This is not my story, but it was related by a friend; we’ll name him John. He was an IT contractor for a company. When he got the gig, they initially dangled the contract-to-employee carrot but never followed through, so after five years, he was still a contractor. His contract had provisions for annual increases, overtime, weekend and holiday rates, on-call, and fixed time off. All was well until he got a new boss; we’ll call him Richard.

Richard set about marking his territory and crapping on everything. He decided that John was going to become the permanent on-call person. He sent an email to that effect, to which John replied, “Sure, you have read my contract, right?”

Richard fired back a not-nice email explaining that John wasn’t getting out of this; he was on-call immediately, and that was that. On-call response time was thirty minutes from notification to being in the office.

At the end of the month, John submitted his monthly invoice… for 672 hours.

160 hours at regular rate, 80 hours at time and a half, 240 hours at double time, and 192 hours at weekend overtime rate – triple time. Instead of the normal bill of about 190 hours (with overtime, equal to 205 hours of pay), this bill was for over 1,300 hours worth of pay, once you multiplied out the overtime.

The fallout? Richard fired John, who was the only guy working on a particular project that was 90% complete. John enjoyed his thirty days of paid termination vacation. The CEO called John to find out the status of the big project and found out that nobody was working on it. Richard found a new job; John was rehired with a bump in pay, and he never had to pull on-call again.

I’ve been a pharmacy technician for a year. For context, the initial event happened while I was off, but my significant other (also a technician at the same pharmacy) told me the story.

A patient comes in early in the morning looking for his medication.

Patient: “I’m here to pick up my prescription.”

Tech: “I’m sorry, sir, but there are no refills remaining. We’ll have to fax your doctor a refill request.”

Patient: “So you’re not giving me my medicine?”

Tech: “We can offer you a three-day loan while we wait for the doctor to authorize more refills.”

The patient loses. His. Marbles.

Patient: “This is absolutely insane! Give me my f****** medicine!”

The pharmacist-in-charge that morning comes over to help defuse the situation.

Pharmacist-In-Charge: “I’m sorry, sir. I can try calling the doctor’s office while you finish your shopping to see about getting more refills quicker. I can also give you three days’ worth as a loan while we wait to hear back.”

Patient: “You’re such a b****! How dare you skimp me on my medicine? There have to be refills! You guys are idiots!”

Pharmacist-In-Charge: “Those are the options legally available to us. I can call the doctor, fax a refill request, and provide a three-day loan.”

Patient: “I don’t want three days! I want my medicine!”

Pharmacist-In-Charge: “We can’t dispense the full prescription without authorization from your doctor.”

Our pharmacist-in-charge continues trying to calm the situation down, offering the same solutions that we can legally provide, but the patient only becomes more irate.

Then, all of a sudden, the guy CHUCKS A HUGE PACK OF RAMEN WRAPPED IN PANTS AT OUR PHARMACIST’S HEAD.

Thankfully, the sneeze guards are still in place and keep it from hitting her, but the force knocks the sneeze guard off the Velcro and onto the floor. The patient keeps screaming and throwing things.

Our pharmacist-in-charge immediately pages the store manager on duty.

Pharmacist-In-Charge: *Over the intercom.* “Manager to the pharmacy immediately, please.”

The manager arrives with security.

Manager: “Sir, you need to leave the store.”

Patient: “I’m not going anywhere!”

Manager: “You have thrown merchandise at our pharmacist. You are leaving now.”

The manager and security escort the patient toward the doors, where he starts throwing more things and nearly breaks the sliding doors’ glass by throwing carts. They call the police, but he runs off before the officers arrive.

Pharmacist-In-Charge: “You are no longer welcome in this store! If you return, the police will be called!”

Our pharmacist-in-charge also lets the doctor’s office know. They promptly don’t listen and send his prescriptions to us anyway.

Fast-forward two days, and I’m working. I’ve been chair-bound with a broken foot at data entry, but all is fine.

One of the technicians working at the release counter approaches my significant other, who is dispensing prescriptions.

Release Tech: “There’s a waiter to fill.”

A ‘waiter’ is a prescription that needs to be filled immediately because the patient is waiting inside the store.

My Significant Other: “Who is it?”

Release Tech: “The patient from Monday.”

My pharmacist-in-charge and he look at each other, then look at the patient’s profile. Sure enough, it’s him.

Pharmacist-In-Charge: “Call the manager immediately.”

It happens to be the same manager from Monday.

Release Tech: “Should I say something to the patient?”

Pharmacist-In-Charge: “No. He’s been violent before. Don’t approach him.”

The manager calls the police. When the officers arrive, we point out the patient.

Apparently, they were initially going to remove him for trespassing because he had been banned from the store. However, according to the police, they discovered that he had a warrant for violating an emergency protective order and arrested him.

We still don’t know how this guy thought he was going to get away with it, but seeing justice served makes working here bearable.

I’m a physician, and my coworker is also a physician. We practice nephrology somewhere in the USA. We make a lot of visits to eight dialysis centers located along an interstate, and it involves a lot of driving to see the patients while they’re on dialysis. The system we work for pays us mileage plus a good salary.

Originally, we submitted our own mileage reports, and they always approved them. We were not trying to maximize the money; we both just wanted about $1,000 a month to offset the wear and tear and gas costs on our vehicles. We were actually just photocopying the same report each month, signing it, and turning it in. The original company we worked for was totally fine with this arrangement.

Well, the system was bought by another system that apparently believes all its doctors are thieves. We were told we were scamming them and that, from then on, a middle manager would review our billing and use Google Maps to calculate our mileage each month. This person would make sure we adhered strictly to their reimbursement policy. It starts from the office each day, no matter where you actually started; it doesn’t pay you to drive somewhere if you didn’t see a patient and only went to sign forms for nurses; and there was other stupidity.

Now, I don’t like being accused of thievery, especially when I was sure we’d been underbilling for the mileage just to keep things easy and simple.

These people didn’t know me, but I had an Excel sheet containing all my patients, their clinics, and a schedule that allowed me to drive out and see them all using as little time and mileage as possible. It was really efficient.

So, I dove into their travel policy and reconfigured my schedule, not to minimize mileage, but, within their policy, to maximize it. As a bonus, the new schedule actually had me home each day for lunch on the days I did dialysis rounds, so it saved me a little money and improved my mood.

For example, since they started and ended the mileage at the office no matter where I actually began and finished, I started my day at the clinic close to my house but far from the office. I ended my day at the one on the other side of town by my girlfriend’s house, where I’d usually hang out after work anyway. Midday, I’d go home for lunch, get a nap or a nooner, and then see a couple of people in town so I’d get paid to drive back. Then, I’d head out for the regular visits scheduled for that day.

Altogether, my average mileage, far from being lower as they expected, was actually 90% greater. On top of this, they were paying a middle manager to take a deep dive into all our billing, examine the locations, and compile the reports. She said that just processing the two of ours took almost eight hours; an expense they never had before!

I’m working the night audit shift when a guest calls at 11:00 pm on the day of her scheduled arrival.

Guest: “Hi, I need to cancel my reservation.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but our cancellation policy requires at least twenty-four hours’ notice. Since your reservation was for tonight, I can’t cancel it without charging you.”

Guest: “Fine. Can you change my check-in date to another day?”

Me: “No, ma’am. I can’t move the reservation just so you can cancel it afterward.”

Guest: “How do you know I’m trying to cancel?”

Me: “Because you literally just told me you were trying to cancel.”

Guest: “Okay, no worries. I’ll just call the credit card company and dispute it with them.”

Me: “Good luck.”

She did not like that answer, because then she said:

Guest: “You stupid b****!” *Click.*

Honestly, p***ing her off is going to be the highlight of my night audit shift.

I drive a small white van, about the same size as an average car, which carries less than a tonne. Think Volkswagen, Renault, Citroën, etc. You often see them used as delivery vans, but I bought mine because it was the only vehicle that would fit my ninety-kilogram Great Dane.

It is the day before Good Friday, so I drive down to the docks to buy some fish. Our town has a couple of fishmongers and several fish punts (floating shops that sell fish).

By some wonder and miracle, there is a parking space directly in front of one of the punts. I park and get out of the van.

Without warning, a man comes storming toward me.

Kevin: “Where the f****** h*** have you been? I’ve been waiting half an hour for you!”

Me: “What?”

Kevin: “The fish! The f****** fish! Just get it unloaded. We have customers waiting!”

Me: “Mate, I don’t have any fish.”

Kevin: “Don’t mess me around. Just unload your stuff.”

Me: “Look, I don’t have any fish.”

Kevin: “Oh, for f***’s sake!”

He marches to the back of my van and opens the door.

Kevin: “What the f***? Where’s the fish?”

Me: “I don’t know, mate. You tell me.”

Kevin splutters incoherently for several seconds. Then another van pulls up. It is almost identical to mine, except for the large logo on its side suggesting that it actually belongs to the fishmonger.

The driver leans out of his window.

Driver: “Hey, boss! Sorry I’m late! There was a crash on the highway. Can you help me unload?”

Kevin slinks away without offering me an apology, leaving me to do my shopping in peace.