My girlfriend, some friends, and I decide to go to a sandwich shop during a snowstorm. We go to another friend’s house to pick him up (he lives at the top of a large hill covered in ice — that was fun) and then head back to town. I’ve been carrying a twelve-can crate of beer the whole way as I am not really sure if any shops will be open due to the weather.

We make it to the sandwich shop and my girlfriend and friends go in to order. The snow is probably at the three-feet mark by now and we’re surprised they’re not closed.

I dig a hole in the snow right outside the door and start filling it with cans of beer.

Then, suddenly:

Employee: “Oi, what do you think you’re doing?”

I look up and it’s one of the staff from inside the shop.

Me: “Err… just burying my beer, bro.”

He gives me this weird look.

Employee: “Dude, it’s snowing hard right now. I’ve had no customers all day except for you and that lady in there. Stop burying them and bring them inside; we’re all thirsty!”

And so we all ended up sitting in this sub shop with the staff, eating free sandwiches, and drinking beer. After about two hours, the employee said he didn’t want to be snowed in there with us and was closing shop — a good call, as the snow was encroaching four or five feet.

Our sandwich shop sells combos: a sandwich, chips, and a drink for about $6.

Customer: “I want combo number one.”

Me: “That’s the pastrami, white bread, three cheeses, lettuce, and tomato.”

Customer: “Yes, but I want to some changes to the sandwich.”

This is no problem, but by the end, she has replaced every item that goes on the number one combo.

Me: “Ma’am, you’ve managed to make your order match our number seven combo, down to the condiments.”

Customer: “But I don’t want the number seven! I want the altered number one!”

Me: “Yes, ma’am!”

In the end, with all the things she added to her order, it came out to about $15 when it could have been $6.

A few years ago, I worked in corporate for a large sandwich chain. They had purchased a taco concept, and part of my job consisted of going around the country to help open up these new restaurants. Now, this sandwich chain was not known for corporate luxuries, so I didn’t bat an eye at the daily food expense allowance when traveling, which was $42 per day, broken out by meal — breakfast was $8, lunch was $14, and dinner was $20.

You couldn’t even scrimp on breakfast and lunch to get yourself an all-right meal. But okay, I usually stayed in hotels that had a complimentary breakfast buffet, and I often skipped lunch and worked straight through the day, so my expenses were regularly less than $20 per day.

The problem came when, during one of these trips, my dinner came out to be $20.05 — before a cash tip, mind you, which I paid out of my own pocket and didn’t expense. I didn’t think much of it because, hey, it’s a nickel, and I didn’t go over my daily spending allotment.

Cut to the end of the month after submitting my expense report. I got a call from accounting.

Accountant: “I’m looking at your July expenses. How did you want to handle this?”

Me: “Umm… I did handle it. I submitted it.”

Accountant: “No, you went over on one of your dinners. Would you like to send the payment in or have it taken from your payroll?”

Me: “I’m sorry… What total are we talking about?”

Accountant: “You spent $20.05 on dinner on [date], which is a five-cent overage.”

I was silent for a moment.

Me: “Okay, so I owe five cents?”

Accountant: “Yes.”

Me: “You can take that out of my payroll, but please do it over the next five pay periods. I’d like to split up the payments for budgeting purposes.”

Accountant: “Are you serious?”

Me: “Are you?”

Following her true nature, [Accountant] took a penny out of the next five checks, and I made a point of spending as close to $42 a day as humanly possible for every other trip I ever took with that company.

I’m working in a sandwich and wings place. A woman has called in a delivery for some extra spicy wings. After they are delivered, she calls back raging.

Caller: “Those hot wings made my baby cry!”

The spineless manager politely offered to send her mild instead while the rest of us wanted to call child protection. A coworker actually called a cop friend of hers who said they would pass on the details to the right people.

It’s the dead of winter, it’s almost 8:00 pm, I’ve just finished work five hours late, and I’m exhausted and hungry. The day has been a nightmare from the start and I’m at the end of my rope for dealing with nonsense. I’m not angry, just worn out. I stop off at a sandwich shop on my way home.

I get in line behind a gaggle of fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds. No biggie, I haven’t eaten since lunch, so what’re a few more minutes?

From the start, the teenagers are snotty and entitled, almost deliberately trying to fluster the cashier. I think about saying something, but with the mood I am in, it wouldn’t go well. Instead, I just walk out and go to another location of the same chain not too far away.

I walk in, and thankfully, this one is quiet. I must look about as good as I am feeling because the man behind the counter strikes up a conversation. I don’t go into detail or mention anything about the other shop, but it is nice to have someone listen for a minute.

We chat a bit more as he cashes me out, and by the end, I have a smile on my face — or as much of one as I can manage. I thank him for the food and for listening, and I finish my drive home.

When I open the bag up, I find that the employee slipped in a handful of extra cookies. He went out of his way to make my awful day better.

It’s been a few years since this happened and I still haven’t forgotten it. Whoever you are, thank you. I hope the world has returned your kindness.

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And That’s How The Cookie Infuriatingly Crumbles
And That’s How The Cookie Mathematically Crumbles