins again.

Passenger: “What!? Who the h*** does that b**** think she is? I demand to speak to a manager!”

Commanding Officer: “Sure. [My Name], can you come here? This ‘lady’ wants to speak with a manager.”

Me: *With my best customer service smile* “Hello, ma’am. [My First Name, Clearly American Last Name], disrupted operations manager. How may I be of assistance?”

The other passengers began laughing. The passenger screamed insults while being escorted by police. She did leave for the US — three days later as a deportee.

My husband’s job is one of the essential jobs during the various lockdowns; he’s a sanitation engineer.

About the second week of the lockdown, he’s having trouble finding a sanitizing spray for his truck. One morning on his way to work at 4:00 am, he stops at one of the few stores open that early, hoping to purchase some. When he gets to the door, he sees that it’s only open for first responders and medical personnel.

He turns to head back to his car, but a local sheriff’s deputy heading into the store spots my husband’s reflective vest.

Deputy: “What trash company do you work for?”

Husband: “[Company].”

Deputy: “Thank you for being out there!”

Husband: “It’s you who deserves the thanks!”

Deputy: “Do you always shop this early?”

Husband: “No, but I’m having trouble finding a sanitizing spray for my truck and I’m trying to find some before work.”

Deputy: “Do they have any in the store?”

Husband: “I can’t go into the store.”

Deputy: “Stay right where you are.”

The deputy then went into the store, purchased the spray, and brought it out to my husband. When my husband tried to pay him, he wouldn’t take any money and just carried on his way.

CONTENT WARNING: Needles (Blood tests)

As a teen, I took part in a medical trial that involved regular blood tests, which were completed without incident until the very last one. On that occasion, the nurse couldn’t find a vein for some reason and started treating my arm like a pincushion.

Just as I was about to object or suggest changing to the other arm, they stopped, frowned, and stared intently at their most recent perforation (needle still in my arm).

Nurse: “Hmmm, I think I’ve broken the needle off in your arm.”

Their response to this was to quite obviously panic and pull the needle back out without applying any pressure. It was thankfully unbroken, but blood started pouring freely down my arm.

I was given some paper towels to wipe it all off, but the trial took place in a dark room.

It wasn’t until a point when I was walking past two police officers that on my way home that I realised my hands were still covered in blood. Both hands were rammed into my pockets immediately as I quick-stepped to the nearest public toilet to wash off a bit more thoroughly whilst trying my best to look innocent.

I need to run an errand and realize that the bus would be more convenient than BART, the local rapid transit train that goes under the bay. The bus was going to go directly from point A to point B for me and had soft, cozy seats.

So, I was on a bus that went from the Embarcadero in San Francisco all the way to UC Berkeley, thinking about how nice this was, when we stopped at the first stop in the East Bay, at a shopping center.

The patron who embarked on the bus was in a wheelchair. He started a fight with the bus driver, a young Black woman, for trying to ensure he was safely settled. She couldn’t drive unless he took one of a few acceptable options.

This started a bus-wide fight due to a number of concerns. Everyone wanted to get to their destination and were shouting at whoever was responsible for preventing that in their eyes. Most people were mad at the man, who was white, for being racist and for picking a fight in general.

I was exhausted. I considered trying to defuse the situation by listening to the man and telling him that his needs matter until he calmed down enough to cooperate. As far as I could tell, he was digging his heels in because he didn’t feel like his agency was being respected, and he felt he had the right to determine and communicate how to keep his body safe.

Regardless of his other actions, I could understand the motivation. I have chronic pain and mobility issues. It can be infuriating when nothing is in your control, you hurt, and strangers are denying you control or agency. 

Since everyone was yelling, threats were being exchanged, and this guy was very riled up, I decided it was beyond my capabilities to defuse.

I got off the bus and went to one of my favorite dinner spots in the area, thinking of catching the next bus after dinner.

When I came out, the same bus was still stuck at the bus stop — but with added cop cars.

I walked a few blocks and hopped on a different bus. I guess the bus from SF wasn’t faster than BART after all. I was much more exhausted this way. At least I had a nice slice of pie at the dinner place.