This is in the early 2000s. My cell phone rings with an unfamiliar landline number.

Me: “Hello?”

Teenage Girl: “Who is this?”

I’ve had my share of prank calls and drama with exes spying on me through creative means. I know not to answer that.

Me: “Who are you looking for?”

Teenage Girl: “Again, who are you?”

Me: “And once again, who are you looking for?”

Teenage Girl: “I found this number on a piece of paper in my house. Tell me who you are! Now!”

Me: *Deepening voice* “You dialed the wrong number!”

I give an evil vampire laugh and then hang up. I toss the phone on my couch and go back to playing my game. The phone rings again with the same number. I pick up again.

Teenage Boy: “Who the f*** is this?”

Me: *Deepened voice* “You tell me.”

Teenage Boy: “You want me to come kick your a**?”

I hear the girl in the background.

Teenage Girl: “Don’t threaten him! You have no idea who it is; he could be some sick serial killer!”

Teenage Boy: “S***! Okay, listen, I’m sorry—”

Me: *Sinister cackling* “Too late!” *Hangs up*

The phone rings again — same number. This is getting almost comical. I briefly debate letting it go to voicemail, but then I remember that I state my first and last name in the voicemail greeting. This time, I pick up and push the “End” button to immediately hang up. This happens three consecutive times before I decide to answer again.

Me: *Deep voice* “And who is annoying me this time?”

Middle-Aged Woman: “Excuse me, who is this?”

Me: “Jack the Ripper. Would you like to order a hit? I accept vehicle titles, property deeds, and written wills.”

Middle-Aged Woman: *Slight pause* “You’re going to jail! Why are you harassing and threatening my children? You want a nine-millimeter in your head? We got plenty of guns here!”

Me: “To my recollection, I’m the only person who is literally receiving harassing and threatening phone calls from you, my lady. Of course, if you would care to feel safer, you should consider hanging up and not dialing this number ever again.”

Middle-Aged Woman: “WHO ARE YOU?”

Me: “Who are you?”

Middle-Aged Woman: “WHO ARE YOU?”

Me: “Who are you?”

Middle-Aged Woman: “WHO ARE YOU?”

Me: “Who are you?”

Middle-Aged Woman: “You’re in deep! Hope you like jail!”

Me: “I’m shaking in my boots.” *Hangs up*

Thirty minutes later, the phone rings again with a different, unfamiliar number.

Officer: “Good afternoon, this is [Officer] with [City] Police. I received a complaint that you’ve been making threatening phone calls to a family—”

Me: “Officer, I will gladly run over to my cell phone provider right now and have them fax your precinct my cell phone records, which will show that not one single call from my number was placed to those bozos, and every single call was from their number to mine. If they feel any discomfort, they can feel free to stop calling me as, more than likely, they dialed the wrong number.”

The officer asked for my side of the story, I gave it, and she gave a relieved laugh and let me know she’d inform them of what was going on.

I never heard back from them again.

I got a job in the local liquor store. It’s a pretty nice gig, and my managers and coworkers are awesome, but the customers could use some work. A few days ago, a kid who is probably fifteen years old wanders into the store. She’s got a cart and a bag, and her phone is attached to her face. She comes to my register with a few packs of bubbly seltzer water.

Me: “May I see your ID, please?”

She flips out.

Teenager: “It’s not alcohol! You don’t need to card me!”

Me: “It’s a liquor store. You can’t even be in here without an ID or an adult.”

My manager is behind me and backs me up.

Teenager: “Fine. I’m going to call my daddy.”

And she storms out of the store. She stands outside on her phone yelling about how we’re being unfair, and then comes back in.

Teenager: “My daddy is on the phone, and he says you have to sell to me because it’s just water!”

Me: “No, I can’t, and I won’t.”

She tries handing me her phone and I back away.

Me: “No. If you want to buy it, you have to get an adult.”

She leaves the store again.

Twenty minutes later, a car pulls up and an older man comes into the store with the girl behind him.

Man: “I demand to speak to the manager about the unfair treatment of my daughter!” *Pointing at me* “I want the number to corporate, and I want your name and your manager’s name!”

He ended up buying his daughter the water while yelling at me and the manager.

I work at a gas station. This has been an ongoing problem I didn’t notice until last night. There’s a regular who comes in frequently but usually at times I’m too busy to really pay him any mind. I’ve noticed him go into the casino multiple times — our gas station is one of those that have a lottery room — but again, I’m busy at those times so I don’t think much of it.

You have to be twenty-one to even go in there. You can’t just go through it to come in and out of the store if you’re under twenty-one.

Last night, the regular and a friend — an older guy I know is over twenty-one — came in right before we locked up; we were supposed to close in two minutes. The regular made a beeline for the casino. I had only these two in the store, so I actually noticed that he had a pretty young face and didn’t look old enough. Sure enough, after an ID check, he wasn’t even out of his teens. I made him leave after explaining that he had to be twenty-one or over to be in there.

I came in today and explained to my manager, and I learned from her and a coworker that this regular frequently sneaks in and lies about his age or says the owner said it’s cool. Nope.

He came in later today. He bought some soda, and I crossed paths with him on his way to the casino as I was heading out to the main floor.

Me: “Sir, you can’t go in there.”

Regular: “I’m just leaving.”

Me: “You have to use the main doors. Our store doesn’t allow you to even enter the lottery room to go in and out of the store if you’re not twenty-one.”

He just ignored me.

Now, I had to keep my eyes out for him to make sure he wasn’t sneaking in. I decided to talk to my manager because, if he keeps doing this, I think it’s best we stop selling to him until he understands he’s not above the rules. We’ve agreed that if I catch him again, I should inform her, and that I am to inform him that if he keeps it up, we will be calling the police. I don’t know how he’ll react, but I know I sure as h*** wouldn’t want to risk the fines — apparently, they range from $500 to $1,000 just for underage gambling, and trespassing has a wider range — and potentially thirty days sitting in jail.

A half-hour after the last movie goes in, we officially close the theater, empty the registers, and lock doors. We keep some popcorn on hand in case anyone comes out for a refill, but other than that and cleaning up the theaters, we’re pretty much done with customers for the night. That being said, there’s almost always that one or two people who pre-ordered tickets and are running late, so we have someone watch the front doors and let in any stragglers who already have tickets.

It’s been forty-five minutes since the last movie went in, so the theater is totally closed, the doors are locked, and our systems have been shut down. I’m watching the front doors when a group of teenage boys suddenly runs up to the doors and starts pounding. I open the door.

Me: “Hey, guys! We’re closed for the night and can’t sell anything, but I can let you in if you already have tickets. Do you have tickets?”

Teenager #1: *Nodding* “Yes.”

I open the door and let them in. Immediately, two of the boys go to the box office while the other two go to the concession stand.

Me: “Um, fellas? We’re closed.”

Teenager #1: “Oh, we just need tickets to the [Movie] that just went in.”

Me: “Unfortunately, we’re closed and the registers are off. We can’t sell any more tickets or snacks tonight. That’s why I specifically asked you if you already had tickets.”

Teenager #1: *With a s***-eating grin* “And we will have tickets once you sell them to me!”

Me: “Sorry, guys, if you don’t have tickets, you’ll have to leave.”

Teenager #1: “But we just need tickets.”

Teenager #2: *At the concession stand* “Where is everyone?! I gotta get my popcorn on!”

Me: *Turning to him* “We’re closed!” *Turning back to the first kid* “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.”

Teenager #1: “For real?”

Me: “Yes, for real.”

The teens gather and act like they’re going to leave, so I go back to watch the door. I suddenly hear a coworker.

Coworker: “Did those guys have tickets?”

Me: “Who, those kids?”

Coworker: “Yeah, they just started walking toward the auditoriums.”

I leave my post and sprint to the back of the lobby and see the kids about to head into one of our theaters.

Me: “Guys! Seriously?”

Teenager #1: “Uh… well, you wouldn’t sell us tickets, so…”

They immediately turn and sprint into the theater, with me following behind them. I end up having to waste five minutes slowly corralling them, and I only finally get them to leave after threatening to call the cops. As they leave, the first kid turns back and sneers.

Teenager #1: “Go f*** yourself!”

My first job in high school is as a scorekeeper at a trapshooting range. Five guys with shotguns line up sixteen yards away from the trap house and shoot at bright orange clay pigeons. A shooter calls “pull” or some variation thereof to indicate they are ready for a target. Before the days of voice-activated pulls, it’s the scorekeeper’s job to push a button immediately upon hearing “pull.” If a shooter feels the pull came late, they won’t shoot at it. Most are pretty nice as this is an unusual occurrence. Each bank has four traps where the shooters take aim at twenty-five targets each. Their final score is out of 100.

I’m at the fourth trap of the bank. We are a few shots into the round when the only teenage shooter of this group calls “pull.” I push the button and he lowers his gun and calls, “Late.” I don’t think it was, but I give him the benefit of the doubt. I send another target when he calls again and we move on.

A few shots later, the same thing happens. He asks for a target, I push the button, he calls, “Late,” and doesn’t shoot. I know I wasn’t late and suspect he simply didn’t like the placement of the target when it left the trap house. Now I’m paying special attention to him.

A few shots later, he calls, I push the button, and he simply lowers his gun without saying anything.

Me: “Failure to fire.”

This is usually called when a gun misfires but is also appropriate when a shooter chooses not to fire at a good target. If a shooter has more than one failure to fire per round, he will be charged with a missed shot. The teenager turns to me, mouth wide open.

Teenager: “Excuse me?!”

Me: *Pointedly* “Failure to fire. That was a good pull.”

He looks around at the other shooters in his group for support, all of whom are studiously ignoring him and not making eye contact. The round continues as normal. He fires at every target after that.

At the end of the round, shooters usually come up to check their scores, say thank you, etc. The teenage shooter stalks away without coming by my chair. The lead shooter comes up to me.

Lead Shooter: “He’s been pulling that crap all day and you’re the first one to call him on it. Here, this is for having a backbone.”

He handed me $20!