As a kid in the late 80s and early 90s, I went shopping with my mom at a craft supply store near our house. She could spend HOURS in that shop, looking at sewing patterns or craft magazines, carefully picking out supplies for her next craft project.

To keep myself occupied, I wandered the store. I tried looking at some of the magazines, but I wasn’t interested. Sometimes I’d run my hands through the big bin of loose buttons as if it was a sandbox. Mostly, I talked to the employees, like Janet and Rose at the fabric cutting counter. Once, when Mom was taking an unusually long time to shop, I found an empty shelf at floor level and took a nap on it.

The manager, Kim, took pity on me. She asked if I would like to “work” for the craft store. A few minutes later, she had set me up at a small table with a box of spools of ribbon and a pricing gun. She showed me how to pull the trigger and stick the price tag on the product. It was fun! I priced that entire box of ribbon spools.

For months, every time we visited, I found Kim as quickly as I could and asked if she had any jobs for me. She always found something that needed price tags (I suspect she set aside some items specifically for me). She would set the price on the gun, and I would happily apply the stickers.

After three or four such sessions, Kim decided that I needed to be paid for my work, and she would buy me something out of the break room vending machine, like a candy bar or a bag of chips. I clearly remember one day when she and Janet both told me that I had been particularly productive, and she gave me a five-dollar bill. That was a big amount of money to an eight-year-old in 1990!

Unfortunately, Kim had to end my “employment.” I later learned that someone at the district or corporate level found out and cited liability or child labor concerns. No one was punished, as far as I know, but I wasn’t allowed to work the pricing gun anymore.

Soon after, Mom and I moved across the state. But I still think fondly of that store, its employees, and my unofficial first retail job.

This story took place at a tech company office shortly after a viral news story about an artist who created a work of “concept art” by taping a banana to a wall, supposedly worth $120,000, only to have it eaten by a “performance artist.” It’s also at the height of popularity of Rick and Morty. If you haven’t seen it, Rick is known for frequently burping mid-sentence. We’re all a bunch of merry little jokesters at this office.

One coworker I’m friendly with, a manager on another team in my department, posts a picture to Facebook of a banana taped to the whiteboard in her cubicle.

Manager: “A high-profile art installation has been placed inside my cubicle today. I’m pretty sure it’s a fake.”

Not being able to resist the obvious prank opportunity, I go over to her cubicle and reply with a picture of myself eating the banana.

Me: “And sometimes, life imitates art.”

At exactly 4:04 PM, I replied:

Me: “It’s 4:04, and your banana is-” *Burp.* “-not found.”

Manager: “It was you!”

Me: “And? 😂”

Manager: “I hope it tasted good, lol.”

Me: “You just don’t-” *Burp.* “-understand performance art.”

I grab a Snickers bar out of the break room, tape it to the whiteboard in the same spot, and post another picture.

Me: “There you go, a $120,000 Snickers bar.”

Manager: “That ought to have a longer shelf life. 😄”

Me: “We’ll see about that. 🤪”

Manager: “Someone’s going to have to pay for a certificate of authenticity to be certain 😉”

The next day, another coworker IMs me on Teams:

Coworker: “So I heard you ate a $120k banana.”

Eventually, [Manager] and I both left the company; I was laid off and landed a job that now pays about $25k more, and [Manager] quit as the company spiraled after the layoffs.

The three of us are friends who keep in touch to this day, and [Manager] still says that this story is her favorite memory of my time at the company.

Related:
Banana Drama, Part 12
Banana Drama, Part 11
Banana Drama, Part 10
Banana Drama, Part 9
Banana Drama, Part 8

I thought you all might enjoy the story of how I got a (now mild after hard work) phobia of dinosaurs. My parents rented the first Jurassic Park movie a few years after it was released, having been to see it in theaters thanks to being parents.

I was too young to watch it, so they got me all set up in another room with my favorite movie after telling me how it was a scary movie that I wouldn’t want to watch (they were usually right, so I trusted their judgement). By the time they and my oldest sibling are getting into the story of their movie, I need a refill on my chocolate milk.

I’m fascinated by dinosaurs, as all nineties kids are, so I stop to watch on my way to the kitchen despite my parents’ warnings. And look, there are little kids just like me in it! I’ve never seen a movie with kids that’s not kid-friendly, so logically this must not be so bad. They’re so lucky they get to see dinosaurs up close and pet them! Even if it is raining too heavily for them to get out of the car.

Then the sunroof window pops out of the frame, and it’s the only thing between the screaming, crying children and the giant, toothy monster that wants to eat them, and I also start scream-crying.

Parents pause movie, help me with my chocolate milk, reassure me that it’s just a movie and the dinosaur is a robot they made for the film, the kids are fine they’re just pretending to be scared for the movie, let’s get you back in with Barbie Nutcracker what spot were you at? Is it your favorite part of the movie? No, your favorite is coming up? Oh, that’ll be great. Go ahead, keep watching to get to that part. Remember, movies aren’t real, oh, but Barbie magic is real, you’re right; it’s grown-up movies that aren’t real.

When my movie ends (because children’s movies are short), I go to see where they’re at in theirs. I’m thinking I’ll catch the ending and get to see the kids going home happy and safe and maybe playing with a nice dinosaur. Maybe they’ll have brought a plant eater’s egg home and have a cute baby dino pet! It will be healing.

As I sneak in and get a good view of the TV, a velociraptor looks through a porthole window and grips a door handle as the children scramble into counters and choke back sobs…

A friend and I were both working at a call center. My friend had a call that required him to transfer it to someone, and that someone had to transfer it to someone else. Eventually, they were on the phone with half a dozen different people, but the way it was set up, my friend had to stay on the call to keep the phone tree online.

Rep #1: “[Caller], are you still there?”

Caller: “Yes.”

Rep #1: “All right, this is [Rep #1].”

Rep #2: “Hello there [Caller], this is [Rep #2].”

Rep #3: “My name’s [Rep #3].”

Friend: “Yarrr, I be Sexybeard the Pirate.”

He had said that to himself just because he thought it was funny after all the introductions, but then he looked at his phone and realized he hadn’t muted himself. He panicked and corrected that.

Thankfully, the guys on the phone had a sense of humor about it, but that didn’t stop me and some other friends from calling him Sexybeard the Pirate for years after.

Long story short, in 2014 I was working at a pizza chain in a rural Utah farming town. At the beginning of July, I gave a two-week notice to my manager that I’d be leaving to move out-of-state to be closer to family (and a better job market). I finished out my time as promised, moved, found a new, better gig, and that was that.

In the summer of 2015, I received a call from a new store manager. He informed me that he’d been putting me on schedule and it was unacceptable that I wasn’t even coming in to look. If I didn’t show up today, he would have no choice but to fire me.

I asked, “Did the old manager not take me out of the system after I quit last year?” He grumbled and made some snarky complaint that if I had quit a year ago, I wouldn’t be in his scheduling program.

I let him know I live in a completely different state, am working a completely different job, and would not be showing up for any shifts he scheduled me for. He threatened to fire me again, and I reiterated, “Hey, I don’t actually work for you, so do what you gotta.”

He hung up, and that was the last I heard of it…

…Until we fast forward to a few years later.

I received a letter from their corporate office informing me that, per their records, I haven’t shown up to work since July 2014, and, unfortunately, they were going to have to terminate me. I still almost can’t stop laughing, especially since, you know, they sent the letter to the out-of-state address I gave them when I quit.