(My brother and I take a two-day motorcycle course over the summer. It is a state-certified program meant to teach the practical skills needed to ride in a safe environment. My brother has always been protective, but in the strange older-brother kind of way. He says that it’s okay if I drop the bike or fall over; that people will only laugh a little. This happens when we are taking a break the second day. I am heading one way, and my brother the opposite way.)

Instructor: “Uh, [My Name]? Your brother isn’t moving.”

(I look, and sure enough he’s tripped over a small, hanging chain and is lying on his back on the ground.)

Me: “You okay?” *he nods* “You need a hand?” *he shakes his head* “You just want to lay there for a second?” *a nod* “How’s your pride?”

Brother: “Kind of hurts.”

(He managed to crack the visor on the helmet he was carrying, and scraped up his elbow. He was the only one all weekend to need any type of bandages. I stayed upright the whole time. He still hasn’t lived it down.)

(I am working at the drive-thru.)

Customer: “Yes, I want a hamburger with pickles.”

(Our hamburgers already come with pickles; I’ve been working long enough to interpret this as asking for extra pickles.)

Me: “Okay, one hamburger with extra pickles.”

Customer: “No, I want a hamburger with pickles.”

Me: “Oh, so, you mean you want only pickles?”

Customer: “No, I want a hamburger with pickles.”

Me: *pause* “A hamburger with extra pickles.”

(This goes back and forth for a while, until finally the customer yells at me through the headset.)

Customer: “I JUST WANT A HAMBURGER WITH PICKLES. WHY IS THAT SO HARD TO UNDERSTAND?!”

Me: *losing it* “BECAUSE THE HAMBURGER ALREADY COMES WITH PICKLES, SO YOU SAYING, ‘WITH PICKLES,’ MEANS NOTHING TO ME!”

(I can hear his realization and his passenger’s reaction.)

Customer: “Oh. Then just a regular hamburger.”

(The rest of the transaction went okay.)

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(I work in a big-name hotel that’s on one of the lower tiers of the corporation. Lately, we’ve been getting a lot of new employees to prepare for the busy season, including a few new housekeepers. One of them is a middle-aged woman. It is her first day, and she has to do the impossible: clock out.)

Me: “Okay, enter the last four of your SSN into this keypad.”

Coworker: *slowly thumbs in the numbers, then waits*

Me: “Okay, then hit the login button.”

(The button is very large, and it is the only button on the screen that isn’t a number. Finally, she does so. The screen shows the time, her time sheet, and four buttons, two of which are “clock in” and “clock out.”)

Me: “Now hit, ‘clock out.’”

Coworker: “It should say 1645.”

(It is 4:45 pm, and the clock shows this. The screen times out, logging her out.)

Me: “It’s 4:45. You have to log in again.”

Coworker: *slowly does so, then waits*

Me: “Now hit, ‘clock out.’”

Coworker: *turns to me* “But I didn’t clock in this morning.”

Me: *pointing to the time sheet* “Actually, it says you clocked in at 8:30 am.”

Coworker: “No, I didn’t clock in this morning.”

Me: “No, you did.”

(The screen times out. She, again, has to log in. I walk her through it for the third time. Once logged in, she stares at the screen, lost.)

Me: *getting irritated* “Now hit, ‘clock out.’” The one below, ‘clock in.’”

(Finally, miraculously, she hits the button. Far too hard. It doesn’t take. She stares at it. The screen times out. I walk her through this three more times until I finally flick the button for her.)

Me: “There. It says you clocked in at 8:30 and clocked out just now, at 4:49.”

Coworker: “So, how many hours is that?”

(By this time, we’re surrounded by three other employees waiting to use the time clock. I count every hour on my fingers aloud, slowly, directly in front of my coworker’s face.)

Me: “That’s eight hours.”

Coworker: “Oh, awesome!” *lifts her hand for a high five*

Me: *confounded, I oblige, lightly tapping her palm* “Yeah…”

(I’m still not sure why the woman seemed to be amazed to have worked a full shift, as if she was shocked she lasted that long. I very much doubt she has ever worked eight consecutive hours in her life.)

(Having grown up outside of “Cajun Country,” I often have trouble understanding customers that come through the store. This lady’s accent is particularly thick, and I have no one who grew up locally to ask for help.)

Customer: “I’m lookin’ for taco potter.”

Me: *getting a lot of strange mental pictures* “Taco potter?”

Customer: “Yeah. Y’know, taco potter.” *she mimes shaking something*

Me: “Do you mean… taco powder?”

Customer: “That’s what I said! Taco potter!”

(I take her to the seasoning section and show her packets of taco seasoning.)

Customer: *getting agitated* “No! Taco potter! Taco potter!” *emphatically mimes shaking something out of a jar*

Me: “I… um… I’m not sure what—”

Customer: “Taco potter! Like you put on a baby’s butt!”

Me: “Oh, talcum powder!”

Customer: “Yes! Good lord! Taco potter!”

(Why couldn’t she just say, “like you put on a baby’s butt,” in the first place?)

During my sophomore year of college, our campus had a bomb scare, not because of a threat, but because of incorrectly stored chemicals. A professor had brought some picric acid into one of the labs and failed to screw the container’s cap on properly. Picric acid is a component of TNT. It’s relatively safe when kept in an aqueous solution, but when it dries it’s highly explosive and can be set off by being jostled. In response, the university cancelled classes and evacuated half of the campus. The cafeteria was also half-closed, and students were shuffled in to eat in small groups, and told to finish as quickly as possible and get out of the “blast zone.” The fire department was called, and they sent in a bomb squad to retrieve the container and detonate it safely.

Later that day, one of the professors found more dried picric acid in the lab, and asked another professor what to do. They just poured water into the container and dumped it down the sink.