I recently returned to work after being in the hospital for an operation, but I was told to go back to hospital if I get into severe pain. On my third day back at work, I collapse and my team leader gets me a [Rideshare] to get to hospital, setting up the pickup point on the right side of the road. I manage to stagger downstairs and wait for the [Rideshare] while all but collapsing on the pavement.

When the [Ride Share] driver arrives, he’s on the other side of the road with six lanes of traffic as well as buses and trams between us.

Me:
“Come over here!”

Driver:
“I can’t turn around!”

Me:
“Come over here! I can’t cross the road.”

Driver:
“I can’t do a U-turn here!”

I am about to faint from the intense pain I am in, so I scream at him.

Me:
“Get the f*** over here! I don’t care how you do it! I’m in f****** pain!”

The driver then went around the block and comes onto the right side of the road to pick me up. He got a one-star rating.

(I am a manager of an indoor children’s playland. I have the discretion to close early if we have not had any customers for a length of time. Weekends are always hectic with kids of all ages, but on weekdays we are mostly busy in the mornings with toddlers and often quiet in the afternoon, especially in winter with Daylight Savings. One Tuesday afternoon is particularly quiet. We had everyone pile out fairly quickly by 2:00 — probably for the school run — and we were left empty. I make the call at 4:30 that we’ll close at 5:00 and hang a sign on the door at 4:45 notifying customers. At 5:05, with everything locked up and the sign still on the door, I stand by my car, waiting with my colleague whose mum is late picking him up. Into the car park comes a car that parks next to mine.)

Colleague: “Who’s that?”

Me: “Oh, that’s not your mum, then?”

Colleague: “No.”

(A woman and her two- or three-year-old toddler come up.)

Woman: “Are you closed?”

Me: “Yes, I am terribly sorry but we have closed at 5:00 pm tonight. We will be open again tomorrow from 9:30 am.”

Woman: “But you can’t close early. He wants to play.”

(The kid looks like he doesn’t have a clue where he is and is preoccupied with a balloon.)

Me: “I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience but everything is already locked up and my colleague here is just about to be picked up. I won’t be able to open up again on my own.”

Woman: “I know [Owners] and they will fire you for closing early. They let my son and me play until close all the time.”

(This kid must have been minus-five-years-old when he met them!)

Me: “Again, I am sorry but [Owners] have not been the owners here for seven years, though they were the ones that created the rule to close early and the current owners agree with the logic behind it.”

(At this point, my colleague’s mum arrives but he stays with me, presumably in case there are any issues. Seeing the woman’s commotion, she, too, gets out of the car to see what’s going on.)

Woman: “You’re missing out on business here. You’re going to go out of business.”

Me: “Thank you for your concern, but as I mentioned, I am following protocol and we are now closed, so I will certainly be very happy to see you and your child another day for a play.”

Woman: *now yelling at us* “Tell me one reason why you can’t open. You should be open. I am a paying customer. I am right. You are wrong. [Owners] will fire you. You need to open now. My son is distraught!”

(He isn’t, though he looks upset by his mother shouting.)

Woman: “Why are you closed? Open the d*** playland now. My son is hungry and we want some chips. You’re not logical. You’re a b**** and you just want to go home early! Your manager will hear about this. This is illegal. I want free entry! I want free chips! You’re going to go bankrupt soon!”

Me: “Lady, stop screaming at us in front of your poor kid; you’re scaring him. We are closed. I was originally sorry that we inconvenienced you but I am no longer, as you’re being completely rude. I am the manager; I make the call if we close early and the correct, current owners approve this. I don’t need to explain myself to you, but since you enjoy going around in circles with no comprehension, nor manners, I’ll lay it all out for you. We had an unusually quiet afternoon and it made no logical sense to stay open any longer. Unless several customers came in, it wouldn’t cover the pays, let alone everything else. We are a business. We’re not a charity. The prices are what they are to cover rent, insurance, electricity, water, gas, food, drinks, staff, maintenance, software, play structures, cleaning, advertising, and a much longer list of items that are all behind the scenes to make us what we are today. Now, if you would like to come back on another day, when we are open, and you are polite and considerate, then we would absolutely love to see you and your son again. And if not, then I wish you a good evening, for we are all going home. Should you require any assistance leaving, I might be able to conjure up the security team we also have to pay for, to help you leave.”

(She stood there speechless for a minute before getting back into her car. The next day was my rostered day off so I didn’t have to deal with her expected wrath but, as it happened, she never called.)

(My friend is working as a bank teller in a branch of a major Arabic bank in the middle of Sydney. She was hired for being bilingual; both of her parents are of Palestinian descent, although all three of them now have Australian citizenship. My friend is a Christian and doesn’t wear any kind of headscarf, but she still looks very Arabic. An elderly, Caucasian lady walks into the middle of the branch and stands there, looking confused. My friend walks up to her and politely asks in English:)

Teller: “Is everything all right? May I help you with something today, ma’am?”

Elderly Lady: *visibly relieved* “Oh, thank goodness! And you speak excellent English, too!”

Teller: “Well, thank you, and so do you.”

Elderly Lady: “Oh, but I was born here!”

Teller: “Oh, so was I.”

Elderly Lady: “Oh, I mean, my parents were Australian.”

Teller: “Yes, and so are mine.”

Elderly Lady: *flustered again* “Oh, you foreign types, coming here to take our jobs and then you speak to me like this! All you want from this country is to buy up our businesses and get rich!”

(My poor friend managed to grit her teeth and deal with this bigoted old bat, and it turns out that she had hundreds of thousands of dollars invested… in Arabic-speaking companies overseas, of course.)

(Two friends and I are the tender age of 18 and decide to go out clubbing for the first time. We find a club, we party, we drink… waaaaay too much. We decide to leave but can barely make it down the stairs. I have a vague recollection of someone shouting, “Call an ambulance!”, but us shooing them away saying we are fine. So, there we are, standing at the edge of the main street of the busy clubbing area, dozens of people walking past us, with no idea how to proceed as we are all too trashed to even work out how to get home. After a while, a man dressed in sparkly trousers, crazy yellow glasses, and a white furry coat, carrying a speaker and another couple of large bags, comes to talk to us.)

Man: “Are you guys heading somewhere?”

Us: “Yeah, we just need to get home.”

Man: “You look like you’ve had a big night. Where are you heading?”

Us: “[Suburb].”

Man: “Okay, well, if you don’t mind coming via [Other Suburb 15 minutes from ours], we can share a cab, and then I can drive you home.”

Us: *with, apparently, no idea about personal safety* “Oh, that would be so good. Thank you!”

Man: “It’s all good. I’m a DJ; I’ve just been playing at [Nearby Club]. I see people like you guys all the time; it’s kind of refreshing. I’m happy to help.”

(He gets us a cab, loads his stuff in the back, opens the passenger door for us and gets in the front. We try to be polite and ask about his DJ-ing, but none of us can make much coherent conversation. We get to his place and get out of the cab, which he jumps in to pay for before any of us can offer.)

Man: “If you guys just want to wait on the path, I’ll just get my gear inside and get the car.”

(He returned in five minutes with his car, we piled in the back seat and gave him the address, again trying unsuccessfully to converse, and we were soon at our destination, all of us trying not to fall asleep or vomit. We got out, the man wished us well and drove off, and we all somehow managed to get into the flat and collapse on the floor for the next ten hours. Twenty years later, my friend and I still refer to this man as “the angel.” We couldn’t remember his DJ name so we were never able to track him down and soberly thank him or pay for the cab fare. Our night could have ended horrifically. We were unbelievably lucky to have such a nice, honest, decent bloke come to our aid in our moment of need. He never even said anything to make fun of us for our predicament — which would have been totally warranted. The world needs less drunk teenage idiots and more blokes like this guy.)

(Back when photo IDs are easier to fake, I am a cashier at a convenience store. The age to buy cigarettes is eighteen. A young guy who looks sixteen or seventeen brings up some soft drinks and snacks to the checkout.)

Me: “Good evening. Anything else?”

Young Guy: “Oh, and a pack of [Cheap Popular Cigarettes] and a lighter.”

Me: *before I get the cigarettes* “Sure, I just need to see some ID.”

(He pulls out what looks to be a state-issued ID that almost gets me.)

Me: “Oh, wow. You have to tell me your secret.”

Young Guy: “Um… secret?”

Me: “According to this, you’ve just turned 118. I’ve got to say you look amazing. What’s your secret?”

Young Guy: *looking defeated* “Um… so, I guess no smokes, then?”

Me: “That’s right, and I’m sorry but policy is to permanently ban you.”

Young Guy: *with his head hung low* “Can I at least have the ID back?”

Me: “Sorry, but I can’t do that.”

(He left the store and I passed it along to the police who regularly come in for coffee. Even they were impressed with the quality but had to laugh at the mistake.)

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