Bizarre Businessman, Interrupted

, , , , | Working | June 2, 2020

I’m an admin for a pest control company and am manning the office alone as my manager has stepped out for a morning meeting with some of the other local businesses to network. An older — bordering on elderly — man comes in and immediately starts speaking while still walking up to my desk. Bear in mind, I have shortened the conversation considerably.

Man: “So, why are you called [Pest Control Company]?”

Me: *Cheerily* “We’re named after our founder!”

The man starts fiddling with the various business cards and adverts on the counter in front of my desk, which I don’t pay too much mind to as they’re there to be looked at or touched, but he does continue doing so for the entire exchange. The man picks up the business card for our inspector with a distinctly male name; I am visibly female.

Man: “Is this your card?”

He continues speaking without letting me answer.

Man: “I’m starting a new business. It’s [Business Name containing “tech” which he says, then spells, and then gives the justification for] and I’m looking for some contacts that I can rely on when I need them. I know my name says, ‘tech,’ but I do more than that.”

He never elaborates on this.

Me: “That’s our inspector’s card. Here is the manager’s card.”

The man immediately speaks over me before I can ask any questions about his business.

Man: “And your name?”

I give it and he writes it down on the card.

Man: “I’m very allergic and sensitive to a lot of things. Do you have any products that are less harsh and won’t cause a reaction? What do you do for people like me?”

Me: “Have you added your name to the Chemical Sensitivity Registry? We are required by law to inform—”

Man: “I wasn’t done talking. People can buy all sorts of things from the store, but I’m sure you have stronger stuff for things like bedbugs and less harsh stuff for other bugs. Do you have anything that won’t cause a reaction?”

Me: “I wouldn’t trust—”

Man: “You wouldn’t trust [Pest Control Company]?”

Me: “No, sir, if you would let me finish, I wouldn’t trust any company that tells you they can do what you’re asking. There is no way to guarantee that no one will have a reaction to something. We can only take precautions, such as the Registry.”

Man: “Hold on, hold on. Do you have a Kleenex or something?”

I give him one.

Man: “I’m just nervous and my blood pressure got too high. I lived in [City a few cities north of here] in a gated community that was mostly Canadians, and you know, they can only be here 182 days of the year, so they would put down chemicals that are way too harsh for the environment to keep the bugs and weeds away while they’re gone. What would you, as an environmentalist, do to stop them?”

I am now thoroughly done.

Me: “Are you asking me as a person or me speaking on behalf of [Pest Control Company]?”

Man: “You, as the environmentally conscious person you are.”

Me: “You said it was a gated community, so there is likely an HOA; I would go through—”

Man: “But what would you do personally to make them stop?”

I refuse to rise to whatever bait he’s trying to get me with.

Me: “As I was saying, before you interrupted me, I would contact the HOA and, barring that, I would go through the appropriate legal channels or local environmental agency to address the issue.”

He’s now messing with the Kleenex.

Man: “One second, you’re making me so nervous. So, what do you think is the best way to address the drug problem in America? How would you go about stopping it?”

The look on my face must be answer enough, since I stopped smiling and dropped all cheer from my voice some time ago.

Man: “Right, right, I can tell you want me to leave, so I’ll go. You didn’t say it, but I can tell.”

He continued rambling all the way out the door. The man never left his name or his own card, just his convoluted business name. My manager returned not a minute later and I informed him of the crazy-person bullet he had just dodged and gave him the business name to avoid, should it ever happen to pop up.

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Does Not Work Here, Thinks She Knows Everything

, , , , | Working | June 2, 2020

The building I work in opens at 8:15 every weekday. We have two doors: the front door to the street which we keep locked until opening time and the back door to employee parking which the public can use but rarely do. From the first employee coming in, the back door remains unlocked until we close for the day.

One morning, a coworker who works across town comes in through the back door around 8:05, ten minutes before we open. She proudly walks up to our counter with a huge grin on her face.

Coworker: “I bet you’re wondering why it’s so quiet, huh?”

Me: “What?”

Coworker: “I said, I bet you’re wondering why it’s so quiet in here.”

Me: “Well, it usually is this time of day.”

Coworker: “Yeah, want to know why?”

Me: “Why?”

Coworker: “Because your front door is locked.”

Me: “Yes, it is.”

Coworker: “Aren’t you late?”

Me: “Uh, no?”

Coworker: “What? Don’t you open at 8:00?”

Me: “No, we open at 8:15.”

Coworker: “Oh. I guess I could have checked the sign on your door with the hours.”

Me: “Yeah. It’s okay you didn’t know; you don’t work here.”

Coworker: “Yeah… I need coffee!” *Flounces away*

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, DOES Work Here
Used To Work Here Does Not Work Here
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 34

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His Boring Facade Was A Load Of Bull

, , , | Working | June 1, 2020

One of my coworkers seems like a perfectly normal, boring guy. He’s probably around 27 and works at a small restaurant in a small town, so my friend and I both assume he has a pretty basic, normal life.

One day, he comes in with a cast on his foot and complains about how it will probably be there for months.

Me: “How did you hurt your foot, anyway?”

Coworker: “So, you know that I do bullfighting, right?”

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Sounds Like They Need All Three

, , , , , , | Working | June 1, 2020

I work as a manager in an office building for a small-ish family-owned business. We are not at all corporate.

After sixteen years, the office has seen better days and we decide to refurbish. All staff are moved into the downstairs office, so we can sort out the upstairs office. It’s a squeeze, I can tell you!

This takes over a year — way longer than it should — due to a number of idiot contractors. I even have to step in and do several jobs myself when said contractors have messed it all up or missed things. At the time of this story, I am resultantly run ragged.

The first day of the month falls on a Friday. After we close on Thursday, I switch off the downstairs setup and activate the upstairs. As a result, on Friday, all the staff will be in the swanky new office.

On Friday morning, before letting them upstairs, I instruct the staff that they need to move all their belongings with them, as anything remaining downstairs on Monday will be going in the skip when I tear out the old downstairs office to start the refurbishment of that floor.

I make no secret of the fact I’m on the autistic spectrum, and I talk very literally. 

On Monday morning, I remind them that I’ll be binning everything downstairs and to take with them anything they still want. I then start taking apart the old downstairs office. There’s a lot to do.

On Wednesday, my third day of throwing everything out, one of our longer-serving staff turns up in a tizzy because they can’t find their backpack.

That they left in the downstairs office.

That morning.

Yup. Even after being told twice and seeing the downstairs office being gutted over several days and all the stuff being thrown out, they left a bag there.

Apparently, they deliberately left his bag there so as to not “mess up” the new office with it.

They thought it wouldn’t count against my previous instructions as it wasn’t there yesterday, and had thus been “put” there rather than “left” there.

I’m assured by my fellow managers that this was not a dream, I’m not losing the plot, and this actually happened.

Not sure if I need a new job, better staff, or a stiff drink!

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The Biggest Work-Related Mood

, , , , , | Working | June 1, 2020

I’m sitting at the front desk of the assisted living facility where I work, going through my opening tasks, when a coworker comes around the corner to talk to my boss near my desk.

Boss: “Hey, [Coworker], you doing all right today?”

Coworker: “Not really. My stomach is upset and I feel awful, honestly. I was going to ask—”

Boss: “Oookay!” *Backs up* “Go home! Get out! UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!”

The boss makes shooing motions and then an X with her fingers. [Coworker] puts their hands up and laughs.

Coworker: “Thank you. I’m going! I’m going!”

The boss runs and hides in her office as my coworker starts toward my desk.

Me: “NO! Unclean! Go awaaaay!”

I hide under my desk.

Coworker: “Nice to know I’m loved! Bye, [My Name]!”

Me: *From under the desk* “Bye! Feel better!”

We’ve been dealing with a norovirus here for twelve days and counting now and we’ve pretty much all had it, me included. We’re all a little punchy and sick of it.

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