(I work in a store where, in lieu of uniforms, employees have color-coded name tags designating their sections; blue for kitchen, green for household, etc. I am explaining to a new coworker that I have prosopagnosia, a condition wherein I can’t recognize faces.)

Coworker #1: “That’s so bizarre! How do you recognize people?”

Me: “Well, everyone’s faces look the same, so I look for an identifying characteristic, like that you have a purple mohawk, or that coworker has a jacket with [cartoon character] on it that he wears every day.”

Coworker #1: “So, something that’s really hard to miss and is instantly noticeable? That must make retail interesting!”

Me: “Oh yeah! Last week—”

(I am interrupted by another coworker, who has overheard us and come over, interrupting our conversation.)

Coworker #2: “So what’s my identifying feature?”

Me: “Oh, that’s easy! It’s because you’re—”

Coworker #2: “It’s because I’m [race], isn’t it? Everyone’s face is the same except mine, because you just can’t see anything other than a [race] coworker.”

Me: “Well, you—”

Coworker #2: “I think it’s disgusting that I’m the only one you can ‘see’ because of my color. You can just ‘see’ me magically.”

(She continues on for a couple more minutes about racial stereotyping in the workplace. Finally, when she pauses to take a breath…)

Me: “Actually, it’s because of your name tag. It’s red. You’re the only person with a red name tag, because you’re the manager.”

Coworker #2: *is quiet for about a minute* “Don’t let it happen again.” *storms off*

(My car is making a terrible grinding noise when I turn. I take it in to a national car repair chain to have it looked at. I am female and 19 at the time. My father is visiting from 600 miles away.)

Me: “Hey there. My car is making this weird grinding, popping noise when I turn. I was hoping you guys could take a look at it?”

Employee: “No problem! We’ll have it looked at shortly.”

(Over two hours pass, the employee approaches me.)

Employee: “We found the problem. Your brakes need to be replaced: pads, rotors, drums… We can get you in today and it will be [outrageous price].”

Me: “Um… okay. But I’d like to hold off on that. I need to get my father’s permission before I authorize that charge. I’ll be back in tomorrow, though!”

(The employee tries to argue how important it is to get my brakes replaced, to the point he prints out a recommended repairs list and hands it to me. Little did he know I’d had the brakes done less than four months prior at a different location. The next day, my father brings the car in to the same store. The same employee is there.)

Father: “I need this car looked at. It’s making a terrible noise when I turn.”

Employee: “Okay! We’ll have it looked at shortly. Have a seat while you wait.”

(Less than an hour later:)

Employee: “We can’t seem to pinpoint the exact cause of the noise, I am sorry to say. Everything looks good. It could just be something rolling around in the trunk.”

Father: “Even the brakes?”

Employee: “The brakes on the car are fine. They look like they were replaced recently.”

Father: “Really, now?”

Employee: “Yeah, they’re fine.”

My Father: “Funny, because I have a work order from you, dated yesterday, that says they need to be replaced when my daughter brought the car in for this same issue.” *shows the work order*

(The employee visibly sputters. There are at least six other customers in the store and my father spoke loud enough for them to hear.)

Employee: “Uh— Oh! I remember her! Yeah, she just needed a new rotor on the car. I don’t know why the guy put down all that other stuff.”

Father: “I’m sure. Now, you listen. My daughter is 19, and I live 600 miles away. I told her to come here because I have [Company credit card] and can pay for the repairs while she’s in school. She is going to call me every time there is an issue, and if it feels like you are trying to rip her off again, I will drive the 600 miles it takes to come down here and deal with the problem myself. Do we have an understanding?”

(I didn’t have a problem at the location after that. The employee in question recognized me whenever I brought the car back in, and made sure to call my father to approve any repairs that were needed. Now that I’m out of college I occasionally go back for minor maintenance. He still recognizes me.)

(I’m studying music theatre at university and therefore am a huge theatre geek. ‘The Producers’ is one of my favourites. One day, I’m at home alone when the phone rings.)

Me: “Hello?”

Scammer: “Hello, miss. I’m calling about your Microsoft computer.”

(I have a Macbook Air. My mother uses a Dell PC. Clearly this is a scammer.)

Me: *innocently* “Our computer? What’s wrong with it?”

Scammer: “Oh, your computer is badly infected, ma’am. You need to—”

Me: “Infected? Listen, you broken down old queen. He was drunk. He was hot. You got lucky. DON’T EVER CALL HERE AGAIN! ” *hangs up*

(In this story I am the employee. I’m currently working a football stadium in Brazil, and I’m the only multi-lingual employee in my area, as it is not a huge game. I’m waiting, in a food area that has a phone, to escort a disabled English fan to their seat, and I am making conversation with the Portuguese manager and employee.)

Manager: *in Portuguese* “When are you expecting the call?”

Me: “In a couple of minutes. Then I’ll head down and take them up.”

Employee: “Do you need anything?”

Me: “Nah, I’ve got a key.”

(Suddenly a group of obviously Spanish speaking fans show up and start working through the menu together.)

Manager: “I hate to ask, but our Spanish speaking server is on a break. Could you…?”

Me: “Oh! No problem!” *switching to Spanish to take the group’s orders* “How can I help you all?”

Fan #1: *in Spanish* “Thank you! Yes, I think we have it all figured out. We’ll need two [sodas] and three [other type of sodas], and…”

(Just then, the phone rings. I explain to them I’ll need a second as I’m supposed to be escorting a disabled fan up. They’re very understanding and tell me to take my time.)

Me: *in English* “Hello?”

Caller: “Hello! Yes, I’m down here with my daughter. We requested disabled seating.”

Me: “Oh! Yes, I’ll be there to escort you. Give me a minute to walk down.”

Caller: “No, no, no! Sorry, see, we’re having trouble finding our way, and instead of bothering another employee we hoped you would help us with directions? We’re at the red entrance.”

Me: “Yes, I know where you are. See, first… Uh, I just remembered I’m working with someone right now.”

Caller: “Oh, we’ll wait.”

Me: *to the fans, in Spanish* “All right, sorry. What else do you need?”

(He starts to list off his order, but I continue returning to the phone. Finally I get the disabled group to the meeting point.)

Manager: *in Portuguese* “Do you need to go now?”

Me: *in Spanish, which he does not understand* “Let me finish their order.” *to fans, in English* “Okay, so let me finish you off and we’ll get your food.”

Fan #1: *in English, struggling slightly* “Uh… three bag of chips. Please.”

Me: “Why are you speaking English?”

Fan #1: *laughing* “Because you are!”

(The phone rings from security that I need to go escort the group now.)

Me: *on phone, in Portuguese* “You’re ready? Good. I’ll be down momentarily.”

(I finally notice what I’ve just done.)

Me: *in English* “You understood none of that.”

Caller: *laughing* “Absolutely none!”

(We all had a good laugh about it and I quickly finished the group’s orders and escorted the disabled fan to her seat. My coworkers still joke about my ‘two language limit.’)

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(I’d fallen on my hand while being slung playing a local game of AFL football. After waiting for over two hours in the emergency room and having an x-ray on my wrist I finally get to talk to the doctor.)

Doctor: “Well, it doesn’t look like you’ve hurt yourself, so you can leave.”

Me: “Do you mind if I have a look? I’m studying exercise rehabilita—”

Doctor: “I do mind. It’s a busy Saturday and I don’t care to have my opinion verified by you.”

(She finally gives me something for the pain and I get a lift home. On Monday morning I get an interesting phone call.)

Caller: “Hi, this is the head of radiology at the hospital. We were just reviewing the x-rays from your emergency. We need you to come in as you’ve actually broken a bone in your wrist.”

(I was in the hospital by mid-afternoon and in surgery two days later to pin my scaphoid back together. Luckily I didn’t need a bone transplant from my hip. Turns out she thought it was two separate bones. It was nice to have the head of radiology make a cast for me, though, with his sincere apologies!)