I am not deaf, but I do speak American Sign Language, which means I automatically get to wait on tables when we realize one of the diners is deaf.

We also have a new manager who, while very hard-working and friendly, isn’t the sharpest tool in the box.

I am talking with said manager, when our front of house approaches me.

Front Of House: “Hey, so table four are all deaf as far as I can tell. They’re speaking to each other in sign language, and they all seem to be wearing hearing aids.”

I’m about to speak up, when I realize that our new manager thinks that the front of the house is talking to her, not me. Our manager doesn’t know that I can speak American Sign Language. 

Manager: *Without skipping a beat.* “On it!”

And with that, the manager rushes off to table four.

Front Of House: *To me.* “Does [Manager] speak sign language?”

Me: “I don’t know… maybe?”

Our manager comes back surprisingly quickly, looking pleased with themself.

Manager: “Sorted it out. I’m sure they appreciate the accommodations we make for all our diners!”

Curious, I go check on table four, so see three very confused-looking deaf people… holding Braille menus.

I’m in at the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) for a simple disabled placard. Here, you wait in a check-in line, where a person will assist you briefly before giving you a number to be called up to the desk. They also give out paperwork to be filled out, handle placards, and answer general questions.

I’m second from the front when a woman walks in, skipping the line. She speaks to the person in front of me, asking if this is where she gets a number to be seen. The person in front of me says they don’t know; they’re there for an appointment.

She asks if she can “ask a quick question” to the check-in person to make sure she’s in the right place. The person in front of me agrees.

Check-In Person: “Do you have an appointment?”

Woman: “I didn’t know you did appointments.”

Check-In Person: “We’ve had them for three years.”

Woman: “I don’t use the Internet or watch the news.”

Check-In Person: “What can I help you with?”

She goes into this thing about needing a number for being called up, it’s about her license, and can the check-in person just look at it and answer some questions before she gets her number?

Check-In Person: “Ma’am, I’m happy to help, but you need to get in line and wait your turn.”

She looks at the line, which is about twenty people, and looks back at the check-in person.

Woman: “I need to wait in line for a simple question? And to get a number? All the way back there? This is bulls***!”

She stomped toward the back. She wasn’t in line when I left about five minutes later. 

Related:
Not In Line And Out Of Line, Part 5
Not In Line And Out Of Line, Part 4
Not In Line And Out Of Line, Part 3
Not In Line And Out Of Line, Part 2
Not In Line And Out Of Line

I approach the office manager. We are both male.

Me: “The men’s facilities are almost out of toilet paper. Where do you store it?”

Office Manager: “It’s in [storage room], but thanks for the reminder. I’ll order some more.”

A nearby coworker, also male, scoffs at our interaction.

Coworker: “Why are two men so concerned about toilet paper. Seriously.”

Me: “Uh… well I don’t know about you but it’s kinda hard to wipe without it.”

Coworker: “You wipe? What are you, gay?”

My brain stutters.

Me: “Uh… what?!” 

Office Manager: “Can’t believe I’m asking this, but what do you wipe with?”

Coworker: “Nah, wiping a butt is gay. I’m not a f** like that.”

I am beyond words, and totally grossed out by the idea of this guy just… not wiping.

Office Manager: “Do you hold your junk when you pee?” 

Coworker: “Uh, duh! Gotta aim somehow!” 

Office Manager: “So touching your own d*ck isn’t gay, but wiping your butt is?”

Coworker: “Shut up! You know it’s different!”

Office Manager: “I really don’t. Explain it to me.” 

Coworker: “It’s… butts are gay, alright!”

Me: “So… wait… you never wipe?”

Coworker: “No! That’s gay!”

I walk away quickly to hide my disgust. The office manager tells me to leave it with him. That coworker is given a talking to about “office hygiene etiquette” by his manager (I wasn’t told that officially, but I was told that there’s a standard HR script for that) but that didn’t do down too well and he was let go a month later for… health reasons.

Client: “I’ve been looking at all these photos being taken by A.I.”

Me: “They’re generated by A.I., not taken by a camera, but yes, I’ve seen them, too.”

Client: “Well, if A.I. can make me anything I want, why do I need you for my projects?”

Me: “Well, A.I. can be very random, and it’s full of strange artefacts that you might not want in your photos.”

Client: “It sounds to me that you just don’t want to admit that your job has become obsolete.”

Me: “And it sounds to me like you just don’t want to pay your creatives.”

My once-regular photography work from that client suddenly dries up, but I am fine with my wedding and magazine work. (Try getting an A.I. to take nice pictures at a wedding!)

A few weeks later, the client is back on a call.

Client: “You do photo touch-ups, right? I need you to do some fixes to our photos, but at a discount since you’re only touching them up, not taking them.”

What they send me is the most laughable attempt at A.I.-generated photography I have ever seen. Some of these artificial people are outright monstrosities.

Me: “What do you need me to do with these… uh… images?”

I refuse to call them “photos”.

Client: “Just fix some of the things that look a bit weird.”

Me: “Like how this person has sixteen fingers?” 

Client: “…”

Me: “On one hand?”

Client: “Look, just tell me when you can get them done by!”

Me: “Ask your A.I. to fix them for you.” 

I did not take that job, nor did I take any other job from them again.

I wake up with some really bad flu-like symptoms. I don’t have to work until tonight but I know I’m going to have a rough day, so I call in.

Manager: “No. Unless you’re dying, you’re coming in.”

Me: “You can hear me coughing, right? You want me to work a checkout like this?”

Manager: “You come in tonight or you don’t come in at all.”

As much as I wanted to tell him to shove it, I was young at the time, and I didn’t know any better. I tried my best to sleep through the rest of the day and drink lots of water, but somehow by the time I get into work I am feeling even worse.

I feverishly start scanning a customer’s groceries and have a violent coughing fit over her produce.

Customer: “What are you doing! You ruined my greens! You shouldn’t come into work so sick!”

I am coughing too much to talk, so I press the ‘call manager’ button. The manager who demanded my presence is still here!

Manager: “What’s the issue here.”

Me: *Between coughs.* “This customer… would like an explanation… as to why I came into work so sick.”

I make sure I stare pointedly at him as I get the words out. He glares at me, but he knows however he spins it he is going to look an idiot.

Manager: *To the customer, laughing nervously.* “I guess our staff love working here so much, they can’t stay away!” *To me.* “[My Name], go home and don’t come back until you feel better.”

Me: “Gladly!” 

I let that pr*ck tackle the explanation while I grabbed my coat, clocked out, and took a week off to recovery. I went to the doctor to get a note and he gave me another week for good measure.

When I was back at work my manager wasn’t around. He was off with the flu…