(My family has gathered to celebrate a birthday, and I go with my fifteen-year-old cousin to buy a cake. Since it’s quite busy, I tell my cousin to get in line for the registers while I go and pick the cake. Just as I’m getting in line with her, a middle-aged woman cuts the line right in front. My cousin speaks up but the woman just tells her to get out of her way. I tell my cousin to just let it go, and when she asks why, I say, loudly:)

Me: “Well… it’s clear that she’s in such a hurry, she can’t wait any longer and felt it necessary to be rude to other people and cut the line. If we let her go before us, we get to be the kind young people who let an older lady who’s in a hurry go first, while she ends up as the one who shouted and almost pushed a fifteen-year-old girl.”

(The woman, as was my intention, heard me and began to shout at me and my cousin. The manager approached her and asked her to leave, because she had cut the line and was annoying the other customers.)

(I am in a sporting goods store, picking up a shotgun I bought the day before. After signing the paperwork to take it home and getting it out the door, some woman is giving me a dirty look as I walk out of the store with the box. She decides to follow me to my car. After putting it in the trunk and closing it, she starts confronting me out of nowhere, demanding I give up the gun I just bought.)

Woman: “I’m going to have to ask you to give up your gun.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Woman: “Your gun. Give it up; you shouldn’t have it.”

Me: “And what makes you think I shouldn’t?”

Woman: “You’re not a cop or a soldier so you shouldn’t have one.”

Me: “And what are you going to do if I don’t?”

Woman: “I’ll call the police and watch them forcibly take it from you.”

Me: “Go ahead and call the police. And I’ll watch them put you in handcuffs for not only harassing me but infringing on my Second Amendment right.”

(She called the police and in five minutes they were there. I’m guessing they were nearby.)

Cop: “What seems to be the problem here?”

Woman: “This man has a gun in the trunk of his car and refuses to give it up.”

Cop: “Miss, calm down and let me talk to him and we’ll get this all straightened out.”

(He talks to me:)

Cop: “Sir, please open your trunk so I can what the problem is.”

(I open the trunk and the cop sees the box that has the gun it. I still have the receipt in hand so I show it to him. He inspects it and sees nothing wrong.)

Cop: “Okay, this checks out. You purchased it yesterday and waited the twenty-four hours to pick it up. So what appears to be the problem here?”

Woman: “He’s not a cop.”

Cop: “How do you know that?”

Woman: “He’s not in uniform.”

Cop: “So? He could be off duty.”

Woman: “He shouldn’t own one.”

(The cop turns to me again.)

Cop: “Sir, I hate to ask but can see a form of ID and your FOID card?”

(The Firearm Owner’s Identification card is required in Illinois.)

Me: “No problem, officer.”

(I hand him both and he examines them.)

Cop: “Well, miss, he is of age to buy one and this FOID card — which is pretty recent — allows him to own it, so I don’t see a problem here.”

Woman: “What about the background check? I bet he didn’t pass it.”

Cop: “Miss, if he didn’t pass a background check he wouldn’t have left the store with that gun let alone even have that FOID card.”

Woman: “Well, I bet he lied about it just to have it.”

Cop: “Look, miss, I don’t care about what you think because right now you are harassing this man and wasting my time, both of which are arrestable offenses.”

Woman: “I am not leaving until you do your job and take his gun away.”

Cop: “Miss, he has down nothing to warrant that. Now, final warning: leave it alone or I will arrest you.”

Woman: “No. Guns are evil and no one should own them.”

(She was arrested right there. The cop apologized to me for the trouble and told me to be safe getting home. Glad the cop actually did show up otherwise that could’ve gone on forever.)

(For context, I’m a young person and have fairly severe joint issues. This is overheard between two strangers while I am shopping in one of those buggy-type carts.)

Lady #1: “Ugh! I just hate when people pretend to be handicapped!”

Lady #2: “I don’t think she pretending; she’s skinny!”

(Uh, glad to know being a skeletal noodle validates my health issues?)

(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.)