It is a slow late evening on a weekday. The burger joint is nearly empty, save for some lonely people and four loud, drunk twenty-somethings. I check the time and realize that one of our regulars will come soon. He is very autistic but likes to eat here because “the food is consistently a seven out of ten, the lights are soft enough, and many of you know what I want so I don’t have to speak” as he once so succinctly put it. He is really nice, he always cleans the table after himself, and if it is close enough to closing time, he INSISTS that he must sweep the floor. The burger he wants hasn’t been on the menu for some years, but we make it for him anyway.

The regular wants to sit in the same booth and eat the same burger at the same time if at all possible. The four drunks sit in his booth, so I go over there (after some deliberation) to politely ask them to switch tables.

Me: “Hello. Sorry to bother you.”

Drunk Woman #1: “Arye closin’?”

Me: “No, not at all. We have a… special customer who really likes to sit in this booth. Could I politely ask you to switch to the table next to you?”

Drunk Woman #2: “Ooh! A speshal? Well, I have a brother like that. We, we’ll, we’ll move.”

The three women and one man move to a different booth. I clean after them and take my place behind the till. I notice that the drunk man seems quite annoyed by the move, and I hear a hushed discussion between them. He seems more and more agitated until he roars:

Drunk Man: “What, you think I am not man enough?”

Drunk Woman #2: “No, no, not at all.”

Drunk Man: “Yeah! I’ll show you!”

Drunk Woman #2: “No, please…”

And he stands up, wobbles over to me (a short, skinny woman) and screams:

Drunk Man: “What the f*** gives you the right to move us? You b****!”

Me: “Sorry, sir, I am sorry if I…”

Drunk Man: “You ugly b****! How dare you talk to me like that? I’ll f*****—”

And then he is interrupted by a deep, monotone voice behind him. The regular, a more than two-meter-tall colossus who comes here after his evening workout, has arrived. His voice is flat, his face is unreadable, and his eyes are fixed slightly above the drunk’s head. He looks roughly strong enough to tie knots in an anvil.

Colossus: “Why are you yelling?”

Drunk Man: “Um… well…”

Colossus: “Why are you yelling at [My Name]?”

Drunk Man: “I… Hey, man, don’t interrupt! I’m just… Yeah! You wanna, you wanna fight me?”

Colossus: “Fight? You?”

Drunk Man: “Yeah?”

Colossus: *Scoffs* “How could I do that?”

The regular actually asks, “Do you want to have a verbal debate or a physical altercation?”, but it comes across as “It won’t be a fight; it will be a murder.” The drunk goes pale, realizes that he weighs roughly less than half of the arm of the colossus, and takes off. His female friends go after him after a while.

Me: “Thank you!”

Colossus: “Okay. May I order?”

Me: “Of course. The usual?”

Colossus: “Yes.” 

He hands me a carefully stacked pile of cash, with notes and coins in an ascending order.

Me: “Could I treat you the food? As a thank-you?”

Colossus: “Why?”

Me: “That guy was really threatening, and you scared him away. Thank you for that!”

Colossus: “I didn’t mean to. Sorry! Is he okay?”

He starts shuffling from one foot to the other.

Me: “No, no, he was threatening to me.”

Colossus: “How?”

Me: “He is a lot bigger than me and was really angry.”

Colossus: “But he wasn’t scary? He’s so small?”

He starts shuffling even more and stims a bit with his hands.

Me: “Not to you… Oh, never mind. Your order will be ready soon. Sit in your booth. I will give you your food at your table.”

Colossus: “Thank you.”

He sat down and calmed down. I gave him his food, taking extra care to make sure everything was as he liked it. He ate, cleaned the table with napkins afterward, and left, never understanding how he’d helped me.

He still goes there at the same time and eats the same burger even though it has been several years.

I worked for a company that was 100% travel. When I went to my first job, I was paid to drive 200 miles to the first assignment, and I was paid a certain amount per day to cover housing and food. They didn’t have another job lined up for me, so I went home (again, paid to travel) and took a retail job until the next assignment came up.

Two years went by before they reached out again, asking me to drive nearly 1,000 miles to the next assignment. I didn’t want to do the drive, but it was a lot more money, and it was in a location that I’d always wanted to visit. I spoke with the hiring manager to finalize the details before leaving. I remembered him from my first assignment; he said he was direct, but I remember him being an a**hole.

Me: “So, I go to [address] on the first day, right?”

Hiring Manager: “Yes, you will do your employee orientation there.”

Me: “Okay. Whom do I submit my travel expenses to?”

Hiring Manager: “All expenses go through [Payroll Admin]. She’ll be there when you arrive.”

Me: “Okay, I’ll be there!”

The drive took two very long days. I stayed at a cheap motel overnight and got to the assignment with fifteen minutes to spare. [Hiring Manager] was nowhere to be found, but [Payroll Admin] was in the office.

Me: “Hi, I’m [My Name].”

Payroll Admin: “Hi, [My Name], I’m [Payroll Admin]. Let’s get your orientation going so you can start working.”

Me: “Sounds good.”

I went through the paperwork.

Me: “So, how do I expense my travel?”

Payroll Admin: “That’s not a thing.”

Me: “Uhh… okay. [Hiring Manager] said—”

Payroll Admin: “I’m the one who does the payroll. I would know.”

Me: “Okay, then.”

I did my first day of work, and as soon as I got home, I dug up my first paycheck. Right there on my pay stub was a mobilization addition: fifty cents per mile. I took it with me the next day.

Me: “Hi, [Payroll Admin], I—”

Payroll Admin: “If this is about mobilization pay, the answer is still no.”

Me: “I have proof.”

I showed her my paycheck.

Payroll Admin: “Well, that must have been a mistake. [Hiring Manager] told me himself that there is no pay for first or last travel.”

Me: “Can you pull up my hiring contract?”

Payroll Admin: “Only [Hiring Manager] has the contracts.”

So, I was back to talking to that a**hole. And he wasn’t there, so I had to email him. 

Me: “Good morning, [Hiring Manager], I am following up on travel reimbursement for driving from [my address] to [assignment address]. I spoke with [Payroll Admin], but she insisted that travel reimbursement has never been part of [Company]. I showed her my first pay stub from my last assignment, which showed that I was paid to drive there. If this is no longer policy, I apologize for pushing, and I understand that things have changed. If not, please point me in the right direction.”

There was no response for two weeks. I decided to go over [Hiring Manager] and email an upper manager I knew from my first assignment.

Me: “Good morning, [Upper Manager], I am trying to figure out if travel reimbursement is still part of [Company] policy. I spoke with [Hiring Manager], and he said yes, but [Payroll Admin] said no. I tried to reach out to [Hiring Manager] again, but he hasn’t responded. I understand if things have changed from my first assignment, but I would like to know either way.”

Upper Manager: “Hi, [My Name]! So good to hear from you again. I know a lot has changed since your last assignment, so I don’t know what is and is not covered anymore. Let me do some digging and get back to you.”

An hour passed before my phone rang. It was [Hiring Manager].

Me: “Hel—”

Hiring Manager: “When you have a question, you ask the person you want to ask. You don’t go crying to upper management.”

Me: “You told me to talk to [Payroll Admin]. She told me it was never a thing. I showed her my pay stub showing that it was. You didn’t answer my email, and quite frankly, I’m a little annoyed at this runaround.”

Hiring Manager: “I just got my a** handed to me because you want, what, $40? I’ll give you $40 right from my wallet to end this.”

Me: “Actually, it’s probably more like $500.”

Hiring Manager: “Are you f****** kidding me? I’m not going to keep going in circles with you over this. There is no mobilization pay.”

Me: “Then why did you tell me to go to [Payroll Admin] when we first spoke instead of saying it wasn’t a thing?”

Hiring Manager: “Look, things change. The answer is no, and this conversation is over.”

He hung up.

I packed up my things and left at lunchtime. I spent the next two days driving back home.

[Hiring Manager] called me the next morning, but I let it go to voicemail.

Voicemail: “[My Name], where are you? We are working on [project] today, and I don’t know if you’re aware, but that’s the whole reason we brought to you this assignment. If you’re still sulking about not getting paid to drive, you need to get over it.”

I saved the voicemail and sent it to [Upper Manager], the human resources department, and every other manager and employee I could think of.

[Upper Manager] called me a few days later to tell me that I had started an avalanche of drama. [Hiring Manager] had lied not only to me but to several other employees. There WAS a reimbursement at seventy-five cents per mile, but he didn’t want to pay it because every expense cut into his bonus at the end of the year. He is no longer employed at [Company].

I just got a new job, so I have to send my equipment to my old job. We were working from home, so they’ve sent me three boxes and three labels. I fit everything in one box and send it off. I keep a copy of the confirmation for two months and then delete it, assuming that after that long, they’ve gotten it.

Two and a half months after sending the equipment, my old manager contacts me.

Old Manager: “Did you send the equipment as requested?”

Me: “Yes, I sent it in [Month] and thought you’d already gotten it.”

Old Manager: “They say they haven’t received it. Do you have proof of sending?”

Me: “I thought after so long someone would have said something if they didn’t get it. I guess I should’ve kept the confirmation longer, but I don’t have it anymore.”

Old Manager: “They still say they haven’t gotten it, but I’ll check.”

[Old Manager] contacts me a few more times saying they don’t have the equipment.

Finally…

Old Manager: “They don’t have it. They can see that you didn’t use the shipping labels they sent.”

Me: “If they can see that I didn’t use two of the labels, they can see that I did use the third.”

I never got contacted again.

In a past millennium, I got my first real job as a kitchen assistant in a restaurant. I was warned — by the owner who hired me — that the head chef was quite the jerk and liked to play nasty pranks on the new hires, particularly on young women like me. He particularly loved making people feel stupid and small, and he argued that this behaviour made people think more critically. The head chef was, unfortunately, amazingly skilled and high-performing, and it wasn’t possible to fire him, and reprimands went unheeded due to his being irreplaceable. I recognized the red flag, but I needed both the money and the experience.

One day, around midday, the head chef came running in with a small two-liter pot (roughly two quarts), the kind with a single handle sticking out to the side.

Head Chef: “Girl!”

Me: “Yes, chef?”

Head Chef: “We need another ten-liter pot (2.6 gallons)! You have to run to [Restaurant] next door and use their pot-stretcher!”

In Swedish, he asked me to get a “grytsträckare”, which means “pot stretcher”, but Swedes might like seeing the word.

Me: “A what now?”

Head Chef: “Girl! Don’t you know what a pot-stretcher is?”

Me: “No? Is it like a tool or…?”

Head Chef: “How could they hire people that don’t know what a pot-stretcher is? This is disgraceful. I’ll have to talk to [Owner] about this! I mean, how the f*** can you be this incompetent?” *Shoves the pot in my arms* “Do as I say, or you’ll be sorry!”

Bewildered, I looked at the pot, desperately trying to understand what I was supposed to do. Then, I saw a hint of an evil smile glimmering in his eyes, and I remembered the warning. A plan formed in my head.

Me: “All right, chef! I’ll run over there and get the pot stretched! I’m sure they’ll tell me how it works if I don’t figure it out. And if they won’t lend me their pot-stretcher, I’ll be really persistent, and I won’t come back without a bigger pot. You can count on me!”

I made a silly salute and ran off, pot in hand.

Roughly twenty minutes after leaving the restaurant, I slammed down an exact copy of the small pot, but one that was five times the size, next to [Head Chef]. I spoke very loudly to draw the attention of the other staff, who had heard about my impossible mission.

Me: “Here, chef!”

Head Chef: *Staring in disbelief* “What is that?”

Me: “It’s a pot to your specifications! Ten liters, as you told me. It was hard work, let me tell you! The handle almost broke off, stretching that little amount of metal so thin, but I did it! And in record time!”

Head Chef: “But… but…”

Me: “What? Isn’t this what you asked for?”

Head Chef: “But… It… There isn’t…”

Me: “I must say, this was a valuable experience! Thank you! I’ve really learned something today.”

Head Chef: “But… I needed the small pot back. It was my favourite sauce pot.”

Me: “Then why did you ask me to stretch it? You needed a bigger pot, right?”

[Head Chef] looked at the sadistic smiles of the other staff members who had gathered around.

Head Chef: “Well, it’s a better pasta pot now. Get back to work, all of you!”

And so we went, snickering and giggling.

The next day, [Head Chef]’s precious pot had shrunk back to the original size, and when he asked about it, I said that he probably forgot to water the pot. He shut up after that and never mentioned it again.

I told the others what had happened.

A friend of mine happened to work at a nearby kitchen supply store that had a huge pot of the same design hanging from the ceiling as an advertisement, which I had seen a few days before. I went there and told my friend about my situation, and I said that I wanted to borrow their showcase pot. My friend had to ask his manager, who apparently knew about the amicability-challenged chef and really wanted that jerk put in place.

The showcase pot happened to be slightly larger than a ten-liter pot but designed as a smaller pot, so it had a single handle sticking out to the side and all — totally useless for its size. I returned it early the next morning and got the regular pot back, and I made sure to put the small pot in exactly the same place and position as the big pot. A lot of the other staff helped me do this final switcharoo since they were more than happy to see [Head Chef] get his comeuppance.

[Head Chef] remained the same jerk, but he never did pull another prank like that again. As far as I know, he never figured it out.

This is more of a wholesome story that involves no entitled jerk screaming or having a tantrum. While I have encountered customers like these, that’s a tale for another post. I wasn’t directly involved in this as I was busy with something else, but I was able to witness the event, and later I was told the rest.

I worked at a small store that sold electric scooters. This was back in 2018 when they were still new to most people. At our store, we had a couple of demo models that our customers could test ride. An old lady, who seemed to be seventy to seventy-five years old, came into the store. She had seen another customer test riding a scooter, and she was eager to ride one herself.

My boss gave the old lady an introduction to how everything works, the brakes, steering, etc. The old lady zoomed away at full speed. My boss’s jaw dropped! Had she just put a weak old lady on a potentially dangerous scooter? Was she going to lose control, crash, and get seriously injured, or even worse?

Luckily, that didn’t happen. Thirty seconds later, the old lady was back with the biggest smile on her face!

Lady: “I’ll take it!”

That’s right: we had just sold her an electric scooter! (For those who are curious, it’s a Ninebot ES1.) We unboxed and assembled her new scooter and helped her get through the required app. She then had us take a picture of her standing proudly on her new scooter because she was going to send that to her grandkids!

We thanked her for her purchase and waved our goodbyes before she zoomed off on her new scooter.

You may think the story ends there. It does not! She returned a week later to tell us the rest!

After she purchased her new scooter, she rode around until she drained the battery, so she had to call a friend to pick her up. Just to be clear, these scooters do come from the factory charged to about fifty or sixty percent. She’d just been having so much fun that she rode it around for several hours until the battery was flat!

So, that was the tale of the sweet old lady, and I will always remember that tale! I ride these scooters in my spare time, and I still meet people who ask questions about the speed, range, etc. Often, they tell me these things are for younger people and that they’re too old for an electric scooter. When they tell me that, I tell them the tale about the old lady who bought a scooter.

[Editor’s Note: To clarify, the scooter referred to in this story is a recreational scooter that you stand on, not a mobility scooter with a seat.]