(It is a Sunday afternoon, and the restaurant that I work at is right next to a fast food place which is well-known for being closed on Sundays. I’m working the drive-thru station when a woman pulls up and starts ordering multiple high-priced items.)

Me: “What else can I get for you today?”

Woman: “An order of chicken bites.”

(I turn and shoot my manager a look, as she also has a headset on and is hearing the entire conversation.)

Me: “I’m sorry, but we don’t carry chicken bites.”

Woman: “I want an order of your eight-piece chicken bites.”

Me: “Ma’am, we don’t have chicken bites. We have only have chicken strips. We do have jalapeño bites, though, that come in an eight-count.”

Woman: “I want chicken bites.”

(At this point, my manager uses her headset to join the conversation. She repeats what I already told the woman and lists off a couple other menu items that the woman may be trying to order.)

Woman: “I was just here last week, and I got the chicken bites.”

Manager: “Ma’am, we have never carried chicken bites. We serve chicken tenders and chicken sandwiches, but not chicken bites or nuggets.”

Woman: “Cancel my order; I thought this was [Fast Food Place next door]!”

(I voided out her entire order, and she drove past the window to get to the parking lot for the other restaurant. From where I was, I could see her pull up to the front of the restaurant and realize that it was closed. She then came back through the drive-thru of my restaurant and ordered the same things she had just had me void off.)

(My parents are an interesting pair. My dad loves mythology and folklore, while my mom has a soft spot for anything that involves cars. My little sister and I are helping Dad with the shopping.)

Dad: “Let’s see… Eggs, milk, your grandmother’s favorite cookies… Did I forget anything, Calypso?”

Me: “No, I don’t think so. Everything on the list is crossed out.”

Customer: *behind us* “What kind of name is that? Are you some sort of f****** hippie? Couldn’t you give her a normal name?”

Dad: “With all due respect, please mind your own business. Mercedes, sweetheart, can you help me put our things on the belt?”

Sister: “Okay!”

Customer: “Are you one of those annoying posh types? Naming your kids after a car.”

Dad: “It was a name long before it was a car. My mother-in-law loves The Count Of Monte Cristo.”

(The customer kept going like that at the smallest of things. We see him sometimes when we go shopping, but he just gives us the evil eye and doesn’t say a word.)

(I live in New York. It’s the evening of September 11, 2001. I am eleven years old, in middle school. The teachers let us watch the news, but my parents are working late, and the elementary school my eight-year-old brother goes to has not let the kids see. I am at a loss to explain things to him, and really worried, myself. The phone rings. I pounce, thinking it’s my mom, but it’s a very long, unfamiliar number.)

Me: “Hello?”

(I hear a voice I haven’t heard in ages, and realize why the number on the caller ID was so long. It’s my mom’s colleague, from Germany.)

Colleague: “[My Name]? You’re okay! You know about the terrorist attack, don’t you? I’m so sorry. Let me talk to your mom, all right?”

Me: “I’m fine… I don’t know where my mom is… Still at work I guess. Dad, too. I haven’t been able to reach them. And my brother doesn’t know. They haven’t told the little kids. I don’t know what’s happening.”

(I start to cry.)

Colleague: “But you and [Brother] are okay. Don’t let him turn on the TV or radio. I’m sure your mom and dad are fine, too. The phone lines are just so packed with people calling; it takes several times to get through. You’ll be okay. Hug [Dog], all right? Don’t cry… Shh, don’t cry… Give the phone to your brother, okay? I’ll explain.”

(I get my brother and turn on the speakerphone; the colleague explains in a way a kid can understand, without scaring my brother too much.)

Colleague: “Okay, I have to go to bed, but I’ll let your mother’s other colleagues know you’re all okay. You’re home alone?”

Me: *sniffling* “Yes.”

Colleague: “Don’t cry. I’ll pass the news on.”

(From then on, I ended up fielding calls from everyone my mom knows overseas; I was prepared to tell them that yes, we were all fine, but instead, people I hadn’t seen since I was a toddler just seemed to want to comfort us, since we were alone. To top it off, I realized that by the time the calls ended, it was nearly two am German time; they stayed up, just for us.)

(My wife and I are looking at jewelry in the Old Town section of Albuquerque, which is a tourist destination, and I am making small talk with the owner.)

Me: “What’s the silliest question a tourist has ever asked you?”

Owner: “Easy. ‘Is it safe to drive the interstates out here?’”

Me: “Huh?”

Owner: “That’s what I said. He said, ‘Well, because of all the Indian attacks on wagon trains.’”

Me: “I don’t have any idea what to say to that.”

Owner: “Neither did I.”

(I am looking at some small items on a lower shelf in a craft store and am therefore leaned over pretty far to get a good look. Suddenly, I feel a heavy, sharp blow of the back of my head. Slightly dazed, I look around and see a package has fallen from peg on the shelf above where I was looking. Picking it up, I see it’s a package of several dozen thin sheets of copper-meant for embossing projects; it’s heavy and with a sharp, small edge. I take the package to the front of the store and approach a cashier.)

Me: “Hi, um… This fell off the shelf and hit me in the head. I wanted to tell somebody that you need to hang them differently or something.”

Cashier: *looking at the package skeptically* “You’re saying this fell on you?”

Me: “Well, yeah, I was leaning over looking at something. See? It has a hanging tag on it, but a little tag like that couldn’t hold all that weight. It’s ripped in half, see? It ripped off under its own weight and fell.”

Cashier: *blank stare*

Me: “I just think they shouldn’t be displayed like that. Someone could get hurt. I mean, I got hurt, but someone could get really hurt.”

Cashier: “Hey, team lead!”

(The team lead walks over:)

Team Lead: “Is there a problem, ma’am?”

(I repeat the story, holding the package and lightly tapping it on the counter to show that it is, in fact, heavy, sharp sheets of metal. Both the cashier and team lead step back.)

Team Lead: “Ma’am, I’ll get the manager, but you need to calm down!”

(Baffled, I stand there while the cashier glares at me and turns her register light off. There are no other lanes open, and a line is forming. The team lead comes back and stands with the cashier. Neither moves to open another lane or ring up any customers. Thinking I’m in the way, I scoot a few steps back.)

Team Lead: “MA’AM! You need to wait here for the manager!”

Me: “Look, I was just trying to tell you guys that there’s a problem. How long do I need to wait?”

(The team lead stomps off and returns with a flushed-looking older man.)

Manager: “Ma’am, I’m sorry you’re upset, but…”

Me: “I’m not upset. I’m just trying to tell you guys you have a safety hazard in your store.” *repeats the story*

Manager: “And you’re saying that this fell and hit you in the head?”

Me: “Yes.”

Manager: “Are you bleeding?”

Me: “No, just a sore spot.”

Manager: “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

Me: “No.”

Manager: “Then I’m not sure what you want from me. I’m not giving you that for free.”

(He grabbed the package and stormed off, muttering about me “wasting his time.” Baffled and ticked off, I went about my day. I was in that store again a few weeks later and, of course, they hadn’t moved or changed how they displayed those copper sheets. But there were several on the floor, leaning against the shelves, with the same torn hanging tags as the one that hit me. Here’s hoping no one gets really hurt.)

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