(I have just begun working at a privately-owned hotel for the summer; this incident occurs during my first week as a new front desk employee. The contract that guests sign upon arriving states, “Guests must inform the front desk of any problems in their room within thirty minutes of check-in to give us the opportunity to correct it. After thirty minutes have passed, no refunds or room changes will be given.” I check a guest, his wife, and their daughter into their room. Approximately twenty minutes later, the husband comes back to the front desk, furious.)

Guest: “My room is filthy!”

Me: “I’m sorry, I see that housekeeping noted that they’ve cleaned that room. I’ll go grab the cleaner in charge of that room and send him back up. It shouldn’t take long.”

Guest: “No, I don’t want to stay in that room; it’s filthy! I don’t want to stay here. Your prices are ridiculous. I want a refund; I’m leaving!”

Me: “Let me go speak to my manager.”

(I walk into the employee area behind the front desk and find one of the owners of the hotel in his office, which is within view and earshot of the angry guest. I explain the problem, including that the guest wants to leave right now so he isn’t just trying to get a free room for the night.)

Owner: “No refunds. Do not give him a refund. Switch him to the room next door, but do not upgrade his room or give him a refund.”

(I walk back to the front desk.)

Me: “Sir, I can switch you to another, clean room. It’s right next door to the one you have so that you don’t have to wait for the cleaners. Let me show you—”

Guest: “NO! I don’t want to see another room. The room you put my family into is filthy! All of your rooms are probably filthy. Your whole hotel is disgusting! I want a refund. Where is your manager? I want to speak to your manager!”

(I go back to the owner’s office.)

Me: “He wants to speak to a manager.”

Owner: “When you are on the front desk, you are the manager. I’m not going out there so he can yell at me; you deal with it. He can either move into the other room, wait for his room to be cleaned, or leave without a refund. He will not get a refund; I’m sick of people wanting refunds.”

(I went back out. The guest stood there for forty-five minutes, screaming at me — and later, other guests trying to check in — about how filthy the room was, demanding a refund and a manager every few minutes, before he decided to just dispute the charges on his credit card and stomped out. The guest, while rude, aggressive, and pigheaded may have been entitled to a refund under the ambiguous contract. When I checked the room, I found cracker crumbs in a corner that may have been missed by the vacuum or dropped by the guest’s daughter, though the room was otherwise clean. This story belongs in Not Always Working because the owner of the hotel sat in his office, watching and listening to this guest scream at a new employee for forty-five minutes through a cracked office door because of his own stinginess and cowardice.)

(I am telefundraising for our school.)

Me: “Hello, I’m calling from [School]. Can I speak with Mr. [Call Recipient]?”

Old Man: “Why do you people always call when I’m eating my baked potato?”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir… Is there a better time to reach you when you won’t be enjoying your potato?” 

Old Man: “I never know when I’ll be having one… but somehow you always do.”

(Click.)

(When I am a small child, I am terrified that there are monsters in my room at night.)

Me: “Mom! There’s a monster under my bed!”

Mom: “Will you knock it off? We go through this every night. There is no monster under your bed. THERE ARE NO SUCH THINGS AS MONSTERS!”

Me: “Mom?”

Mom: “Yes?”

Me: “There’s a gorilla under my bed.”

(She couldn’t tell me there were no such things as gorillas, now could she?)

(It is February vacation, which is a week-long break for public schools in New England. My brother and his family visit, since they also have February vacation and my brother has work in Boston. My wife, my brother’s new fiancee — he’s a widower — and our combined five children and I go to a local tourist attraction, a farm and wildlife sanctuary that is open to the public. We are near the chicken coop when my brother’s fiancee just starts yelling at some Indian family nearby.)

Brother’s Fiancee: “Don’t talk about God that way!”

Indian Man: “I was not talking about religion.”

Brother’s Fiancee: “I bet you’re not even Christian!”

Indian Man: “No, I’m not. I fail to see how–”

Brother’s Fiancee: “You’re condemning your kids to suffer in Hell.”

(At this point, my identical twin nieces are hugging me, scared.)

Indian Man: *calmly* “I will make a deal with you. I assume you are a Christian. I will live according to my Hindu virtues and you to your Christian ones, of which I believe intolerance of the beliefs of others seems to tragically be one such virtue. Then, when we die, we shall see who goes to Heaven and Hell, though the stakes are higher for you than for me, for neither Hell or Heaven are permanent to me. Should I make a mistake and end up in either, I shall be reborn with another chance to attain the divine.”

(My brother’s fiancee was speechless and walked to the car and waited there alone for a few hours while we finished our sightseeing. That evening, my brother called off the engagement. It appears she had been unpopular with her almost-stepdaughters for a while, making fun of the fact that they look the same, wear glasses, and are second graders, and also insinuating that their mother went to Hell because she was Jewish.)

(My dad has worked for about ten years in tech support for several companies. He is currently working at a company that sets up Internet routers. He’s taking customer calls.) 

Dad: “[Company], this is [Dad]; what can I do for you?”

Secretary: “Our Internet isn’t working.”

Dad: *gets router number and begins asking questions* “All right, are all of the lights on the box on? Are any blinking?”

Secretary: “There aren’t any lights on.” 

Dad: “Have you made sure that the box is plugged in?” 

Secretary: “Yes, it’s plugged in.” 

Dad: “Okay, let’s try resetting it. Go ahead and hold the power button down.”

Secretary: “There isn’t a power button on this box.”

Dad: “There should be a large blue button under the lid.” 

Secretary: “I can’t open the lid; it’s nailed closed.”

Dad: “It’s nailed closed?”

Secretary: “Yeah, the nail is holding it closed. I can’t open it. Can you just send someone to fix it?”

(My dad didn’t know what more to do, so he sent someone to look at the box. When they got to the office, they found that the box was not plugged in, but that wasn’t the biggest problem. It wasn’t plugged in because they had placed it too high on the wall to reach the outlet. It was nailed onto the wall; that is, there was a giant building nail going straight through the center of the router. Whoever managed this office decided the router was getting in the way so they nailed it to the wall. My dad is very happy not to work in tech support any longer.)