I am working security at an airport, and I see a passenger place their baby in a baby chair and then place the baby chair onto the conveyor feeding into the X-ray machine.

Me: “Sir, you can’t put your child there!”

Passenger: “It’s just for a second while I get these shoes off.”

Me: “Even so, sir, please remove the child immediately!”

Passenger: *Removes the child* “Gosh, it was just for a second. Do I look like an idiot to you?”

Me: “You look like someone who is about to X-ray their baby.”

I’m a site supervisor of an industrial property that rents partly to a truck rental company. We are literally the last truck rental location going west across the island so the activity is always high.

The property is not a twenty-four-hour return site, which is not only stipulated in the contract but also on a separate sheet of paper. The people who rent the trucks literally sign a box saying, “I acknowledge that my truck must be returned by 6:30 pm as the property is not a twenty-four-hour return site.”

This restriction is in place for safety reasons as the property features a steep hill with no guard rails or lighting, meaning we don’t want the liability that comes with people driving into the lower valley at night.

It is 7:45 pm and it’s raining. A twenty-foot box truck pulls up to the main gate of the property, which is closed. The woman in the truck leans on the horn. Due to our proximity to a housing area, I am forced to come out. She has a car behind her, being driven by a man that I recognize as her husband from earlier in the day.

Me: “Good evening! Please don’t do that! We have housing in the area.”

I allow the gate to roll shut behind me so she can’t drive past.

Driver: “Oh, well, I need to return this rental.”

Me: “Sorry, ma’am, this isn’t a twenty-four-hour return site, and due to the weather, I can’t allow you onsite. It’s too dangerous at night.”

Driver: “Well, the girl at the desk told me that I could return until 8:00.”

Me: “No, ma’am.”

Driver: “Excuse me?”

Me: “[Storage Facility] does not own this property; they are a tenant and they are not allowed to authorize after-hours access for guests. I was also in the office when you rented your truck and [Agent] told you about our hours.”

Driver: “Do you have proof?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am.”

I pull the copy of the addendum out of my clipboard.

Me: “This paper that you signed when you rented states that we are not a twenty-four-hour return site and stipu—”

Driver: “I wasn’t given that.”

I sigh. We are doing the WHOLE song and dance tonight, apparently.

Me: “Okay, maybe we can make an exception. Do you have your signed rental contract?”

Driver: “Yes!”

She hands me the rental contract with a large smile. She apparently doesn’t realize that it is a modified, site-specific document authorized by the rental company’s corporate side. She clearly assumes that because she claims not to have seen the addendum I will allow her to return under the terms of a normal contract.

I flip the pages, fold it back, and read it off.

Me: “Renter acknowledges that the property at [address] is not a twenty-four-hour return site and vehicles may not be returned past 1800 hours.”

Her smile blows out like a light bulb as I hand her the contract with her signature on the line.

Driver: “What do you expect me to do?!”

Me: “You can leave the truck here on [Public Road] and come back tomorrow morning to complete the return.”

Driver: “No, I want to make sure it gets back!”

Me: “I understand that, but unfortunately, it’s too dangerous with the weather right now.”

She gets all huffy and looks around, waving to the CRV. Her husband unfolds himself from the vehicle and comes over.

Driver’s Husband: “Is there a problem?”

Me: “Yes, sir, you are outside of our return time.”

Driver’s Husband: “Oh, okay, that’s fine. We can bring it back in the morning.”

The woman at the wheel looks crestfallen. Once they leave, I think that’s the end of the story, but I am wrong.

The next day, the property operations manager calls me over to ask why I turned away a rental return at 5:30.

I tell him that I turned away a return at 7:45, not 5:30. Apparently, the couple has complained to property management but conveniently moved the time to sound as if they were returning in the correct window.

Operations Manager: “I thought that didn’t sound like you. She said you were yelling at her and called her a b****.”

Me: “You’ve known me for six years; when have I ever?”

Operations Manager: “I still have to look into it. I believe you but [Storage Facility] will want something solid.”

Me: “I was literally in the valley. The keypad logs will show that I entered at 4:00 and didn’t come out until 6:50.”

Operations Manager: “As will the cameras.”

Me: “Yup.”

Operations Manager: “And your shift log.”

Me: “Yup.”

Operations Manager: “And the truck’s GPS.”

Me: “Yup.”

Operations Manager: “And the dash camera.”

Me: “Yup.”

Operations Manager: “And that concludes my investigation. Let’s go get lunch.”

After college, I worked at a fabric store just outside of Washington, DC. One day, a member of the Secret Service came in and informed us that the wife of a foreign leader wanted to shop in our store. He needed to check out the layout and entrances to be sure there were no risks. He walked around and had us lock the loading dock door, but he said we could stay open for regular business while this VIP was shopping.

The lady showed up about an hour or so later with a couple more male agents. She spent a long time shopping (spending thousands of dollars) so a lot of customers came and went while she was there. A few of them asked why the Secret Service was there.

The lead agent came over to me at one point and said:

Agent: “Please don’t tell anyone we are with the Secret Service.”

Me: “Uh, sir, this is a fabric store and we don’t get many male customers in the first place. You are wearing earpieces and suits; it’s obvious who you are!”

The VIP had such a great time that she came back the next day to buy more fabric. This time, her security detail wore Hawaiian shirts. They didn’t look any less conspicuous!

Back in college, our dorm had a security guard that was nearing retirement age. He was a nice enough fellow who was always pretty fair. What he hated was when kids got drunk and started getting loud, causing disturbances. It always created a bunch of paperwork that he hated but his superiors demanded it every time he left the front desk.

My entire floor was full of students who were taking fairly hard classes for degrees in pre-med, engineering, teaching, pre-law, etc. We were a pretty serious group and very focused on our studies, so we never caused any trouble.

One hot night, we all had our room doors open because we had no air conditioner. We were all mostly stressed out due to finals. All of a sudden, I heard some loud voices from the stairwell. I and many others went to investigate. Several of our floormates were trying to run Slinkies down the steps. These are metal or plastic spring-like children’s toys. The old commercials would show that you could make them “walk” down steps. Someone had a box of about a dozen of them, but they couldn’t get it to work right. Before long, we had over thirty college kids all in the stairwell trying to get these things to work.  

Suddenly, the security guard came running up from the bottom floor. When he saw what was going on, he just stopped, looking at us with puzzlement.  

After we explained what we were doing, he turned around, shaking his head, and as he walked away, we heard him mumbling in a rather aggravated tone.

Security Guard: “No, couldn’t be normal college kids just getting drunk. How the heck am I going to write this up in a report that would be believable?”

I’m going through a TSA checkpoint at my local airport. 

TSA Agent #1: “Please remove any food, electronics, and liquids from your bag and place them directly into the bin.”

In an attempt to save money, I’d packed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to eat at the airport.

Me: “Will my sandwich cause a problem?”

TSA Agent #1: “As long as it is outside of your backpack as it goes through the scanner, it will be fine.”

I follow the instructions and observe that other lines are moving much faster than mine. [TSA Agent #2], who is reviewing the screen, is pulling almost every bag for further review. By the time I get to her, she informs me that my peanut butter sandwich is causing the alarm (despite being removed from my luggage) and that my entire carry-on will need to be checked.

I offer to throw the sandwich away but she insists that now that I’ve entered the checkpoint it needs to be checked — for explosives, I presume?

[TSA Agent #3] is reviewing bags that have been pulled. Almost everyone that was in front of me in line one is now in front of him as he empties their bags and swabs their items to find the offending item (which, for many people, is nonexistent). I can tell he’s starting to get exasperated.

After several minutes, I finally get to him.

Me: “My bag got pulled because of this sandwich. I can just throw it away.”

My sandwich, which was made much earlier in the day, is admittedly looking kind of smooshed and sad. At this point, I’d rather throw it away and buy the overpriced airport food.

He looks at me, looks at my pitiful sandwich, and looks at [TSA Agent #2] who is still sending almost everyone in her line to him for further review. Other agents in nearby lines are not pulling nearly the same number of items for review. He hands me my items back without another glance.

TSA Agent #3: “I’m pretty sure your peanut butter and jelly sandwich is not a threat to national security.”