I lived on a military base for a few weeks. My packages started disappearing. It wasn’t every package, but with Christmas coming up, I couldn’t keep ordering and risk my purchases disappearing. Every person on base has to either have a military ID or sign in with the front gate, so the possible list of thieves was limited. Still, with no way to identify the thief, my report was useless.

I ordered a security camera and decided it would be too ironic if the camera was stolen, so I took the day off work and waited for the delivery. I heard someone at my front door and thought it was the delivery guy. Instead, I was face to face with a man in plain clothes. He looked up, his hands on my delivery.

Man: “Uh…”

He extended the box toward me. I took his picture with my phone.

Man: “You can’t take my picture!”

Me: “You can’t take my delivery. Now get the f*** off my porch.”

I took the box from his hands and shut the door in his face. I went out later to install my camera and found that my potted plants had been ripped out and a puddle of urine was left on my doorstep. I shared the photo with security and they confirmed that the man was a guest of one of the families living on my street. I installed my camera and haven’t had a package stolen since.

I work in a dealership. One of the service advisors brings a customer up to me, the cashier. The customer is an old woman. He talks to her a little bit about what they did and the recommended service for next time. I wait for them to finish up before I talk. The service advisor hands me the paperwork and keys and goes back to his desk. The customer tries to reach through the gap in the plastic separating us to get her keys, but I move them out of her reach. It’s policy to not let the customer have their keys until after they have paid.

Me: “Hello. It’s [total]; just go ahead and stick your card in there.”

The customer huffs but sticks her card in. The machine spits out the credit card slip for her to sign. I also mark where on the paperwork she needs to sign.

Me: “Okay, I need a signature here and here.”

Customer: *Suddenly snaps* “You have an attitude; you need to back off.”

Me: “Uh—”

Customer: “Ever since I got here you’ve had an attitude. And you need to change this. That’s not me. Change the name.”

Families tend to share cars, so we usually only keep the main driver’s name on file, but we have no problem if a spouse or child brings the car in for service.

Me: “I can’t change it, but I can ask [Service Advisor] to change it once we’re done.”

The customer storms over to her service advisor and drags him back up to the cashier desk. She refuses to sign the paperwork until he changes it to her name. This takes a few minutes. She’s super huffy the whole time and glaring at me. I think I hear her mumble something about young people being useless, but I’m not sure since I took a step back to take some deep breaths. I turn to the computer to finish up the task I was doing before she got there.

Eventually, the service advisor returns with the changed paperwork. She huffs some more as she signs it. There are two copies of the paperwork: a blue copy for the customer and a white copy for us. The only difference is the color of the paper. I take the white copy and hand her the blue copy and her keys.

Customer: “I need a copy of that.”

Me: “Yes, it’s right here.”

Customer: “No, I need a copy of that that I signed.”

Service Advisor: “This is your copy here; it’s the exact same thing. It explains everything that was done to the vehicle.”

Customer: “No! I need a copy of that! That’s different, what I signed. I need a copy of what I signed!”

I grab the white copy and throw it into the copier. While my back is to her, I take some more deep breaths because I know she is trying to goad me into a reaction. She watches me do this. I hand her the copy of the white copy.

Customer: “This isn’t the copy.”

Me: “Yes, it is. That’s where you signed right there.”

Customer: “No, it’s not. Show me the original.”

I grab the original and show her that, yes, it is a copy of the white copy.

Customer: “Hmph. I guess it’s okay. Where are my keys?”

They’re literally right in front of her. I move them closer to her.

Me: “Right here. Have a good day.”

I step back and return to the computer and the service advisor returns to his desk. With no one else around to yell at, the customer huffs and leaves. As soon as she’s gone, the service advisor comes back up to me.

Service Advisor: “Man, I hope when I’m that old I’m not cranky like that.”

Me: “Same.”

The only thing I can think of that set her off was that it was early in the morning and I’m not perky at that hour, which she interpreted as an attitude. Or she was just looking to pick a fight.

In the early 2010s, I am working as a lot attendant at a grocery store. It is the middle of a July heatwave and temperatures are in the high nineties with very high humidity — not horribly uncommon for this particular part of Florida. I’ve only been with the company for a couple of weeks, but I know that our company encourages — but does not require — lot attendants to come in periodically during particularly hot days to get a drink of water. Normally, this isn’t a problem, since there are always at least two or three lot attendants on duty at any time, and our manager rotates between us periodically.

On this particular day, however, I’m the only lot attendant on duty, as the other two who normally work today did not show up; one called out sick and the other is out of state for a wedding. Two hours into my shift, I am getting thirsty and exhausted, so I go in for a drink of water. The store manager, who is standing nearby, stops me.

Manager: “Where are you going?”

Me: “For a drink of water.”

Manager: “No. You can’t leave the lot unattended.”

Me: “I’ve been out here two hours, and I’m thirsty!”

Manager: “Deal with it. There are no other lot attendants. You are not coming inside.”

Me: “Can’t you send one of the baggers out to help?”

Manager: “No, their job is not to push carts; their job is to bag. Your job is to push carts. You are the only lot attendant here, so you cannot come inside.”

Me: “But I—”

Manager: *Raising her voice* “Not. Another. Word. You are not allowed to come inside from now until the end of your shift. If I see you inside the store at any point before you leave for the day, you will be fired! Sign this and get back to work, now!“

She hands me a write-up for insubordination. I reluctantly sign it and return to pushing carts. Two hours later, I am exhausted to the point that I can barely push more than three carts at once. A gentleman getting out of his car notices me and walks over.

Gentleman: “Are you all right, buddy?”

Me: “I’m fine.”

Gentleman: “No. You do not look fine. How long have you been out here? And have you been drinking water?”

Me: “Four hours, and not a drop.”

Gentleman: “Okay, you need to come inside.”

Me: “But my boss said I’d be fired if—”

Gentleman: “You will not be fired. That is a personal promise from me. What’s your name?”

Me: “[My Name].”

Gentleman: “Okay, [My Name], go to the break room. I’ll buy you some water and speak to your boss myself. Again, you will not be fired. That is a promise.”

I feel a little relieved upon hearing this, so I go inside and head straight to the breakroom, hoping I won’t encounter my manager. Surprise, surprise, she is sitting there when I walk in.

Manager: “WHAT DID I JUST TELL YOU?!”

Me: “But I—”

Manager: “SAVE IT! YOU’RE FIRED! GET OUT! NOW!”

I sheepishly leave the breakroom. The gentleman from earlier notices me as I am coming out of the breakroom.

Gentleman: “Where are you going?”

Me: “Home. [Manager] just fired me.”

A look of pure rage develops on the gentleman’s face.

Gentleman: “Oh, please tell me she did not just do that.”

Me: “Yes. She did.”

Gentleman: “Son of a… Come with me. I will personally handle this.”

The gentleman escorts me to the break room and tells me to go in first. The manager is still inside.

Manager: “WHY THE F*** HAVEN’T YOU LEFT YET?! I told you to —”

The manager’s face suddenly turns chalk-white as the gentleman steps in.

Manager: “[Gentleman]? What are —”

Gentleman: “YOU GOT SOMETHING YOU WANT TO TELL ME, [MANAGER]?!”

Manager: “I—”

Gentleman: “This poor kid’s been outside for four f****** hours without water! He’s clearly dehydrated, and he could’ve suffered a heat stroke! What the f*** were you thinking? Why didn’t you send someone else out?”

Manager: “B-because—”

Gentleman: “You know what? Save it. Go to the office, right now. We are going to discuss that in a moment.”

He turns to me and hands me two bottles of water he bought for me.

Gentleman: “Here you go, [My Name]. Take thirty minutes to cool down, and then go help out in frozen food for the rest of your shift. I’ve already got two of the baggers helping out with carts.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Gentleman: “Don’t mention it. Guy’s gotta look out for his employees.”

He then pulled his company name tag out of his shirt pocket, with the title “Regional Director” underneath his name. We shook hands, and he went to the office to talk with my manager. While I was drinking the water he had given me, I could hear him screaming at the manager for a good fifteen minutes. His voice suddenly went down, and then the manager’s voice suddenly raised for a few minutes before she stormed out. She glared at me on her way out as she was passing the break room. The regional director came back into the breakroom and assured me that I wouldn’t have to deal with her anymore and that my write-up from earlier had been quashed.

The very next day, the company announced a new policy for heatwaves. Lot attendants were no longer permitted to stay outside continuously for more than one hour at a time in temperatures over 95°, and stores had to provide them with complimentary cold water bottles that they could take outside with them.

As for the manager, she got suspended for fourteen days, and then she was fired when she got back. From what I heard, they were originally going to simply demote and transfer her to another store after her suspension, but an investigation conducted during that time revealed that she forced underage employees to work longer hours than were permitted by Florida law, and in many cases, she didn’t allow them to take breaks that were otherwise mandatory.

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My psychology teacher junior year of high school had some… interesting thoughts he liked to share with the class, and we were supposed to treat them as gospel despite many of them not being the least bit true. This is one of the few times I was able to refute his “logic”.

Teacher: “You’ll notice that I’ve rearranged the classroom to have the desks in sets of four rather than seven. Please choose your seats.”

Cue the class shuffling around.

Teacher: *Smugly* “Just as I thought. See, people who are most likely to sit in the first seats are A students. Those of you who chose the seats in the back are D students at best. You might even fail. It never fails; those with the worst grades always sit in the back!”

Me: “Or we’re just tall and don’t want anyone to have to sit behind us and try to see over us?”

Teacher: “What?”

Me: “I’m over six feet tall. I’m one of the tallest kids in this room, if not this school. I’m taller than you. Of course, I picked a seat in the back.”

Fellow Tall Classmate: “Yeah, same. I’m just tall and don’t want anyone to try and see over me. We both sat in the back when the seats were arranged the other way because we’re tall, nothing else.”

Teacher: “Well… hm…”

Fellow Tall Classmate: *To me* “What’s your grade? I’ve got a high B right now.”

Teacher: *Quietly* “She has an A.”

Not only did I keep my A, but I had the highest grade out of that class and the second-highest out of all his classes, and I sat in the back all year. And my fellow tall classmate finished up the year with his B!

My cat passes away, and in the stress of dealing with his illness, I do forget to wear a mask outside a couple of times. The following days after his death, I suddenly get very sick, and naturally, all I can think of is that I caught something when I forgot to wear a mask. I have almost entirely lost my voice. So, I decide to get tested.

The nurse looks down my throat.

Nurse: “Yeah, you look a bit torn up in there from coughing. Let’s get the tests started.”

She swabs for a couple of different things, and while we are waiting for the results, she says:

Nurse: “Also, your tonsils looked kind of inflamed and oddly shaped…”

Me: *Croaking* “My what?!”

Nurse: “Tonsils, in the back of your throat?”

Me: *Coughing* “I had a tonsillectomy seven years ago!”

Nurse: *Pauses* “That would explain the odd shape they’re in. Well, you’re negative for [contagious illness], strep, and flu, so it’s probably tonsillitis.”

It turns out that, much like if you have part of your liver cut off, your tonsils can grow back, too. I’m the first person I know to have tonsillitis after getting tonsils removed. Good grief!