(I manage a small music store that’s one of nearly 150 locations nationwide. I’m standing next to one of my coworkers as he takes this call, and can hear most of what the caller is saying. My coworker fills me in in the rest afterward.)

Coworker: “Good afternoon. [Music Store]. This is [Coworker].”

Caller: “Can I talk to the owner?”

Coworker: “Uh, my manager’s here, if you want to talk to her.”

Caller: “Put me through to the owner.”

Coworker: “We’re one store in a large corporation. I can give you the number for our corporate office, but I can’t get you the owner directly.”

Caller: “Well, who’s in charge of your sign?”

Coworker: “Our… sign?”

Caller: “On your door. I was driving by and saw your sign, and I don’t like it. You’d get more business if you had a more regular sign.”

Coworker: “Um… Okay. Is there anything else I can help you out with? Something I can put aside for you?”

Caller: “No, I was just calling about your sign.”

(Our business is primarily geared toward music students, so our logo uses a fun, jazzy font. The sign on my store is black and red on white, backlit, and similar in size and brightness to all the other stores in our shopping center. I have yet to figure out what makes it stand out, or what this caller even meant by “regular.”)

My coworker is notoriously terrible at communicating with our boss if he’s going to be out for any reason, emergency or otherwise. Since we hired him, it has become an increasingly prevalent problem. My boss tries to coach him, to no avail.

It all comes to a head one week when he fails to show up on Monday for work. After hearing nothing from him for hours, I contact his girlfriend, who tells me that he was involved in an “incident” over the weekend and she doesn’t know when he’ll be back in. She does say she’ll have him contact us, though.

A week passes and we don’t hear from him. I do some digging online, and discover that he was arrested. He has been in jail for a week.  

After all is said and done, he is no call/no show for about ten days. When he does finally call, he tells my boss that he’ll need FMLA, family/medical leave. My boss tells him it isn’t working out and that he’s been terminated. The kicker? The guy says he isn’t surprised!

(I am seven. I become very ill, so ill that I’m taken to the hospital and stay there overnight with medicine and IVs. This is, understandably, upsetting and frightening. My mother is the one who takes me there, but as soon as the staff are done asking questions, she leaves. I ask the nurse to call my dad, and he visits me. Shortly after he arrives, I suffer a grand mal seizure and get taken for an emergency surgery, since I’ve injured myself. I wake up hours later.)

Me: “Dad, what happened? Why does it hurt?”

Dad: *doing his best to keep me calm and explain how a child could understand* “It’s okay now. You got too hot from being sick, so your body panicked. And when your body panicked, you got hurt. The doctor fixed it. But hey, since you’ve been so good, I called your mom and she said she’s on her way with chicken nuggets.”

Me: *satisfied by the answer, but a little grumpy* “Okay, I guess. Can you stay while I read?”

Dad: *smiles* “Okay, let me know if you find a hard word.”

(Two hours pass. We are both hungry.)

Me: “Did Mom drive to another city?”

Dad: “She shouldn’t have. I’ll page her.”

(My father uses a payphone to page my mother. She arrives twenty minutes later, dressed like a jazz singer, in a flashy dress with a slit up to the hip, with makeup, jewelry, and perfume on. This is strange because she never wears perfume or dresses formally without reason. A man in a button-up shirt is with her but waits outside the room.)

Mom: *maximum sass and attitude* “What? I was on my way. Why couldn’t you just wait?”

Dad: “It’s eight pm; you know we usually have her fed by seven pm. She was worried. I called you hours ago. Where were you?”

Mom: *sighs indignantly* “I had a job interview!

Dad: “Since when do you go to job interviews with perfume and a dress that’s cut up to the hip?”

Mom: *shouts* “Since I said! Now shut up and eat.”

(She throws the bag of food across my legs. Being hungry, I grab what is obviously meant for me and take a bite.)

Me: *sad* “It’s cold.”

(I put my food back in the bag, grossed out.)

Mom: “Well, if you waste it, I’ll make you wish you’ll have to stay here longer! So eat!”

Dad: *takes the bags off of my legs* “No. If she doesn’t want to eat food that’s been sitting out long enough to get cold, she doesn’t have to. Kids have instincts about stuff like this. What if she is this sick because you forced her to eat bad food already?”

Mom: *smirks, then turns to face the hall and shouts* “HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE ME OF CHILD ABUSE! YOU’RE THE ONE WHO DIDN’T GET HER ANY FOOD!”

Man In Button-Up Shirt: *impatient, speaking to my mother* “Come on. Let’s just go. We are going to miss the movie!”

(Yes, my dad did get investigated. However, it was determined that it wasn’t unreasonable of him to trust that my own mother would bring edible food after agreeing to get dinner! And the man in the button-up shirt who waited for her? He became my stepfather within a year.)

(I work at a popular party supply store. I overhear a young boy, maybe eight, say this to his mom after they finish their transaction.)

Boy: “Now get me out of here, or else I’m gonna die.”

(Me, too, kid.)

(I work in the bakery department at a grocery store. One of our more popular items is the pistachio muffin, which is bright green, and comes in a package that says, “Pistachio,” on it in two different places and even has a picture of a pistachio on it. I have just clocked in and gotten into my department when this exchange occurs.)

Customer: “Excuse me, ma’am, but what are those bright green muffins you have out there?”

Me: “Those are our pistachio muffins, ma’am. They are very popular!”

Customer: “Hmm, they do sound good, but do they have nuts in them?”

Me: “Pistachios are nuts, ma’am.”

(The customer stares at me like I don’t know what I’m talking about, and then I can see the realization of what just happened dawn on her.)

Customer: “Oh, my God.”

Me: “It’s okay, ma’am, happens all the time.”

Customer: “No… I can’t believe I asked that. I can never show my face here again.”

(The customer then drops her basket and bolts out the front door.)

Me: *to my coworker* “So… it’s going to be one of those days.”