(It is the late 90s. My grandparents have just moved into a new apartment and we are all hanging out when the telephone rings.)

Caller: *in a strong Argentinian accent* “Alo? I’m looking for Charlie.”

Uncle: “You must have the wrong number; there’s no Charlie here.”

Caller: “Okay. Thank you.”

(We think nothing of that… until 2006. We are all hanging out one last time in the apartment, since the next day my grandparents will move to a new house. The phone rings.)

Caller: *with a strong Argentinian accent* “Alo? I’m looking for Charlie.”

Uncle: “You must have the wrong number; there’s no Charlie here.”

Caller: *suddenly remembering the last phone call* “Che… do you guys still live there?!” *hangs up*

(After all these years, the same guy called the same wrong number while looking for the same person and the same uncle answered him using the exact same words.)

(It’s a Sunday afternoon, and there’s a ridiculously popular flea market close to my gym. It’s located in a small shopping area with a few other stores that are closed on Sunday and thus, nobody cares about the “customers only” parking. I broke my foot a while ago and this gym has therapists who help me get back in track. I’m not their only case, by no means the worst, and I know that a young mother, who got severely hurt during labor and is bound to a wheelchair, always has the appointment after me and needs one of the handicapped spaces. As I’m looking for a parking space, I see a car pull into the last free — of four — handicapped spaces. A young man with his family gets out.)

Me: “Sorry to bother, but do you have a licence? This is—“

Young Man: “It’s a cripple space. Yeah, if they’re going shopping, they can walk that extra few meters.”

Me: “Okay, even if that would change anything about this being illegal, the gym behind is you is open and some clients need this space. They come here for thera—“

Young Man: “Now you’re s***ting me. No gym rat needs a handicapped spot! Get lost.”

(The parking lot, as well as every other lot around, is crowded, and there’s no chance but luck to get a spot close to the gym. I’m already fed up and his attitude is the last drop. I get out of my car.)

Me: “Oh, okay, so would you like to explain to my ankle how I don’t need therapy, or would you like to explain it to the cops?”

(Getting out, my scar-covered leg becomes visible. I also wear a bright blue “stabilizer sock” underneath an aircast-like fixture wrapped around my ankle. It’s just for support during therapy, but looks pretty bad.)

Young Man: “S***, the h*** happened to you?!”

Me: “None of your business. Could you leave or would you like to see—“

(The guy got back in his car, pulled back, and drove off while yelling at his left-behind wife that they’d meet at the kebab truck. She looked frazzled, apologized, and left. I learned that my gym tried to get them all towed, but every contractor was busy keeping roads accessible. They started taking pictures of every car parking in one the spots and reporting them. The spots are still taken whenever there’s a flea market, but it feels good to know they’ll be fined.)

(I am waiting for the bus. As soon as it comes into view, a young man approaches me.)

Man: “Excuse me, miss. Do you know if this bus goes to [Direction]?”

Me: “Yeah, sounds about right.”

Man: “Great! Thanks.”

(He got on the bus with me. Two hundred meters later, at the next stop, he jumped out of his seat, sprinted across four — thankfully empty — lanes to the other end of the intersection and got on a different bus… going in the opposite direction. I was left confused.)

(My family and I go out to do some holiday shopping at the mall. My husband decides we need to split up, so he goes one way, and our six-year-old son and I go another. As we’re walking, a young lady attempts to hand him a peppermint candy cane, which I gently decline.)

Me: “Sorry, we just found out he’s allergic to most red candies.”

Candy Cane Lady: “Oh, that’s okay. Let me—“

(Another woman has obviously overhead, and storms over.)

Other Customer: “That’s bulls***! You’re just saying that so you can have his candy!” *snatches a cane and attempts to shove it into my son’s hands, resulting in him hiding behind me*

Me: *pushing him further behind me* “Ma’am, get the f*** away from my kid.”

Other Customer: “You’re a horrible parent! Not letting your child have a candy cane! He’s not allergic! Nobody’s allergic to candy!”

Me: *backing up so my son is standing in the doorway of a store, with me between them* “Ma’am, if you don’t back the h*** off, I will defend my child.”

(Apparently, through this ordeal, the lady with the canes has been calling mall security, who finally show up and escort the aggressive lady away, still yelling about “fake allergies.” I explain to the officer what was happening, and, as per his script, he gives me a warning before walking away.)

Candy Cane Lady: “Some people, huh? Let me see if I’ve got some spearmint left for this brave little man.”

(He got two and gave one to his daddy!)

(Just as I am going out of my house, I run into a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses.)

Old Lady #1: *standing in the doorway and not letting me out* “Do you have time to listen to the word of God? I can read you some passages that explain the current state of the country.”

Me: *irritated but trying to be gentle* “No, sorry. I’m running late.”

Old Lady #2: *still not letting me out of my house* “What can be so important that you’re rushing to it but don’t have time for the word of God?”

Me: *even more irritated* “A Satanic Mass.”

(Offended, they went away almost running. The next time they came to my street, I saw them skip my house.)

Related:
Jehovah’s Witless, Part 14
Jehovah’s Witless, Part 13
Jehovah’s Witless, Part 12