I work in and manage a music store where, within reason, we can play whatever we want over the speakers. I’m in a chill mood, so I’m playing some Hawaiian ukulele music that’s making me happy.

The music can sometimes gently make its way out into the street, and this is where I spot an older couple standing near the store. The woman is in a wheelchair but has her hands up and is smiling, swaying to the music. The man is just staring at her, also smiling, but has some tears running down his face.

Me: “Are you guys okay?”

Husband: “Oh, we’re fine. Sorry if we’re in the way.”

Me: “No, not at all. I just saw you, and I thought… well… Actually, I don’t know what I thought.”

Husband: “Oh, it’s just that my wife recognized the music. We’re both originally from Hawaii, but we’ve been here for a while now. My wife has dementia, so she’s not always present, but we were going past, and she just started… well… doing this.”

He gestures to her as she continues to sway and smile, her mind taking her somewhere happy.

Husband: “Could I get a copy of whatever it is you’re playing?”

Me: “You can have the album, on the house!”

I hand the CD over to him, and he spots the sticker on the cover saying it’s both a rare CD and vintage.

Husband: “Oh! Oh, no, I can pay.”

Me: “You go and you give your wife as many happy moments as you can. My store can take the hit.”

I held my hand up and sent him on his way. He became a new regular, sometimes with his wife and sometimes without, but every time he brought his wife, I would play the other copy of that CD we had in the store, and she would be transported back to a happy earlier memory. 

I know it wasn’t perfect, but I am glad I could provide her with little pockets of happiness through the music.

I just read a roundup about cheaters and thought I should share this. It’s… special.

I had a charismatic and self-deprecating male coworker who was great at seeming sincere and harmless. I’m going to call him Richard here, because his name is similar to D**k.

He sent me some poetry over text.

Richard: “I’m in love with you.”

Me: “That’s very nice, but you have a wife and don’t really know me.”

I started spending time with him. In retrospect, this was probably because I was sad and lonely and appreciated the attention and flattery.

I had to have firm boundaries; he was always trying to cheat with me. I really toed the line, though. I let him have an emotional affair with me.

Richard: “My wife wants to open up our marriage.”

Me: “Your wife likes me a lot. I like her, too. I bet she would be fine with us actually dating.”

Richard: “I don’t want to be polyamorous.”

Me: “That’s the only way I will ever sleep with you, though.”

Richard: “What’s the difference?”

Me: “You tell me.”

Richard: “I just can’t stand the thought of her with someone else. Besides, she doesn’t trust me. I found her trying to look through my texts because she thought I was cheating on her. I screamed at her; it was a huge betrayal of trust.”

Me: “But she was right?”

I stopped spending time alone with the guy after that.

A couple of months later, I was sitting with the dishwasher at work. I was a manager. The two of us had vehemently not gotten along, and I decided to extend an olive branch. We were now vibing. I’ll call her Dishy here because she was the best at dishwashing, to a point of pride.

Dishy: “I thought you hated me. Richard told me about the things you would say about me.”

Me: “I could say the same thing. Let’s compare notes.”

We found that neither of us had been s***-talking the other, and the quotes were the same.

Dishy: “It seems like he made us enemies on purpose. I don’t know why. Why would he do that to us?”

Me: “Maybe he wanted to avoid our communicating. To what end? Do you have secrets with him?”

She tensed up. I decided to pry.

Me: “Richard sends me poetry. He tells me he loves me.”

Dishy: “I can’t believe he would cheat on me! That’s why he didn’t want us talking! When did you two start sleeping together? How many other people at work are sleeping with him?”

Me: “I can think of a couple of people that might be involved, but it hasn’t occurred to me that he would have cast a wide net. How does he have the energy? He seemed to be fixated on me.”

I’ve edited so many swears out of Dishy’s response because censoring them while typing on a phone is hard. Dishy is a master of colorful language at the best of times, so use your imagination.

Dishy: “I can’t believe it. I thought he was in love with me.”

Me: “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t have sex with him. No offense to you, but I didn’t want to hurt [Richard’s Wife]. Besides, if someone cheats with you, it shouldn’t be too surprising when they cheat on you.”

Dishy: “Oh, I’m such a jerk. I’m good friends with her. Should I tell her?”

Me: “She deserves to know.”

A few days later, Richard called me up to say he had to move in with his mom on the other side of the country. After determining that I wouldn’t go with him, he gave me several gallons of homegrown [smokeable green stuff] since he couldn’t fly with it. This was a surprise.

I ran into Richard’s ex-wife at the grocery store and apologized. She said she’d had her bags packed and was just waiting for confirmation, and she thanked me for encouraging Dishy to tell her the truth. She left for a bit, but she decided she wanted the house.

Richard kept sending me poetry for a couple of years until I blocked him out of pity and disgust.

I never told him how I’d orchestrated his demise. He was livid at Dishy. Meanwhile, I made off with an obscene amount of [green stuff] and his continued admiration. He’ll never know unless he reads this site, and even then, he has only himself to blame.

I never saw him again. Dishy is doing well. She is an extremely talented metal worker, and I see her around sometimes. Richard’s ex-wife is doing fantastically. I also have a great partner who is very monogamous. The restaurant we worked for recently closed down. I never made it through all that [green stuff].

I’m working in the kitchenware department, and I get a call from the switchboard.

Switchboard Coworker: “Hi. I have a customer on the line who says he bought a food processor from you this morning.”

Me: “I sold one this morning, so that’s possible. Did he say what the issue was?”

Switchboard Coworker: “He sounds a bit stressed. Can I just pass him over?”

Me: “I guess?”

With zero hesitation, I go from the quiet hums of the switchboard to what can only be described as the sounds of chaos.

Me: “Hello? Kitchenware.”

Caller: “Hi! Do you remember me? You sold my wife and me that [super powerful and expensive food processor] this morning?”

Me: “I believe I do.”

Caller: “So, I just needed to know that if I… uh… was making a beet protein smoothie in it…”

Me: “Uh-huh…”

Caller: “But I forgot to put the lid on it when I mixed it…”

Me: “Oh, no…”

Caller: “Yeah… What would you recommend is best to clean it off before the wife gets home?”

Me: “I’m not the best person to call about this, as I only sell—”

As I am talking, I hear the sound of a door unlocking in the background, followed by the caller’s wife’s voice.

Caller’s Wife: “Oh, my God!”

Caller: “Oh, no! It’s too late!” *To his wife* “Honey, I can explain!”

Caller’s Wife: “How did it get on the ceiling?”

Caller: *To me* “So, what’s the best way to clean it?”

Me: “I’m… afraid I don’t know, sir. As I said, I just sell the machines and advise on their best usage, which would include not forgetting the lid when you’re doing some volatile mixing.”

Caller’s Wife: “It’s even on the cats!”

Me: “I wish you the best of luck, sir.”

Caller’s Wife: “Oh, no! The baby!” 

I hung up at that point as I was losing it. I can only imagine the bloodbath his wife walked into.

I am working at the meat counter in the grocery store.

Customer: “I want to order a standing rib roast for Christmas. We have six people.”

Me: “I’d go with three ribs. That’ll give you some for leftovers, too.”

Customer: “No, no, no. I want four ribs.”

Me: “Okay. That’s gonna be a lot.”

Customer: “Four ribs!”

Two weeks later, just before Christmas:

Customer’s Husband: “I’m here to pick up a roast for [Customer].”

Me: “Here ya go!”

Customer’s Husband: “This is huge!”

Me: “The order was for four ribs.”

Customer’s Husband: “There’re only six of us. Can you cut one of these bones off?”

Me: “Um… sure.”

Later, the phone rings.

Customer: “I ordered a standing rib roast with four ribs, and you gave my husband one with three ribs! Where is your manager?!”

I used to work in the arrears department of an energy company. Most of the time, my job involved taking calls from customers, but on occasion, field agents would call us to give updates or ask questions.

Field agents weren’t bailiffs; they were just staff we sent to try and speak to the customer in person, and if not, hand-deliver a letter. Sometimes debts weren’t paid because the customer had died or a new tenant had moved in, or sometimes they would find the property had been demolished and we hadn’t been informed. Field agents could also offer help, including going through income and expenditure forms to work out a payment plan.

One day, I got a call from one of our field agents. He had been a field agent for over twenty years. Before that, he had been a bailiff for the local county council. There wasn’t much that could rattle a man with that much experience. But that day, I could tell something was up. He sounded… upset.

He gave me a customer account number and asked me to put the customer on our reduced tariff: a price plan with extremely low unit and service charge prices specifically for vulnerable customers, such as the disabled or those on specific benefits.

As I went through the account, he explained what had happened.

[Field Agent] had visited the customer, where he discovered that she was living in abject poverty with an infant. They lived in one room of the house because it was all she could afford to heat, and even then, the room was bitterly cold. She looked gaunt and pale. Her cupboards were bare, and she only had one tin of baby formula. The baby didn’t have a crib and instead slept in a cardboard box on the floor. She had no furniture, only a mattress on the floor.

It turned out that while she was in the hospital giving birth, her husband had run off with his coworker who he had gotten pregnant. He had taken all the things they had bought for their baby to give to his mistress, including the crib, all the baby clothes, and all the toys.

To add insult to injury, he had also cleared out their bank accounts and left her with nothing. He never came to see the baby and never paid any child support. He didn’t even bring any food or gifts for his child.

This poor woman had been trying her best — even paying us a few pounds every week without fail. She didn’t have any family who could help her, either. Even her in-laws seemed uninterested and ignored her. It was just her and her baby.

[Field Agent] went through various forms with her as per his job, and then he shut himself in his van to cry.

He had seen it all; he had been attacked by customers (often with a weapon), had dogs set on him, and had even found a corpse at a few properties. But this… this broke him.

He gave the poor woman his lunch, which he said she ate like a starved animal. Then, he sat down with her for several hours and let her use his personal phone (she didn’t have one) to call various charities. He managed to put her in touch with an organisation that would help make sure she was on all the right benefits and would help her get legal aid to get child support from her scumbag husband.

I removed all the fees on the account and backdated the lower tariff as far back as I could.

At the end of his shift, [Field Agent] went back to the woman’s house and brought nappies (diapers), baby formula, and several bags of essential groceries, as well as a cheap mobile phone he had picked up so she could take calls from the various people helping her.

When he got home, he asked his family and friends if they had any baby clothes they were no longer using. He ended up with two black sacks full of baby clothes, as well as some toys, and his neighbour donated a buggy, all of which he delivered to the woman a few days later.

She later wrote us a letter expressing her gratitude and thanking [Field Agent] for all his help.

[Field Agent] would occasionally check in on the woman if he could. I would always ask him for an update when he stopped by the office to drop off paperwork. Last I heard, the woman had been moved to a council house which was much nicer than her musty, rundown home, and she had a court date for finally getting the child support payments she was owed.

Years later, I still wonder about that woman and her son and hope they’re doing well.