I’m the bad employee in this story! It’s just past our lunch rush on a sleepy Sunday morning. A man comes into our restaurant and orders a beer and a burger — a typical Sunday afternoon meal. I put in his order, deliver his beer, and… completely forget about him being sat on the outside terrace.

About twenty minutes later, I wander outside to take a look and see a very confused, hungry, and angry patron waving his hands as if to say, “Where is my food?!”

I rush back to the console and realise my error: I forgot to put in his burger! I run upstairs to the kitchen, beg them for the next fresh burger that comes out, and run downstairs with it to the guy.

Me: “Sir, here is your burger. I am so, so sorry for the delay—”

Customer: “Yeah, I have to be on my train in forty minutes!”

Me: “Sir, again, I profusely apologise, it was my fault your burger did not arrive in time; I forgot to put it in our system. If you would like a takeaway box we can do that for you, but I assure you, you will not need to pay for the burger.”

Customer: “Okay, thank you.”

I meander back indoors. I’m pissed off and annoyed with myself. The restaurant has only three other tables; how could I forget his order? I decide it’s best to leave him alone and let him enjoy his food in the meantime. I check back twenty minutes later with his bill ready to go, just in case.

Me: “Sir, if you need to catch your train, I have your bill here for you so I do not delay you any more than I have already.”

Customer: “I appreciate that. Can I see the bill?”

Me: “Of course. Here you go.”

The bill only states his beer for payment; the burger has not been added.

Customer: “I will pay for the burger; it’s the least I can do for snapping at you.”

Me: “Sir, it’s not a problem. I forgot to put your food in, and that’s my fault.”

Customer: “I really do not mind. You were honest with me about your mistake.”

Me: “Sir, I insist.”

Customer: “Okay! How much was the burger again?”

The burger was around 145 Swedish kronor. I watched as he added that exact figure to the gratuity screen; he was tipping me for my honesty.

Sometimes, just being honest really is the best policy!

I work in a library, and we have a coffee machine in our lobby where visitors can get coffee, tea, or hot chocolate. The hot chocolate is very popular with kids. 

I spot a little boy running up to his dad, waving a paper mug from the machine. 

Boy: “Dad, can I have hot chocolate?”

Dad: “Not today, buddy.”

Boy: “Daaad, pleeeease!”

Dad: “No, we don’t have time today; we can get it next time. Now put that mug back where you found it.”

Boy: “But I already licked it!”

It’s the 1990s. My father calls me one night.

Father: “You have to come right now!”

He is a bit agitated and doesn’t even say hi or hello.

Me: “What’s the problem?”

Father: “I can’t set the date and time on my new VCR!”

Me: “Did you follow the manual?”

Father: “Yes! Of course! I have tried several times and it does not work.”

Me: “Are you sure you followed the manual?”

Father: “Yes! Come. Here. Now!”

I go over to my parents’ house, grab the remote and the manual, follow the instructions, and…

“Beep!” 

The date and time are set.

Father: “What did you do?!”

Me: “Just what the manual told me.”

Father: “You must have done something else! I tried several times. It didn’t work!”

Me: “No, I just followed the instructions.”

Father: “You must have done something else!”

Me: “Well… I turned the VCR on first…”

But the instructions didn’t say that you had to start the VCR first; I have to give him that.

The owner of the company at my last job was the absolute worst boss I ever had. He literally nearly ruined my life on at least two occasions.

As an immigrant to this country, I needed to have a job in order to stay on under a work permit. There were minimum standards to be met — salary level, insurance coverage requirements, and the like — in order for my permit to be renewed every two years.

Both times — both times! — this cheapskate ignored the requirements, which caused the national migration board to threaten me with deportation if the issues weren’t addressed. Both times, however, the issues were resolved (no thanks to him) and I was able to stay on.

In addition, while I was in the process of waiting for my work permit to be renewed — which he was well aware of — he tried to lay me off citing a lack of available work. This was ridiculous; I was one of the few staff members actually providing the service he advertised instead of a project manager who coordinated the work of in-house staff and freelancers. I had to get my union involved in the negotiations in order to get him to back off. I can only guess how things would have gone if he’d managed to let me go.

The long and the short of it is that I ended up tangling with the migration board and its processes for over ten years when the straightforward process would have gotten me permanent residency in five. Needless to say, the constant background of stress and worry over being allowed to build a life here took a toll on my mental health.

It was all I could do to not laugh in his and his wife’s faces when they tried to make a counteroffer the day I sat down with them to say I’d gotten and accepted an offer from my current job. A major boost in pay, proper insurance coverage, a ton of additional benefits — everything came together. I got permanent residency, then citizenship, and a professional accreditation I’d been trying for years to get.

Is it any wonder I never even thought about looking back the day I walked out that door?

About ten years ago, I lived in a student apartment that was owned by a foundation. Since student housing is hard to come by — and has been since medieval times — you could only rent on a time-restricted contract. You had to tell them when you were supposed to finish your studies when you rented, and the contract was set to expire three months afterward. It was an unironically decent system, and if you needed or wanted to extend your studies, you could just extend your contract to the new expected end date.

Since my contract expired on the first of a month, I was quite unsure how much money I was supposed to pay them, so I went to the office to talk to them since I also had other questions. This is not the common way to do things in Sweden as we are a naturally shy people; you are expected to send all questions by email. You do, however, have to turn up at an appointed time to sign contracts and the like.

It was the beginning of March when I went to the office and had this conversation.

Me: “Hello! I have some questions.”

Clerk: *Annoyed* “Yeah. Shoot.”

Me: “How does the rent for the last month work?”

Clerk: “What?”

Me: “My contract is set to expire on the first of April. Are you going to send me a one-day invoice, or how does it work?”

Clerk: “Have you cancelled your contract?”

Me: “Cancelled?”

Clerk: “Cancelled. You have a three-month notice period.”

Me: “Well, yes, that is true, but my contract is set to expire in a few weeks.”

The clerk gave me a blank stare.

Me: “Could you kindly get my contract?”

The clerk fetched my contract after some identification on my part. The headline read, “TIME-RESTRICTED CONTRACT” in big, bold letters, and there were four separate spaces where the end-time of April first was marked. 

Me: “Yeah, so, the contract expires on the first, right?”

Clerk: “Yes.”

Me: “Well then, is everything sorted?”

Clerk: *Snorts* “You have to cancel your contract.”

Me: “Are you telling me that I have to cancel my contract that expires in a few weeks?”

Clerk: *As if I am very dumb* “Obviously, yes.”

Me: “Oookay. Well then, let us sort it out. We’ll cancel my contract on the first of April.”

Clerk: “You have a three-month notice period!”

I paused.

Me: “So… may I live in my apartment if I don’t give you my notice?”

Clerk: “No!”

Me: “But… I have to cancel the contract anyway?”

Clerk: “If you want to extend your contract, you have to provide a Proof Of Study from the university.”

Me: “I’m not a student. I intend to move home to work in my field.”

Clerk: “Then you obviously can’t live here.”

Me: “Yes, thank you, I am with you there, but have I understood you correctly that I have to cancel my time-restricted contract, which in this case will enable me to live in the apartment after the contract expires?”

Clerk: “You may not keep the apartment if you aren’t a student!”

Me: *Exhaustedly* “Yes. Thank you. But, please tell me: is my contract time-restricted?”

Clerk: “Yes.”

Me: “And does it expire on the first of April?”

Clerk: “Yes.”

Me: “And I can’t live there afterward?”

Clerk: “Yes.”

Me: “So, my contract expires on the first of April, and then I stop paying rent and move?”

Clerk: “You. Have. A. Three. Month. Notice. You have to pay rent for that time!”

Me: “So, my contract expires on the first of July?”

Clerk: “No, on the first of April!”

At that point, I mostly just wanted to get away. 

Me: “Right. So. May I live here between the first of April and the first of July?”

The clerk began to ponder.

Me: “Because I have a three-month notice?”

The pondering continued.

Me: “On the contract that expires on the first of April?”

Never before had such pondering been done.

Me: “Right?”

Clerk: “Yes. Yes, that is true. You may live here until the first of July. Sign here that you are cancelling your contract.”

Me: *Signs* “I find this quite confusing. How would you find out that I was living there if I didn’t come here today? Why did you insist on a time-restricted contract if I have to do all of this anyway?”

Clerk: “We have routines! Don’t ask so many questions!”

The clerk snatched the paper from me and walked away.

I have recounted this confusing tale many times, and a specialist accountant I recounted it to told me that they had, in fact, done a big oopsie: it is the duty of the landlord to give ME the notice when contracts are due to expire. Otherwise, the contracts apparently renew indefinitely. So, if I hadn’t come by, I might have been able to live there until the end of time without them noticing. That still does not explain why they just didn’t let me leave on the agreed-upon date.