One of my funnier stories in court was merely the swearing-in of a witness. The man was Italian. I asked him to hold the Bible out in his right hand. As he did so, I said:

Me: “The evidence you shall give, touching the matter now before this court, shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Please say the words, ‘So help me God.’”

With a serious disposition and in a loud, thick Italian accent, the man replied:

Man: “Touching this here Bible, I swear I tella no bulls***!”

The courtroom — from the Magistrate to the back of the public gallery — erupted in laughter!

This story reminded me of why I used to drive fifteen miles past three other grocery stores to shop at my favorite one.

My son was five years old and not exactly the best at remembering anything. For example, he’d forget he was clutching one of his favorite toys, or he’d forget that we don’t live in the grocery store.

We were about to check out when he said:

Son: “I left Mr. Mouse on a shelf.”

Me: “Which shelf?”

He just shrugged. Terrific.

I asked at the customer service desk if anyone had turned in a palm-sized stuffed mouse with half of a plastic Easter Egg on its head. (What can I say? My child was creative.) No one had. I looked through the aisles where we’d gone, but the mouse never turned up.

As I was leaving, they asked me if I’d found it. They seemed genuinely concerned.

Well, they seemed genuinely concerned because they WERE genuinely concerned.

Whatever transpired next in the store must have involved an aisle-by-aisle search with walkie-talkies and storewide announcements, scouring the place from top to bottom, hunting for Mr. Mouse. By the time I got home, I had a message on my voicemail. Mr. Mouse was secured, orange helmet and all.

We put away the groceries and returned to the store. I made sure my son thanked everyone he could.

Related:
My Family, And Other Animals, Part 14

I once had to drive to the airport to pick up my housemate. I had circled through the pick-up area a couple of times already and was making a third circuit when I had to stop because there was a crosswalk in front of me and pedestrians were using it.

One of the officers who controlled traffic there immediately started blowing their whistle and yelling at me.

Officer: “Keep moving! There’s no stopping unless you’re actively picking someone up.”

There were pedestrians literally DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF MY CAR. And it’s not like I was driving some behemoth of a vehicle that was blocking his view; at the time, I drove a 1993 Volvo 940 turbo station wagon. He could clearly see the people in the crosswalk. I guess he just really wanted me to run them over.

For the record, I chose to wait until I WOULDN’T risk committing vehicular manslaughter before driving out of the pick-up area, going to the parking structure, and texting my housemate that I’d meet her on foot to help her carry her luggage to the car.

An older male customer comes in asking for a refund. I direct him to my nearest manager since the item is waaaaay outside the return range. It should be noted that my manager is a Muslim woman, wearing a hijab.

Female Manager: “Sir, I’m sorry, but you purchased this item over a year ago. I can’t give you a refund, but I can offer you store credit.”

Customer: “Get me a manager!”

Female Manager: “Sir, I am a manager.”

The customer sneers at her, looking her up and down.

Customer: “They let [slur]s like you become managers?!”

Another manager, a white male, is passing by and hears this specific statement.

Male Manager: “What’s going on here?”

Female Manager: *Maintaining an amazing level of professionalism* “This customer would like to return this item that was purchased thirteen months ago.”

Male Manager: *To the customer* “No can do. You need to leave now.”

Customer: “Are you the top guy around here? Maybe we can figure this out.”

Male Manager: “I’m not in a position to figure out anything for you. You might be able to get store credit from the store manager, but I can’t give you anything.”

Customer: “Well, go get him, then!”

The male manager and I, both smiling, point back toward our manager in the hijab.

Female Manager: “That would be me. You need to leave now.”

Customer: “Sorry, that was before I realized you were a store manager. I’m happy to accept your offer of store credit.”

Female Manager: “And that offer was before I realized you were a racist a**hole. You won’t even be getting store credit now.”

Customer: “You f****** [slur]! We should have wiped you all out in Desert Storm!”

Female Manager: “My family moved here in the sixties from Pakistan. Desert Storm was in the nineties and was in Iraq. You can’t even get your racist history right!”

Male Manager: “That’s enough of that. Please leave now, sir.”

Customer: “You f****** traitor to your people!”

Male Manager: “You are not my people. Now shoo! Or do I need to call security?”

The customer gives us the finger and storms out, shouting that he’s gonna call up the news and “get Hannity to tell the nation that our chain trains terrorists”. 

Male Manager: “Ooh! Free publicity!”

A regular at our restaurant will tap her martini glass with a fork, wait for me to turn and make eye contact, and then call across the room:

Regular: “MORE MARTINIS!”

Tap, tap, tap.

Regular: “WE’RE READY FOR OUR FOOD NOW!” 

Sometimes, I’ll see how many times she taps because I know she knows that it’s trashy, and she’ll start to get uncomfortable but still keep going.

Tap, tap, tap. 

Silence.

Tap, tap, tap. 

Manager: “Hey, Ms. [Regular] is trying to get your attention.” 

Me: “I know. Give it two more.”

Tap, tap, tap.

Me: “Stay strong. One more…” 

Tap, tap, tap.

Me: “More martinis, Ms. [Regular]?”

By then, she had the whole dining room looking at her sideways, which was enough for me. Small victories are the best victories in the service industry.