In the early oughts, I worked at a small company. The owner was a classic narcissist. Nothing was ever good enough for him, and his standards for what was good enough changed about every hour. You’d give him some work product in the morning and it would be fantastic. You’d give him the same exact thing a few hours later and it would “need a lot of work.”

Two things happened to the guy before I left. First, he and his wife built a house in a rural area. The spot where they built their house used to be commonly used in the winter by snowmobilers and in the summer by dirt bikers. He decided to fence it off, and the recreationists didn’t like it, so they’d cut his fence and carry on through. He’d yell at them and threaten them, but nothing happened for a while.

Then, one time, after about two winters of this, he did his usual schtick of going out and yelling at them and threatening them with lawsuits and the police and the like, and one of the snowmobilers had had enough. That snowmobiler got off his ride, walked over, and beat the owner senseless. The owner pretty much hid in his office for the next two weeks. We eventually learned the entirety of the story, and nobody had much sympathy for him.

A year or two later, I ended up leaving the company. The owner demanded that I stay for four months to “train my replacement.” I politely reminded him that Washington is an At-Will employment state, and the two weeks I was offering him were a courtesy, not a legal requirement. Initially, all seemed well, but he spent two days trying to give me new work that was going to take months to complete. I kept reminding him that I wouldn’t be there to finish anything and it would be a better use of my time to transition my existing work to other people. He kept blowing up at me. I’d had enough, handed over my keys, and left.

That’s not even the best story, though. About two or three years after I’d left, the owner was in the newspaper. Yep, it was that recreational trail again. This time, he went out in his pickup truck to confront a dirt biker, and rather than bravely staying inside his truck and yelling threats at them as he usually did, he used that truck to run over the dirt biker. With the dirt biker on the ground with a broken arm, the owner then bravely emerged from the truck and threatened the guy (a teenager) with an axe, and then called the police. When the police arrived, they gave the kid a ticket and put him in an ambulance… and they promptly arrested the owner for assault with a deadly weapon (the truck).

I’m at the self-checkout of the grocery store I frequent often, a few months after our state instituted a law requiring a charge for store-provided plastic or paper bags. There have been signs in stores, notices on the radio, and other notifications about this change for months. The man at the station next to me has the self-checkout worker helping him finish his transaction, and I can’t help but overhear the conversation.

Customer: “But I don’t understand this last question.”

Worker: “There’s a bag fee, so you need to input how many bags you have if you’re using the store-provided bags instead of your own reusable ones.”

Customer: “I didn’t used to have to do this. Why is your store charging for bags?”

Worker: “It’s a new step, yes—”

Customer: *Interrupting* “But why? I didn’t used to have to do this.”

Worker: “There’s a new—”

Customer: “I’ve never had to do this before. Why is your store doing this?”

Worker: “The fee is—”

Customer: “I’ve never seen it before. I don’t understand why your store would do this.”

He keeps interrupting the worker as she tries to answer his questions. She can hardly get a word in edgewise. I interject, speaking firmly but not yelling.

Me: “It’s not the store. It’s state law. It has been for months and it’s the same in every store in the state.”

Customer: “Oh! Well, I didn’t use to have to pay for them.”

He leaves. The worker turns to me and gives me a little hug — which is totally fine; she knows me as a frequent customer.

Worker: “Thank you; he just wouldn’t listen to me, and I can’t be that blunt with customers!”

I’m visiting my parents, and my mom makes a joke about a piece of furniture she’ll inherit, saying it’ll be solely hers. Dad is a lawyer who specializes in wills and estate planning, so it’s normal for us to joke about that sort of thing. Also relevant: my parents are in their sixties and expect to live quite a while longer.

Me: “But Mom, don’t you two have a community property agreement? It’s both of yours, then.”

A community property agreement is basically a legal form stating that spouses agree they share all their possessions, including things that would normally not be considered shared in the eyes of our state laws, like inheritances given to one individual or assets gained before the marriage.

Dad: “Actually, we’re dissolving that.” 

Me: “Why?”

Mom: “It leaves more for you and your siblings to inherit when we die.”

Dad: “If your mom would ever get around to it.”

There’s an awkward pause.

Me: “Wait, Dad… when you say, ‘get around to it,’ do you mean Mom signing the paperwork, or do you mean Mom dying?”

Dad: “No, signing it! I asked her to sign it a few weeks ago and she hasn’t yet.”

For the record, Mom agrees that dissolving their community property agreement is for the best — hence her talking about the inheritance being only hers — and Dad wants her to stick around for a while.

I have a seasonal job at a popular boat tour company here in Seattle. These boats serve food and drinks (including alcohol) during the tours; however, since there’s no kitchen aboard and the crew can’t exactly load new stock during the twenty minutes guests spend boarding and disembarking between tours, all of the food either is refrigerated or has a long shelf life (chips and such).

Not only that, but the food isn’t even prepared by shoreside employees; it’s purchased from local suppliers. With all this buildup, you’re probably expecting this to be a story about a customer who insisted on having a hot or fresh meal, but it’s weirder than that.

Customer: “Can I have some salmon?”

Coworker: “Sorry, we don’t sell that. I can recommend [Seafood Place] once we dock, though!”

Customer: “Oh, that’s okay. What other fish do y’all have?”

Coworker: “Sir, we don’t sell fish on these boats. It’s just what you see on the menus here.” *Points to a stack of paper menus*

Customer: “But… this is Seattle.”

Coworker: “Yes, sir. It is.”

Customer: “So… y’all gotta have fish.”

Coworker: “No, sir, we don’t.”

Customer: “But… y’all gotta have fish, right?”

Coworker: “Sir, we have never sold fish.”

Customer: “But y’all gotta have fish.”

Coworker: “We don’t have any fish.”

Imagine these last four exchanges repeating for about five minutes, until the customer finally gave up, leaving the register as he mumbled about how he couldn’t believe there wasn’t any fish.

None of the crew had any idea what was going on in his head. Did he think there was some sort of law requiring Seattle businesses to sell fish? Was he convinced there was a “secret menu” situation going on? Unfortunately, since tours don’t often have repeat customers — especially in the same season — I doubt we’ll ever know.

A mother and her two twenty-something-year-old daughters are in the store, all three visibly drunk. One of the daughters comes up and asks:

Daughter: “Where are the airplane shooters?”

I tell her and give the grocery department a heads-up that she’s already drunk since they have to unlock the case anyway. The daughter comes back with three airplane shooters of vodka and the two daughters head out to the car to get mom’s payment card.

The person in charge on duty comes over as I warned them and I like having a witness when I deny people sales. The drunk mom scans a bottle, and this ensues.

Me: “I’m going to be honest with you now: I believe you to be intoxicated and I’m denying the sale.”

Drunk Mom: *Now angry* “Oh, I’m. I’m… not intoxicated.”

Me: “I can clearly smell the alcohol on your breath”

Drunk Mom: *Making a scene, complete with a raised voice* “Well, of course you can! I had half a sip!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but smelling it is grounds to deny the sale and we won’t be selling it to you this evening.”

The person in charge and I grab the alcohol and walk away, but he hangs out just in case they start up again. The daughters come back in a few minutes after, and the mom LOUDLY complains to them about me denying the sale.

Drunk Mom: “This guy won’t sell me the booze just because he can smell it on me. I’m the only one who’s sober here!”

I smile behind my mask because she went ahead and confirmed what I already suspected. I wish the drunk trio a good evening as they leave and one of the daughters yells back to me:

Daughter: “You need to learn not to disrespect your elders.”

We had a good laugh over that comment. I found out the next day that one of the daughters called in later that night and tried to complain about me. The manager who took the call had already been told about the situation and took my side. But that’s exactly why I bring a witness to deny sales.