I grew up in a single-parent household without a lot of money. My mom couldn’t afford health insurance and ended up developing severe pneumonia from a neglected cold. She was in ICU for two weeks just before Christmas, and we were flat broke. She was stressed because she couldn’t afford food or presents for my siblings and me.

Some of the nurses, doctors, and staff at the hospital pooled together to get food, and someone told a local radio station about us. Perfect strangers gave us money, presents, food, coats, and decorations, so that instead of my mom having to rush straight back to work as a waitress, she was able to recover, and we actually had a good Christmas.

The delivery area for a [National Pizza Chain] store I worked at was rather diverse, with two overlapping gang territories closest to the store, a business district at the northern boundary, middle-class housing to the south, and high-end housing to the west.

One night, I had a delivery to an upper-middle-class development, a house I’d delivered to in the past. But when I got there, all the lights were off inside. I went ahead and got out and knocked anyway, given the location, and the door was opened a few inches by a shabbily-dressed teenager. It was a rather snobbish family that I knew to live there and I doubted this person would be associated with them. A car drove past before he said anything and he ducked behind the door frame as it went by before opening the door far enough to pay and take the pizza. When he did I could hear more hushed voices coming from another dark room.

Once I was back in my car and was driving away, I called the police to report a potential burglary in progress. And it turns out it was. It boggled my mind that someone would order pizza while committing a crime. But, people hide nothing from the delivery driver, so I brushed it off and went on with life expecting that would be the end of it.

However, two weeks later I delivered to the same development, but a different house… and the same teenager in a house I knew wasn’t his. I called the cops again, and again it was indeed a burglary in progress.

While not my favorite delivery story from the three years I spent doing so, it remains one that never fails to leave me shaking my head at the stupidity of some criminals.

(My nurse recounts this story to my father, her coworker, after I wake up from appendix surgery.)

Nurse: “I’m getting her to recovery and expecting her to be out for another few minutes when she suddenly sits up, turns to me, and tells me in the most deadpan voice, ‘Hey, I’m going to throw up now. Sorry,’ and spews. Then she makes a face, lays back down, and falls right back asleep.”

Dad: *snorts* “Funny thing is, sleep-walking and -talking runs in our family. I do it, and my sister does it. It wouldn’t surprise me if my daughter does, too.”

Nurse: “She warned me. Maybe she just woke up for a minute.”

Dad: “She’s a teenager. She hasn’t been awake since she was twelve.”

(And that’s when I ACTUALLY woke up from the surgery and started grumbling about feeling groggy. Either way, I don’t remember puking, or telling the nurse I was going to. And to be fair to my dad, it’s ten years later, and I’m STILL always tired.)

I work at a well-known restaurant famous for its fried chicken sandwiches. For some reason my coworkers and I have yet to discern, our drive-thru is always slammed, from early morning until late at night. Doesn’t matter what time of day it is; if you choose to go through drive-thru, you will probably have a dozen or so cars in front of you, though your wait should never be longer than about five minutes. Evidently that’s just too long for some “special” people, though.

“Guys… did someone just go in the wrong end of drive-thru?”

Upon hearing this, I can feel a few of my brain cells commit suicide. The exit to our drive-thru is clearly marked with a massive STOP sign, and opens right onto the top of a small hill. Getting out is easy, but to somehow enter from this direction unscathed takes no small amount of luck and stubborn determination.

The car passes by the window. It’s a brand new white Chrysler, and looks quite expensive. It’s also moving oh-so-very-quickly in the obviously wrong direction.

The entrance to the drive-thru starts as a bottleneck, but then opens up to allow cars to drive off if they so choose. It is not designed for people to get out of. Until now, we always thought it was physically impossible for a car to squeeze past the curb on one side and the car on the other.

Unnecessary foreshadowing. Forget I said anything.

The car approaches the bottleneck. It can now go no further without getting very physically intimate with a long line of other vehicles. Realizing he’s stuck, the driver begins gunning his engine aggressively, perhaps assuming the cars in front of him will sprout wings? Trying her best to be a good Samaritan, the customer closest to him gets out of her car and tells him he can’t go any farther, and that he’ll just have to go back out in reverse. The man’s response is quoted verbatim, and should be read in monotone:

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am…”

And then he floors it. Somehow he misses the good Samaritan, but her car is not so lucky. The entire right side of her car is scraped and ripped asunder by the left side of his car, but our special friend isn’t stopping just yet. Somehow, and we’re still not exactly certain how, he manages to get his two left wheels up on the curb of the drive-thru, and wall-rides past the other cars! Not before smashing into the sides of two more vehicles, though, one of them being driven by a beautiful young woman, eight months pregnant, with two kids and her elderly mother in the car.

As this scene from heck plays out, I can feel additional brain cells abandoning the ship. I take an hour or so to get eyewitness statements, talk to the victims, and bemoan the stupidity of mankind.

There was much bemoaning.

Some weeks later, we’re happy to learn that the police caught our special friend. He, of course, denied any of it ever happening, but it’s difficult to argue when we have pictures of the damage caused, eyewitness testimonies, and footage of your car causing the accident.

Oh, yes, and your license plate number. Taken by the good Samaritan who tried to help you.

(I work in a cosmetics department of a large store that has 29 different cosmetics counters. I’m really good at identifying products when customers don’t remember all the details.)

Customer: “Can you help me? I’m looking for an eyeliner that’s kind of sparkly.”

Me: “Sure, is there a particular kind?”

Customer: “No, I saw it somewhere.”

Me: “Was it [Brand she was looking at]?”

Customer: “I don’t know. I saw it in a magazine.”

Me: “Okay, let me see if I can figure it out for you. Was it liquid, pencil, or gel?”

Customer: “I don’t know.”

Me: “Okay, what did the package look like?”

Customer: “It was in a tube.”

Me: “In a tube like a pencil, or like the kind with a wand?”

Customer: “I don’t know.”

Me: “Do you remember any words that were on it?”

Customer: “I don’t know.”

Me: “What color was it?”

Customer: “It came in all different colors.”

Me: “Oh, okay, but I meant what color was the packaging?”

Customer: “I don’t know.”

Me: “Was there a particular color you wanted? Maybe I can narrow it down for you.”

Customer: “I don’t… I didn’t expect all these questions.”

Me: “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to quiz you! I’m just trying to help you find what you’re looking for.”

Customer: “I don’t know anything you’re asking me. Just forget it.”

(I’ll admit I was getting slightly annoyed by the end, but I didn’t let it show. Lots of people come in looking for something and don’t remember exactly what it was, and we can typically help them. But this lady expected us to show her the exact thing she was looking for even though she had NO identifying information. Literally every brand we have has an eyeliner that could be considered “kind of sparkly,” so there were dozens of options. She wouldn’t let me show her a few different kinds because she wanted the EXACT one she had seen… that she didn’t remember anything about… or if it even came from our store.)