(This happens way before 9/11, back in a time where airport security is only SLIGHTLY more lax. My brother is leaving for a week-long trip. Rather than pay parking fees, I agree to go with him to the airport, drive the car back to my place, and pick him up when he gets back. My brother has never been great with timing, though, and we are getting to the airport with minutes to spare. Of course, he also pulls into the through-traffic lane, instead of the drop-off lane. Note that there’s the double-yellow “do not pass” lines on the road, as well as periodic reflectors, making it obvious to all.)

Me: “Ah, crap. I told you we needed to take the right ramp!”

Brother: “Hang on.”

Me: “Wha-AAH!”

(And just like that he yanks the wheel to the right, cutting straight across the lane, cutting someone else off, and literally screeching the brakes as he pulls into a spot. I’m basically plastered across the back of my seat and the door out of shock.)

Me: “DUDE, WHAT WAS THAT?!”

Brother: “I can’t miss the flight!”

(He proceeds to jump out of the car without even turning it off, and ignores the POLICE OFFICER that has rushed up.)

Cop: “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?”

Brother: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m late! I can’t miss this flight!”

Cop: “Do you have any idea what you just did!?”

Brother: “I know, I know! I’m sorry! I never do that, but I’m late!”

Cop: *pointing to me as I’m getting out of the car* “AND YOU! Why did you let him do that?!”

Me: *doing a double-take at him* “Well, he didn’t exactly CONSULT ME ON IT!”

(Thankfully, the officer turned all his attention to my brother, so I was able to get in and leave. Apparently, my brother was yelled at all the way through the bag check and into the airport itself; I have no idea how he didn’t end up getting a ticket or other fine. I also made him promise that any time we went anywhere, I’d drive!)

(I overhear this exchange between two coworkers as I’m in the back room, processing freight:)

Coworker #1: “I think it goes this way.”

Coworker #2: “I agree.”

Coworker #1: *joking* “Well, then, I think it goes the other way, just to be contrary.”

Coworker #2: “You’re probably right; whatever way you said it was that goes that way, I think it goes the other way.”

Coworker #1: “Right, well, as long as we know which way we’re talking about.”

Coworker #2: “We definitely don’t.”

(It’s moments like these that help break up the monotony of a long day of unpacking boxes. I never did find out exactly what they were talking about.)

(A customer walks into the deli and requests that I cut her five pounds of turkey. I show her the first slice and proceed to cut it as she walks away. About twenty minutes pass until she returns.)

Me: “Here is your turkey! Anything else I can get for you?”

Customer: *analyzes each bag* “These slices are varying thickness. Why didn’t you keep it all the same?”

Me: “Well, the slicers rely on the weight off the meat, and since you got five pounds I had to open a new one. Also, the slicers are required to run on automatic, which makes the thickness vary slightly, as well.”

Customer: *long sigh*

Me: “If you are angry, I would be more than happy to re-slice it for you.”

Customer: “I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed.”

(I was rendered speechless as she walked away. I have never felt as bad as I did then at my job since.)

My APUSH (Advanced Placement United States History) and Physics teachers are the definition of friendly rivalry. They actually get along rather well, but they often try to one-up each other in jest.

I’m taking my Physics midterm, which is directly after my History midterm. I dislike it when people swear, and my APUSH teacher occasionally swears while teaching. So, when my Physics teacher’s “extra credit” question on the midterm asks how he is better than my APUSH teacher, I put down that he doesn’t swear, and promptly forgets about it.

To my horror, my Physics teacher shows that to the APUSH teacher, who then proceeds to look straight at me and apologize every time he swears in class. It is nice of him to apologize, but it is pretty embarrassing to be called out like that. Since then, I’ve refrained from putting any comments on my tests. I simply don’t trust my teachers not to show them to others.

A couple weeks ago a coworker of mine sold two kayaks and paged me from the loading dock to ask if I could help him load them for the customer. “Sure,” I replied, and made my way back to find the customer, his wife, and three screaming young children swarming around a minivan. The van did not have a kayak rack, only the roof rack it came with from the factory.

While my coworker and I manhandled the kayaks onto the roof, the customer assumed the role of “event coordinator.” He wanted them arranged a certain way — the most difficult possible, of course — and was never quite happy with the way we tipped, angled, and flipped the kayaks. Needless to say, my fellow worker and I spent a good 25 minutes with our arms over our heads, trying to steady the kayaks while the customer stood back, pondering his “vision.”

Not long into this ill-fated venture, one of the younger screaming children got out of the van, came over to where we were standing, and started poking at me. It began with a poke in the side. I’m not ticklish or anything, but it just wasn’t a comfortable feeling. I looked down at him and shook my head no. The fact that he was getting to me was intensely gratifying to him, because he escalated to punching me lightly in the side, back, and legs. With each hit, he became more bold and the blows began to pack on more force.

Inside the van, Mom made herself useful by being absorbed in her phone. Dad was too busy trying to craft a kayak Mona Lisa and paid the child no attention, either. After telling the kid, “No,” “Please stop,” and, “Don’t do that,” a half dozen times, I was getting pretty pissed.

Finally, while my attention was fixed upon yet another rearrangement of the kayaks, the kid tried to take my wallet and pocket knife out of the back of my pants. In a lightning-fast move, he then reached around front and gave me a hard sock right in the groin. That was it. I turned, gritted my teeth into the meanest scowl I could imagine and growled, “QUIT IT!”

Naturally, the kid started bawling and ran for the solace of his mother, who snapped out of la-la land and glared at me. Dad also gave me the stink eye, saying, “Thanks, but we’ve got it from here.” I forced myself to say, “Thanks, and you have a nice day,” before walking back inside.

You’ve got to love involved parents.