I work in a hotel. I want to preface this by saying that my manager is not a bigoted person; he doesn’t care where you were born, what language you speak, what deity you worship, whether you’re man, woman, child (if registered to stay with a legal adult guardian), or whatever. As long as you’re not a dodgy guest, he doesn’t have a problem with you.

Unless you disparage his cricket team; then, it’s a whole other story.

This took place in the mid-2010s. There was a trio of guys who were a small but well-known business who stayed with us for the annual conference in their field. The second year they stayed, one stayed at a different hotel that could cater to a room for his larger family, but the other two stayed with us again. We’ll call the guest in question Sam. Sam was a lovely person, though he presented a little scruffily with baggy, wrinkled clothes, an unkempt ginger beard, and scruffy red hair. But he was great to deal with — friendly, chatty, and personable — and we were happy to accommodate his request for a rollaway bed so that his wife and daughter could join him for the weekend portion of his stay. (My manager, a well-known cheapskate, actually gave them the rollaway for free because that’s what a great person Sam is.) He was a pleasure to deal with.

Cut to next year’s conference time. We didn’t hear from Sam and his colleagues, so we just assumed that they all wanted to stay together at the one hotel that catered to the larger family. It happens.

The year after, come conference time, Sam’s company’s travel booker contacted us to book for Sam again. Great!

Come check-in day, I was working 3:00 to 11:00. I walked in and paused as I noticed Sam and took in the scene of [Manager] in the lobby welcoming Sam’s family — Sam, wife, and daughter — commenting on how much bigger [Daughter] was, and how Sam and [Wife] both looked lovely, too.

Sam’s look had indeed changed. She had shoulder-length straightened hair, a full face of professional-looking make-up, a gorgeous outfit with a light bolero cardi over an almost floor-length flowing summer dress revealing metallic sandals, and an immaculate red mani-pedi on display. And obviously, no beard.

After the family had headed upstairs, [Manager] came into the back office.

Manager: “Aren’t they a beautiful family? But something about Sam has changed. I can’t put my finger on it.”

Me: *Stifling a little laugh* “Yes, Sam has indeed changed. Her outfit today was much nicer than the way she was dressed the last time I saw her.”

Manager: “No, it’s not that. Something’s different about her, but I can’t work out what.”

Me: “Give it a minute; it’ll come.”

Manager: “No, they were in this morning to drop in their luggage, and I’ve been thinking about it all day. I know something’s changed, but I can’t work out what. Maybe she dyed her hair?”

Me: “No, that’s not it. She’s always been a redhead as far as I know.”

Manager: “Huh, it must be something else.”

Me: “…”

Manager: “Do you know what it is?”

Me: “Yes, I picked up on Sam’s change.”

Manager: “Well, what is it?”

Me: “…”

Manager: “Tell me! What’s different about her?”

Me: “You really don’t see it?”

Manager: “No, just tell me!”

Me: “The last time she was here, she had a beard.”

Manager: *Looking at me like I’m an idiot* “Beard? What are you talking about?”

Me: “Jeez… The last time Sam was here, she wasn’t a she. “

Manager: “…”

The look on [Manager]’s sixty-odd-year-old face betrayed the old-fashioned cartoonish image of the inner workings of a clock or watch erupting, cogs and springs and screws flying all around behind his wide eyes. I was half-expecting a small spring-steel coil to come flying out of his open-hanging mouth. I couldn’t tell if he was genuinely shocked at the revelation, or mainly because he didn’t realise that the change was a person’s whole gender.

Manager: *Sputtering out of his speechlessness* “But… but… he’s married!”

Me: “Yes, she’s married, just like last time.”

Manager: “But he’s got a daughter!”

Me: “Yes, she has a daughter, and [Daughter] clearly still has a family with two loving parents.”

Manager: “But he has a business…”

Me: “SHE has a business, and partners, and they’re obviously fine with Sam being Sam the way she is, or they wouldn’t be here for the conference.”

Manager: “But he’s—”

Me: “She’s!“

Manager: “But he’s a father!”

Me: “He’s a mother! And they’re— SHE’S a mother! Now you’ve got me doing it! Will you quit that?! It’s time for you to go home anyway.”

Manager: “But does that mean that he had surg—”

Me: “I know you’re not about to say what I think you were going to say because that would be Sam’s business, maybe her wife’s, and nobody else’s. Now…” *handing him his satchel* “…you have a train to catch. Nothing to hand over? Then go home.”

Manager: *Shuffling out of the office “But—”

Me: “Have a good weekend!”

Manager: “But—”

Me: “Say hi to your wife and kids for me. Bye!”

He shuffled out the door.

Now, this reaction doesn’t really reflect well on [Manager], but to his credit, he did phone me later that evening and apologise while laughing about it. He admitted that he had been being stupid and had reacted poorly, and he said thank goodness he hadn’t realised or been told and reacted like that in front of the guest. I did make him swear not to refer to Sam as he/him the next week, and he promised it wouldn’t be a problem. [Manager]’s wife got a laugh out of the story, though, and called him “such an idiot,” which she relayed to me from the background of his call.

Unfortunately, we didn’t see Sam again as their business wound up in the year after that conference, but by all accounts, she and her family had a wonderful stay and checked out very happy.

I work in an Italian restaurant chain.

Lady: “I can’t have salt or butter on any of my food. Can you go to the kitchen and ask the cooks what could they fix for me that’ll meet my requirements? I want pasta.”

All the pasta had salt, butter, or both. After I ran back and forth trying to accommodate her, she ended up ordering the soup and salad as she felt that was the safest option for her. She then proceeded to eat three baskets of breadsticks with her meal — breadsticks that were covered in salt and butter.

Yes, I warned her about the breadsticks. Her reaction was to say, “Oh, it should be fine,” and wave me away.

My grandma was eighty-nine at the time of this story, and she had been an independent woman for over twenty-five years since my granddad passed. Slowly, she began to get older, and naturally, her abilities started to decline. She became hard of hearing (deaf in the end), she was unable to drive herself, she started to have issues with walking (she was an avid hiker before), and other small stuff started to go due to arthritis in her hands.

At some point, she got glaucoma and had to use special eye drops. My dad and my aunts (with good intentions) started to fuss about her capabilities to care for herself. Yes, she needed help with things, but they took almost everything out of her hands, including things she was perfectly capable of doing herself.

My grandma confided in me that even though she was old, she loved being able to still do things for herself if she was capable, and she was sad that people were treating her like she was incapable all of a sudden.

She needed to get surgery for her glaucoma, and leading up to it, my aunts were making plans for who would take care of her after surgery, and whose house she would stay at because she couldn’t stay at her own house by herself.

The main issue was the eyedrops she had to take after the surgery; due to the arthritis, it was difficult for her. Sometime before the surgery, we had gotten her a pair of special glasses to help apply eyedrops, and she claimed that they worked very well and she didn’t need any help. My aunts asked her to show us how she uses them, but she refused to show us — out of pride, I think — so that just convinced my aunts that she couldn’t be alone.

One evening, I went up to her.

Me: “Grandma, can you show me how your eyedrops glasses work? I’m having issues getting my own eyedrops in properly, and I wonder if they can help me.”

That was total BS; I don’t even use eyedrops. She just LIT up and showed me right away because she wanted to help me so badly!

Well, the glasses sort of worked for her but not well enough that she could be left to do it herself after surgery. However, she had told me how much she wanted to just go home when it was done and how she really wanted to stay independent. So, I lied to my aunts and told them that the glasses worked really well and she really didn’t need any help, and I made a deal with them that I would go to her place to look after her for the first few days after surgery. (They both live quite far away, so it was easier for me.)

At the same time, I told my grandma that for work I had to go to a different office location for a few days for a project, so I would sleep at her house because it was closer. That way, I could look after her, and she still felt like she was self-sufficient. The added bonus was that she felt so happy that she could help me by hosting me at her house for a couple of days! (I did arrive a few days early and left a few days after so the dates of my “work visit” didn’t exactly match with her surgery.)

The look on her face when I asked her to help me with the glasses and when I asked to sleep over was priceless! And the idea that I gave her some of her independence (however small) really makes me happy.

I do think she realised at some point at least that I was playing a trick on her, but she was just grateful that I wasn’t treating her like a porcelain doll like the rest of my family. And during my stay there, I just let her do her own thing and arrange her own stuff. I only stepped in twice when she really couldn’t handle it.

My wife is the assistant front end department manager for a grocery chain. She doesn’t drive, and her store is less than two miles from our home in a rural community. Everyone in town knows her and loves her; she’s a complete sweetheart to everyone she meets. By extension, I am well-known in the store by the employees and am genuine friends with several of them. As a result, it is common to see me talking to the associates on a regular basis. Their uniforms are usually jeans or khakis with a white shirt that has the company logo. Managers wear a green or black polo embroidered with the logo.

I work from home as an IT administrator. My usual attire is usually very similar; I like to wear colored cargo pants and either a T-shirt or collared button-down shirt, mostly blue or black. I am often mistaken for store management due to my frequency in the store, talking to associates, the way I dress, and my knack for customer service. I normally just bring the person to the nearest actual manager and apologize for the mixup.

One day, however, there came a cretin creepin’ — a glibly galivanting sort. That day, I was wearing green cargo pants and a blue T-shirt. There really wasn’t a good excuse that day, but the question was nevertheless posed by the man on the mobility scooter.

Man: “Can you tell me where [item] is?”

Obviously, I could. I knew this store really well at that point, as I love to cook and I knew where to find all the best stuff. However, I politely informed him that the grocery manager was only one aisle over, stocking the freezer.

Then came the very odd interaction that made that day stand out. The man accused me of lying to him… and then proceeded to ask me to buy his groceries for him.

Now, I’m sure you, my dear reader, are at this very moment forming an assumption that I have left a detail, some morsel out somewhere. I assure you I have not. His exact statement, to the very best of my fresh memory, was:

Man: “I don’t think that’s true. I know you work here. And if you work here, you have to help me. I can’t afford my groceries, and I was hoping you could buy them for me.”

The very thought sent me reeling around. That’s when I laid eyes on him. I knew him. Well, I knew him in the same way he knew me; I’d seen him around the store. Specifically, I’d seen him in the pictures my wife took of him… to get him banned. This man was infamous in the community for faking injuries, disabilities, illnesses — the works. He refuses to work, instead asking anyone and everyone to buy things for him. He was kicked out of the pizzeria across the lot for it. He’s been banned from two different pharmacies over it.

I looked in his basket. It was full of junk — miscellaneous items of dubious quality. I curled up my lip and narrowed my eyes at him.

Me: “So, you went and filled your cart with [stuff] you can’t afford to harp on anyone in a twenty-yard radius with a sob story?”

He got offended, and with some back-and-forth, he suddenly took it upon himself to take my advice. He miraculously stood up and off his mobility scooter and walked as pretty as you please over to the next aisle, raising the grocery manager.

Some yelling and profanity later, the manager stepped around the corner, took one look at me, and sighed deeply. Upon being told I didn’t work there, the man departed rather swiftly, leaving the clearly crammed-full mobility scooter there in the middle of the aisle. Interesting that embarrassment miraculously healed his ability to walk.

I’ve just been hired as a translator for this company. We agreed on 35,000 baht per month (Thai baht currency). Today is my payday, and they pay me 4,000 baht.

Me: “Why is my pay so low?”

Office Manager: “Because you’re on probation.”

Me: “That’s not stated in the contract, and you did not tell me any of this when hiring me. So, on my probation period, I only get 300 baht (10 USD) a day for my eight hours of work?”

I double-checked the contract, and it also didn’t say anything about me deleting all the work I had done for them: translated contracts, loans, etc.

I deleted every f****** file I’d translated, some due for the government and for viewing the next day or the day after. I deleted them all, I formatted the computer — they didn’t have cloud storage, so nothing was saved online — and I f***ed off.

They called me and asked me to come back to the office the next day so they could “explain” the reason they only gave me 300 a day, and they said they’d like their files back, pretty please.

I didn’t go.