I was working in a “cafe and beer hall by day, club by night” in a major European city a couple of years ago. This was one of the most notable quotes from a guest I have heard in my career.

The main character in this story — let’s call him “Jerry” — came in one day to unload and have a couple of beers (not in my section, thank the gods). At first glance, I was not sure if Jerry was a transient on the verge of being cut off or a backpacker who forgot what an “inside voice” should sound like. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed the latter, but out of caution, I made a mental note to watch for drama.

After about half a beer, Jerry struck up a conversation with another equally boisterous guest and joined him. The two had another round, then another… and then Jerry started to hit on another guest two tables over — as in, shouting at the poor stranger from six metres away. She was awkwardly amused. I was not.

At that point, I had the floor manager speak with the backpackers and tell them to mind themselves.

About fifteen minutes later, I had not heard anything else happen… until Jerry nonchalantly returned to the table and was approached by the floor manager, and I heard Jerry YELL loudly enough to be heard throughout the 200-seat establishment.

Jerry: “You’re telling me you are kicking me out for washing my d**k in the sink?!”

For context, our toilets were unisex stalls and a bank of urinals behind a row of sinks in public view. Jerry had come from the urinal and, according to another traumatized guest, had proceeded to give himself a quick “bird bath” next to other patrons exhibiting proper hygiene.

I had not been paying these guests any further attention until I heard — once more, for the people in the back — “YOU’RE telling ME you are KICKING ME OUT for washing my D**K in the SINK?!”

There was a short exchange between Jerry and the floor manager before Jerry left in a huff, leaving me with that phrase forever emblazoned in my head.

I order pizza for my partner and me, plus a small side salad for me. When the order arrives, the salad is missing. No big deal; stuff happens. As I set it up as no-contact delivery, so I call the restaurant to let them know.

Me: “Hey, my name is [My Name] at [address]. I’ve just received my order, but my salad is missing.”

Employee: “Oh, I’m so sorry! Do you want it refunded, sent back out, or a credit put on your account for next time?”

Me: “If it’s not too much trouble, could it be sent back out? I was pretty dead-set on getting the salad.”

Employee: “Sure! Give us about fifteen minutes to get it back to you.”

I let my partner start on the pizza while I wait for my salad.

A bit later, I hear the sound of someone walking up our porch steps and a weird thud against the door. I go to check, thinking maybe the delivery guy is knocking in a weird way. I open the door… to find my salad spilled across my porch, presumably from the container being chucked against the door. The driver is already in his car, and he drives off before I can stop him.

I step back into the house and call the restaurant again.

Me: “Um. I dunno how to tell you this. Your delivery driver just threw my salad at the door. It’s now all over my porch.”

Employee: “What? Are you sure?”

Me: “Yeah, I saw him drive off right after. I’m really not sure what’s up.”

Employee: “I’m not sure, either. I’m going to get my manager.”

After I hold for a minute, the manager comes on the line.

Manager: “So… you’re saying my driver just threw the salad at your door?”

Me: “Yeah. I didn’t witness the actual throwing since I didn’t realize he was here, but I heard it hit my door, and I came out to see him in a [Company]-labeled car driving off.”

Manager: “That’s… Wow. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I don’t know if I can see my driver doing that.”

Me: “I have a doorbell camera that should have caught it.”

Manager: “If you could email that video to me, I’ll look it over and call you back with what I can do for you.”

I hop off the call, and the incident was indeed caught on camera. I download the clip and send it to the email the manager provided.

Twenty minutes later, I get a call back.

Manager: “Wow. I’m not even sure where to begin. That… definitely happened. I can assure you that this won’t happen again. I’m going to have a different driver run you a full-size salad, plus I’m adding some credits to your account. I am so sorry about this.”

Me: “Do you have any clue why on earth this happened?”

Manager: “I do not, but I am, again, so sorry. I’m sending the new driver out now.”

Five minutes later, the new driver comes to my door. Out of curiosity, I ask her if she knows what happened.

Driver: “Oh, yeah. The guy said you were personally trying to get him in trouble by saying you missed something he knew he dropped off, so he was going to make it even. I’m not even sure why he took it personally, since that’s a kitchen mistake. But congratulations; that’s the funniest way I’ve seen someone get fired!”

One night, I’m finishing up my shift as an EMT, and it’s been a long and tiring one. The calls weren’t bad, but there were a lot of them and we were all over the d*** county. My shift is over, I change back into my comfy clothes (sweats, a T-shirt, and a hoodie), and I head to the store to get something for dinner.

I get there just in time since they’re closing in ten minutes. I assure the cashier that I am just grabbing something quick, and I go and pick up a lasagna from the frozen section. I grab it and turn to head to the checkout when I hear, “A-Hem!” It’s not a throat clearing sound, but someone saying it like they are reading it out loud.

I turn and look to see a woman, and she snaps off:

Woman: “I need you to go in the back and get me a pack of the frozen pretzels.”

Me: “I don’t work here, ma’am. But I just saw an employee go behind that endcap over there.” *Points*

Woman: “You do work here, and you need to stop being lazy and get me my pretzels!”

Me: “I don’t work here.”

I turn to walk to the self-check. She flips her s*** and storms off, muttering about lazy employees and managers.

I finish checking out, and I’m grabbing my stuff and leaving when I see the woman again. She’s with a manager.

Woman: *Yelling* “There she is! That’s the lazy b****!”

She starts toward me. I’m not even going to engage, so I hold up my receipt and my one item to the self-check girl and walk out.

I hear the manager raising his voice and saying, “Ma’am? Ma’am, MA’AM!”

It turns out that the woman has left her cart behind and stormed out of the store to confront me. I get in my car to drive off, but the woman comes and stands in front of it so I can’t go anywhere. She’s also giving me a tongue lashing that I’m too checked out to really pay attention to.

Great. I’m already on my last nerve and this woman is hate-f****** it.

The manager sticks his head out of the door and hollers, “Ma’am!” She turns and makes a hushing motion toward him. He hollers, “Ma’am!” one more time, and she hollers back.

Woman: “I’m dealing with your employee since you’re too much of a little b**** to do it yourself!” 

Manager: *Bristling* “Madam!”

She cuts him off, screeching at the top of her lungs.

Woman: “SHUT THE F*** UP!”

He shrugs, and I watch him go back inside, fiddle with the locks, flip the sign to closed, and pull down the shades. As I’m watching this, the woman gets annoyed that I’m not paying her my full attention.

Woman: “What the h*** are you looking that’s so d***ed important to ignore me?”

Me: *Pointing at the shop* “They just closed and locked the doors.”

I’m not sure what she screamed since it was pretty incoherent, but she did run toward the door. Seeing my chance, I drove off, leaving her pounding on the door and cursing.

Related:
A Truly Unmatched Level Of Audacity

CONTENT WARNING: Domestic Violence, Alcohol

My husband has a problem with alcohol. Though I’ve urged him to cut back and seek help for the better part of a decade, he insists that he doesn’t have a problem because he isn’t violent, he doesn’t throw up, he never drinks before or at work, he has never gotten a DUI, and most importantly to him, he is just having a good time. I love him so much and don’t want to give up on him. I believe in him, even when other people tell me I should leave.

We are hosting a party one night when things really get out of control. I still don’t know what happened, but I am in the living room playing a game when I hear a commotion in the kitchen. Our family and friends are in the kitchen with him, but they leave when he starts throwing chairs and punching the walls.

A few of us try to calm him down, but that only seems to make him more upset. He grabs a steak knife and tells everyone to leave or he’ll kill us all. Only two of our friends stay, hiding around the corner while I try to talk him down. I convince him to put down the knife; he apologizes and starts crying, reaching out for a hug.

As soon as I am in range, he grabs my arm and slams my wrist on the edge of the kitchen table in an attempt to break it. I jerk at the last second, absorbing most of the hit on my forearm, instead. I run out of the kitchen, past the two remaining friends.

When he comes out after me, they each grab an arm and take him outside. They lock all the doors and windows and call the police. I hide in the bathroom until they arrive and take him away.

After the ER says there is no serious damage to my wrist or arm, my parents and the two friends who stayed take me back to the house to collect all my possessions and move out immediately. Let me tell you, it is quite humbling laying in your childhood bed at the age of thirty-seven with everything you own in black plastic bags at the foot of your bed, knowing the life you’ve built with someone else is over.

He calls me the next afternoon to tell me we are getting a divorce. I tell him I will file as soon as the office opens the next day. He insists he didn’t do any of the things the police said he did, saying he wasn’t that drunk and he remembers everything. According to his story, he had a drink or two, and I started “acting like a f****** b****,” and then I locked him out of the house and called the police. He doesn’t remember the two friends being there, and he denies everything that happened, calls me a few names people don’t usually call their spouses, tells me I will never hear from him again, and hangs up.

True to his word, the only time I’ve heard anything from him was through our lawyers while we worked out our divorce terms. We didn’t have children or pets, so I gave him everything that wasn’t solely in my name. Maybe I should have fought for a few things, but I just wanted it to be over.

A few months after our divorce is finalized, I am at a grocery store. There are several in the area, but this one is the farthest from our old house and my ex’s job. I stop at the bathroom after I finish shopping and, when I come out of the stall, his mother is standing in front of the door, blocking my exit. 

Me: *Sigh* “Excuse me, [Ex-Mother-In-Law].”

Ex-Mother-In-Law: “You’ve ruined [Ex-Husband]’s life.”

Me: “You need to move.”

Ex-Mother-In-Law: “You are a f****** whore.”

I roll my eyes.

Me: “Get out of my way, [Ex-Mother-In-Law].”

She grabs my shoulders, pushing me backward.

Ex-Mother-In-Law: “You had no right!”

I try to shrug her off.

Me: “Get your hands off me.”

Ex-Mother-In-Law: “Or what? You’ll call the police on me, too? You’re a f****** b**** and you deserve to rot in Hell.”

Me: “Get. Off. Me. Now.”

I tried to push her hands off my shoulders, but she shoved me backward. I hit the sink and stumbled. She grabbed my hair and tried to pull me to my feet, scratching at my face. I screamed and started kicking at her.

Security came in and broke us up. She told them that I followed her in the bathroom and attacked her. Security cameras and my bruises and scratches told a different story. I got a restraining order against his entire family and changed my phone number, just to be safe.

I’m in therapy, slowly working through everything that happened. It’s a long road, but I’m moving forward.

I lived across the street from a mid-sized manufacturing plant. This worked out well because everyone was gone by 3:00 pm and there was no traffic.  

There was a very large concrete water tank literally across the street from my house. It probably was the size of my house. Not a problem. It had landscaping around it.

Then, they decided to demolish it over Memorial Day weekend, presumably because their employees would be gone. My friend worked for the company and told me they had gotten a reasonable bid from a professional demolition company but decided to rent equipment and have their maintenance workers do the work.

We spent the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend listening to some kind of pile driver booming every fifteen seconds or so. All freaking day. I lived 100 feet from this. Literally across the street. It stopped late in the day.

By Sunday, I had had enough. This was before the Internet, so I just called the company’s main number, and if nobody answered, I’d call the next number in the sequence. I don’t know what I was hoping to accomplish, but I was a mom on a mission. It was a freakin’ holiday. My next-door neighbor had a rare day off from her hospital residency.

Finally, someone answered, and he was from (you got it) the maintenance department. He told me to call So and So on Tuesday and get this taken care of.

Challenge accepted!

I didn’t wait to call on Tuesday. I called the police department and asked about the noise ordinance. They said it was legal for the company to make noise, but like I said, I was a mom on a mission. So, I asked the question of a lifetime.

“How many decibels?”

They agreed to come out, and a half-hour later, an officer showed up in a fancy black van, presumably filled with electronics. He asked me what my zoning was, and heck, I didn’t know. He said he would have to assume it was residential. (It was,) So, he stood on my lawn and held up whatever device he had, and then he went over to talk to the workers.

Work immediately ceased, and we got our peace and quiet back. My friend who worked there said the company had to pay a big fine.

Later in the summer, a demolition company came and finished in no time with very little noise.

And we all lived happily ever after.

I suppose.