CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a legal nature. It is not intended as legal advice.

I’m a lawyer. A friend from school reached out to ask for help dealing with an ambulance company. Her parent had passed away in an ambulance while traveling between a nursing home and a hospital. The ambulance company sent my friend a bill that she could not afford to pay, and they were threatening to send the bill to collectors.

Me: “Not a problem, friend! Your parent’s estate is responsible for this bill. You don’t have a personal obligation to pay it, so they can’t send it to collections in your name. Let me just mail a short letter, and they should stop bothering you.”

I typed a very polite letter (“This person has legal representation, please cease any and all shenanigans, etc.”) and thought that was the end of this nonsense. Fast forward a few weeks when my friend sent a picture of another bill. Because the law is so cut and dry on debt collection, I assumed the ambulance company had some computer or human error which caused another letter to be sent.

Me: “No worries, friend. I bet someone messed up. Let me give them a call real quick and figure it out.”

Imagine a super cool montage of me working through a really long automated phone tree before talking to an actual human.

Me: “Hey, I’m [Friend]’s lawyer. I sent a letter asking you to stop sending her collections notices. She got another notice yesterday, so I just wanted to figure out why and how to make sure these letters stop.”

“Surely, this will be a quick call and we can all have a laugh about whatever error occurred,” I think.

Employee: “We will stop sending her bills when she pays.”

Me: “Umm… but that’s pretty illegal for, like, a lot of reasons. I can think of three right off the top of my head. So, instead of me getting all riled up and starting a lawsuit, can you just be cool? Pretty please?”

Employee: “It’s not illegal. Try to sue us if you want our lawyers to explain it to you.”

She made me say the phrase that I hate more than any other phrase IN THE WORLD.

Me: “May I speak with your manager, please?”

Employee: “Nope, I am the manager, and I’m also more familiar with the FDCPA than you. What we are doing is perfectly legal. Tell your friend to pay.”

The FDCPA (Federal Debt Collection Practices Act) sets out certain rules for what debt collectors can or cannot do. But some states, like Texas, have stronger rules which protect debtors. I didn’t know whether or not the ambulance company was violating any FDCPA things, but I knew FOR SURE (and when a good lawyer says, “for sure,” that means one hundred percent sure) that they were violating Texas DCPA.

Me: “Telling me I don’t know what I’m doing is rude. Hassling [Friend] after their parent passed away is shockingly rude. So, last chance before I hang up to angry-type a lawsuit and angry-file it. You don’t want me to sue on this, because I will win.”

Employee: “Please do, and we will see you in court. Have a nice day!” *Click*

She hung up on me. Oh, man, I was pissed — easily in the top ten of pissed in a professional context.

The whole conversation took about ten minutes. I have a fairly high tolerance for abrasive people; most people don’t look forward to talking with a lawyer, I get it. Still, sending collection notices to the wrong person AFTER that person buried a parent AND telling me I’m a bad lawyer was pretty mind-blowing.

I literally started working on this complaint as soon as I hung up. Because if I threaten to sue and you ASK me to follow through, my hands are tied.

I filed and the company was served, presumably followed by an actual lawyer reading the complaint and thinking, “Oh, wow, we f***ed up here.” A very apologetic lawyer called, and we reached an agreement to settle which included an apology to [Friend].

I went to a technology store in a mall. The workers in this store do not have a uniform. They have to keep up a fairly good appearance, clean shoes, no profanity and such on shirts, and they are presentable, but otherwise, they just have a casual attire. The one thing to distinguish that they work there is these bright, yellow, neon lanyards.

I went in the store by myself to look at the headphones, listen to the music playing on them to see if they’re a good fit and how they sound, and then delicately put them back. I’m wearing a gray shirt and black pants, which just so happens to be the attire of someone else who’s working currently, but I didn’t know this until later.

I was approached by this woman who gave me a stern look. I thought maybe she just wanted to test the headphones, too, and moved to another shelf.

Woman: “Excuse me?!”

I didn’t know she was talking to me, so I kept looking at the current shelf until I got two hard taps on my shoulder.

Woman: “EXCUSE ME?!”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I in your way?”

Woman: “I need some assistance.”

Me: “Assistance?”

Woman: “YES!”

Me: “Did you need some help with some headphones?”

Woman: “NO! I need to look at this camera on the display shelf.”

I looked behind her and see the display shelf.

Me: “You’ll need someone to open it up for you. There’s a worker over there.”

I pointed at a worker standing next to the computers, chatting to a customer, and resumed browsing.

Woman: “EXCUSE ME?! DO YOUR JOB!”

Me: “My… job?”

Woman: “YES! WHERE IS YOUR LANYARD?! DON’T YOU PEOPLE WEAR LANYARDS?! I SAW YOU EARLIER AND YOU WERE WEARING A LANYARD!”

Admittedly, I was kind of confused. I’m a cleaner at a hotel, and the master key I use is on a lanyard which I never take off at work, but I had traveled two hours away from home and the hotel to this mall.

Me: “Do… you know me?”

She went red, and her eyes bulged so large that I thought they were going to fall out.

Woman: “WHY WOULD I KNOW YOU?! YOU WORK IN SOME COMPUTER STORE AND ARE WASTING MY TIME! GET YOUR LANYARD! WHERE IS IT?!”

Of course, this scene got the eyes and ears of other customers and a worker — a worker wearing a gray shirt, black pants, and a lanyard.

Worker: “Is everything okay over here?”

Woman: “I WANT THI—”

She turned and stopped mid-sentence. She turned back to me, face red and eyes bulging, and then turned back to the worker.

Let me tell you, the worker and I looked nothing alike. I’m much shorter than him, my skin is slightly darker, and my hair is what I like to call a contained mess while his actually knew what a hairbrush was. We both were just wearing a similar outfit.

Woman: “But… I…”

Worker: “Do you need help with something?”

She didn’t even reply. She just walked past me and left the store. The worker asked if everything was okay and I explained. We both had a laugh out of it, and he rang me up and I left with my new headphones.

I was maybe sixteen or so in the mid-2010s. I was unemployed because I had little brothers to babysit. I was at a store that sells clothes, furniture, shoes, and several other things. My mom and I were picking out clothes for a church function or something, and we generally had a rule of thumb where I had to show her outfits I liked for her approval once I tried them on.

Well, things seemed to go all right at first. I tried on a few outfits, and on the last one, I noticed this woman with a grade-schooler daughter heading into the dressing rooms while Mom was cooing semi-ironically over my clothes. (She was a fan of the clothes; she just likes to half-jokingly act like a Stereotypical Embarrassing Mom. However, I feel no shame.)

I didn’t think much of the other mother-daughter pair. Why would I? My dressing room door was shut, my cargo vest and its overflowing pockets were pooled on the little seat, my water bottle was on the floor, and my monstrosity of a purse held on life support by neon duct tape and weighed down by the sins of mankind was leaning against the wall, never mind the clothes I had on the hangers.

I should have.

Mom finished “embarrassing” me and I headed back in, only to find:

• my dressing room door wide open,
• the daughter lifting one of my things in confusion,
• her mother telling her curtly, “Just put those out by the returns for the employees to deal with.”

My eye twitched, but I kept my cool at first. I’ve always had a soft spot for kids, and she was just listening to her mom.

Me: “Um, excuse me, that’s mine. Please get out of my dressing room.”

Mother: “No, it’s not. This room was wide open, and if you won’t do your job…” *To her daughter* “Go on, put all of that by the other go-backs.”

I snatched my vest away.

Me: “It’s not a go-back! IT’S MINE! Out! OUT, OUT, OUT!”

I have never been able to replicate whatever power I used at that moment to force my way into that cramped “room” and usher them both out, but I managed to get the thing to myself again and took a few moments to just breathe for a bit before redressing in my clothes, making sure nothing was stolen, and heading out to my mom.

I never did see where the woman and her unfortunate progeny went, but hopefully, they saw my mom and me in all my genderqueer-who-hadn’t-yet-put-a-name-to-it, vest-wearing, unemployed glory on our way out the front door.

Our Homeowners Association built a fence around the neighborhood — a lowest bidder type situation. It looks okay. It’s reddish colored and tall enough, but the boards are flimsy. It’s been a few years and it’s starting to fall apart — nails missing, boards fell off, etc. I let the HOA know about it a few months ago. I’ve hammered a few boards in to keep my dogs safe when I let them out, but mostly I’ve been waiting for them to fix it.

They haven’t touched it in months.

I notice one of the panels has come loose — no nails in the upper and middle part, just one in the bottom. Anyone could pull on the fence and walk right into my backyard. I say enough is enough and I go out to fix it all. I replace boards that have fallen from the outside, put the panels back together, and get a solid fence line.

My house backs up to a busy street, and when the red light is on, cars back up all the way past my house area.

I’m on the outside of my fence, trying to get nail holes to line up and screwing things into place, when I become aware of honking noises. Before I can take off my headphones, a large cup of melted ice and watered-down soda slams into the fence next to me and splashes its contents on my right side, soaking my shirt and some of my pants.

Needless to say, I’m startled.

I pull out my headphones and turn to look at the street. The light is green but a husband and lady are holding up traffic. Apparently, they’ve been trying to yell at me and get my attention. When yelling failed, the lady in the passenger seat thought throwing a half-full cup at me was a good way of getting my attention. It worked.

I’m looking at her with a “WTF” look and cars are driving around them honking. I don’t even get to say anything before she starts screeching at me.

Woman: “You need to get off your a** and move down to my fence! I’m tired of my fence being s*** and no one fixing it. How dare you ignore my fence and start down here?!”

No apologies. No civility. Just screeching and throwing her s*** at people and blocking traffic for everyone else.

I’m usually a really nice person, but I’m done with being yelled at for things and putting up with ignorance, so I don’t try to hold back on my anger. I might feel badly later, but for now, I’m more than done.

I put my drill down, grab my water, and take a few steps toward them.

Me: “I don’t work here. I live here.”

Or at least, I attempted. She and her husband aren’t listening. They are both still going off about their fence and lazy, fat, useless employees and the HOA.

I unscrew the large cap off my water bottle. The water splashes on my fingers. It’s ice cold.

Me: “I DO NOT WORK HERE! F*** OFF!

Both of their faces go full pucker. As the lady draws breath and starts to shriek again, I toss the contents of my water bottle toward their open window. She gets a decent bit to the face, which shuts her up. I doubt I got the hubby, but enough went in the SUV that I know he’s annoyed.

Me: “And if you ever throw something at me again, I’ll beat your g**d*** a**.”

Then, while her screaming in rage was going on, I gathered my drill and went back to work.

The husband jumped out of the SUV, but he was 5’6’ and 150 pounds tops and I’m 6’1” and 300 pounds, so he yelled at me but didn’t try to make contact. I responded with a finger and he got back in his vehicle and flew off with tires screeching. They went thirty feet and had to stop at the light, well within my sight and hearing.

The F-bombs were glorious. Plus, knowing my fence is better than theirs helps.

I shouldn’t be surprised at the way people treat people on the job. But did they think going off and yelling at people would actually succeed? Let alone throwing a cup of old soda at me?

I work as a Regional Sales Manager for a pretty major consumer/industrial electronics manufacturer. I specifically work with a lot of the national retail channels, and I will do meetings with a lot of each retailer’s leadership and directors in-store to discuss product sales, supply chain projections, product marketing, and other various metrics. I also have in-store brand ambassadors who represent our product lineup specifically in [Electronics Chain] locations.

For starters, when I go into stores, I generally wear dress clothes or something semi-formal with an identification lanyard and a bookbag, specifically so I don’t get stopped a bunch of times by customers when I’m trying to complete my job. I usually don’t mind helping people out in stores when I can, but I have to be pretty concise with my schedule and I have limited time available to be in the field.

On one of my most recent visits, I was meeting with one of my brand ambassadors to complete a performance assessment. When I was walking in, a middle-aged woman grabbed my shoulder — I cannot STAND being touched, so great start — and immediately started asking me about some open box television and what kind of “deal” I could work for her.

Me: *Kindly* “I am a store visitor that works with [Chain] leadership, but I don’t represent [Chain] in any way. And my brand doesn’t sell TVs, so that isn’t my area of expertise.”

Woman: “Oh, well, you’re here now, so I need you to tell me about it and figure out what we can do here. Also, I’m a real-a-tor, so no funny sales tricks!”

That’s strike two.

After reluctantly dealing with her for about fifteen minutes and finally getting her to make a purchasing decision, she begins questioning me.

Woman: “Why do the display TVs look ten times better in the store than my TV does at home?! That should be illegal marketing practices!”

I’m fed up at this point.

Me: “They use a flash drive of specifically optimized videos and have the TVs professionally calibrated.”

I also use an analogy relatable to her.

Me: “Think about it like this: as a realtor, you’ve sold a home that’s absolutely f****** hideous, let’s face it. I’m sure when you staged that home, you put a bunch of beautiful $5,000 couches, fancy love seats, and a mahogany coffee table in there to really sell the ‘personality’ of the home. In reality, you just put lipstick on an ugly pig. It’s the same thing with any kind of visual product marketing.”

She ended up apparently trying to file a complaint with the store and district manager. They informed her that they didn’t have an employee named [My Name], so they had no idea who she had talked to.