CONTENT WARNING: Gross, Soiled Menstrual Products

When I was a teenager, I worked for a little over two years at a fast food place. There was a rich and entitled woman who came in almost every morning around 8:00 am to eat breakfast, drink coffee, and talk with her friends until past 10:00, or sometimes 11:00 am.

The whole time she was there, she had her grandson with her. At first, he was in a stroller. Months later, he was walking all over the place, but she would not watch over him. Quite a few times, I took the toddler’s hand and took him back to her because I found him eating things he found on the floor.

Another time, he got his hand caught in the door, trying to go outside when someone came in. Each time I took him back to her, she looked really mad at me but never said anything or even responded to me when I was telling her what happened.

I told my manager about her, and it turned out that she was a friend of the owner, so he would not do anything about it and would not tell her to watch the kid. He told me to just do my job and that it did not include babysitting and not to worry about it. Every day, the toddler was wandering around the restaurant by himself for a couple of hours.

One day, because of an early rush, my manager asked me to help out because one of the cashiers was on her break. After all the clients were served, I went back to my lobby duties and found the toddler in the ladies’ room. He was playing with the content of the trash can inside one of the stalls. This particular trash can is used for… dirty tampons and pads! I almost puked when I saw what he was doing.

I took him to the sink and washed his hands and face thoroughly before taking him to his grandmother. I did not care if she was mad at me and told her, in front of all her friends, where he had been and exactly what he had been doing. Everyone was shocked, and she looked in disgust at the little boy and did not want to touch him.

I told her I had cleaned him up and added that I needed to go clean up the mess left behind in the ladies’ room. I left and went back there. I did throw up when I was picking up the mess and putting it back in the trash can, but only because I kept seeing the little boy playing with it in my head. Toddlers at that age, unfortunately, like to put things in their mouths. 

When I was done cleaning, she had already left with her grandson. I did not see her that much and she did not bring him as often after this incident. She never stayed as long as she usually had and did not let the boy wander around like she’d used to, either. She also avoided eye contact with me.

I was working in a “cafe and beer hall by day, club by night” in a major European city a couple of years ago. This was one of the most notable quotes from a guest I have heard in my career.

The main character in this story — let’s call him “Jerry” — came in one day to unload and have a couple of beers (not in my section, thank the gods). At first glance, I was not sure if Jerry was a transient on the verge of being cut off or a backpacker who forgot what an “inside voice” should sound like. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed the latter, but out of caution, I made a mental note to watch for drama.

After about half a beer, Jerry struck up a conversation with another equally boisterous guest and joined him. The two had another round, then another… and then Jerry started to hit on another guest two tables over — as in, shouting at the poor stranger from six metres away. She was awkwardly amused. I was not.

At that point, I had the floor manager speak with the backpackers and tell them to mind themselves.

About fifteen minutes later, I had not heard anything else happen… until Jerry nonchalantly returned to the table and was approached by the floor manager, and I heard Jerry YELL loudly enough to be heard throughout the 200-seat establishment.

Jerry: “You’re telling me you are kicking me out for washing my d**k in the sink?!”

For context, our toilets were unisex stalls and a bank of urinals behind a row of sinks in public view. Jerry had come from the urinal and, according to another traumatized guest, had proceeded to give himself a quick “bird bath” next to other patrons exhibiting proper hygiene.

I had not been paying these guests any further attention until I heard — once more, for the people in the back — “YOU’RE telling ME you are KICKING ME OUT for washing my D**K in the SINK?!”

There was a short exchange between Jerry and the floor manager before Jerry left in a huff, leaving me with that phrase forever emblazoned in my head.

Thirty years ago, I was working at the service desk of a major retail chain. A lady tried to return a package of men’s underwear. She had no receipt.

Me: “Ma’am, these have been opened. And they’re stained yellow. And there’s a [Different Chain] price tag on them. I can’t return these.”

Customer: “What?! Call your manager now!”

The manager superseded me and told me to do the return. The customer just smiled and laughed while I rang her up and gave her cash.

I usually stop at the library on my way home two or three times a week. If I don’t have time to browse, I’ll put my returned books in the drop box.

One day, I get a notification that I owe $315 for damaged books. What the expletive? I’ve always been careful with books!

It turns out that someone shoved a bunch of BBQ chicken containers into the drop box along with their books, and the sticky sauce splattered all over the entire series of graphic novels I had just returned. 

However! I used to work for the library, and I know how to clean off everything from cocaine to crayon. After convincing the librarian to let me clean up the books, and with the gentle application of (very lightly!) damp cloths with vinegar, diluted dish soap, and a few other things, I was able to present clean books to the librarian and save myself a few hundred dollars.

I accepted a remote job with an employer who decided that it was time for us all to meet in person. In Berlin. I live on the other end of Germany. Doesn’t matter. Boss pays. Good food and a party, too. Okay. Why not?

Public transportation is disrupted. After various misadventures, I give up, and my husband takes the day off to drive me to the train station. The problem is, today happens to be his office day, which his brilliant employer just has to remember, and now he has to drive from the office to pick me up.

Finally, the journey begins at the train station. The train is delayed. Of course. 

On the first intermediate stop after thirty minutes, the wheels of my suitcase get stuck. The cause: a dead mouse! What the f***?!

The second train is also delayed, and it’s packed. The air conditioning doesn’t work. It smells like stinky feet, and someone thought it would be a brilliant idea to insert a fish sandwich into this situation and eat it as slowly as possible. It has onions on it, too. We all can smell it.

Fortunately, someone gets off at the first stop, but someone else tries to cut in line and get to the seat. However, I am angry and use my elbows. That seat is mine! 

Next stop. There’s a train announcement: we are here indefinitely because the track is on fire. What. The. F******. F***?!

Twenty minutes later, we are informed that it was only homemade Molotov cocktails thrown on the tracks by a few teenagers! I thought I wasn’t old enough to say this, but what is wrong with today’s youth? In my time, we felt pretty cool if we smoked a joint and stole cherries from the neighbor’s tree for the munchies! Who on earth thinks it’s a bright idea to stick old rags in a vodka bottle, set that on fire, and throw it on train tracks? Luckily, it didn’t burn well, so the train employees only needed a fire extinguisher to put out the smoldering grass around the tracks.

Finally, we arrive in Berlin. The wheels of my suitcase get stuck again. Reason unknown. For inexplicable reasons, pigeons fly low through the train station. A fellow passenger idiot is unable to stop to stare at the pigeons, so he crashes into me, not seeing me because he was completely overwhelmed by the spectacle of flying fat air rats. He’s stumbling as he collides with me from behind. Fortunately, he manages to hold onto the railing.

I don’t.

In my attempt to stay upright, I wrench my hand before I have to let go of the railing and collide with a trash bin.

My hand slowly swells. My foot doesn’t want to cooperate. [Rideshare Company] doesn’t pick up from the side of the train station where I’m standing. I can’t walk to where [Rideshare Company] can pick me up.

There’s a ray of hope: a kind Polish taxi driver sees me limping and carries my suitcase to the taxi, offering a fixed price. I know that if the taxi meter were running, there couldn’t be a fixed price. If it’s not running, it’s not exactly legal to get into that taxi. Usually, I wouldn’t get into an illegal situation, especially when it comes to taxis. But I have history with Polish people, and so far my experiences have always been good. I have a soft spot for them. Screw it. She’ll have to deal with the consequences if someone catches her working under the table and she gives me good vibes. I for sure won’t report her; after four hours of Hell on Deutsche Bahn, I just want to get to the hotel.

The friendly Polish woman drives with a swift style. My map app says the journey will take thirty minutes. She does it in twenty. After the day I’ve had, I’m almost surprised I reached my destination at all. 

Finally, I’m at the hotel, standing at the reception. I want to identify myself… but my wallet is gone. It is still there in the taxi; I paid, after all. Desperately, I run to the entrance. My foot doesn’t like that. The nice Polish taxi driver is standing in front of the entrance, about to get in. She saw the wallet on the back seat and came after me to bring it back. This gracious angel on Earth is truly the only silver lining so far! I give her an extra five euros.

I return to reception, where I encounter [Staff Member #1]. He has just the right amount of compassion when checking me in. He books House Three, ninth floor, room 947.

House three? What hotel has three houses? Okay, this one doesn’t have three houses. It has four. Oh, my.

I wander through a labyrinth of corridors to the elevator of House Three. I find the room and put my card up to the sensor on the door.

Nothing. The door lock doesn’t work.

I try several angles. No luck.

I go back to the reception, where I meet [Staff Member #2], who is also very nice. She gives me a room with a card and a key — she does have a sense of humor — again in House Three, eighth floor, Room 850. I don’t miss the fact that the sum of the digits of the room adds up to 13, which, when added together again, equals 4, which is considered the number of death in China.

It was a prophecy.

The room is hot as h***. The ventilation only makes a faint clicking sound. The air conditioning shows an error.

Back to the reception, where I meet [Staff Member #3]. New attempt, new luck. Another very nice person.

He books House Two, fourteenth floor, Room 1423. He also winks and hands me a key in addition to the key card.

I arrive at the new room. And what did this second angel of the day do? He booked me a room with a bathtub!

I quickly grab my little flask of all-purpose cleaner and the emergency sponge to give it a quick wipe down. After all, it’s a hotel room and not my first business trip. Now, finally, I can relax my foot. My hand and my side also don’t hurt as much anymore in the warm water.

The hotel has a bar. This second, lovely angel I met today, the third hotel employee, this epitome of all receptionists, has stuck a cocktail voucher to the key card.

I’ve earned that.