I have a large table to serve at the end of the night. They’re a little needy, but mostly okay… except for one guy. He’s the guy who’s so sure he’s the funniest in any room and so keeps being obnoxious. He is making jokes at my expense; they’re not hurtful or rude per se, but obviously, he doesn’t care how I feel about it and knows, as a server, I can’t really say anything.

Near the end of the meal, everything has been going well, but he’s kept up his schtick. They’re talking among their group, and “Funny Guy” says while pointing at me:

Customer: “Oh, I bet the jester hates us! Am I right?!”

Me: “No, sir. I love all my tables — some when they sit down and others when they leave, but I love them all.” 

Everyone at the table laughed. Then, a few seconds in, as they realized that I might be talking about them, it turned to nervous laughter. 

The schtick ended after that.

I’m not sure what’s relevant or not to this story, but in case it’s relevant, I am a big guy; I am about 6’6″ and rather muscular. I work outside all day, so while I am white, I’m pretty darkly tanned, so sometimes people mistake me for different ethnicities. 

My wife and I recently moved into a new apartment. One Saturday morning, she leaves to go run some errands for a few hours, so I am home alone doing some odds-and-ends chores. I leave my apartment to go downstairs and collect our mail only to find it hasn’t been delivered yet, and when I return, I realize I have locked myself out. I guess the coffee hasn’t kicked in because I didn’t grab my keys, and because I was just going to the mailbox, I have no wallet, phone, or anything else.

I decide to sit down in the hallway and wait for my wife to come back. While I’m sitting there, after about fifteen minutes, the apartment manager from the new management company comes by. I have never met him before. 

Manager: “Hey, uh, can I help you?” 

Me: “Not really. I locked myself out, so I’m just waiting for my wife to get back.”

Manager: “Well, you sitting in the hallway is making some people uncomfortable.”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m not bothering anyone, and I don’t have any way to contact my wife to meet somewhere, so I’m just waiting here quietly.” 

Manager: “Look. We’ve gotten a number of complaints, and I really need you out of the hallway. How about this?” 

He goes to unlock the apartment door. 

Me: “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Are you going to unlock the apartment?” 

Manager: “Well, yeah. You said you were locked out. This way, you get out of the hallway, and people stop complaining.”

Me: “I haven’t shown you any ID or any records of any kind. Heck, I don’t even have a piece of mail with the address on it. Would you really let anyone into the apartment just because they said they lived there?”

Manager: “…”

After that, he just left. Once my wife got home, she let me in, and between the overly-trusting apartment manager and the under-trusting neighbors, I think we will be starting the apartment hunt again.

It’s early morning, and our store is setting up. A customer approaches the door, and when it doesn’t open, he starts banging on it. 

Coworker: “We’re not open yet, sir! Come back at 8:00 am.”

Customer: “I can’t open the door!” 

Coworker: “We’re not open until eight, sir! Come back then!” 

Customer: “Open the door! I need to buy my cigarettes!”

My coworker reminds him one more time to come back at 8:00 am and then walks off to continue his opening duties. At least, he is about to. We all stop at the sound of something hitting the door multiple times and then, finally, glass breaking.

This crazy MF has managed to find a pole that was holding up an ad and used it to ram the glass door. I rush over as he starts using the pole to clear away the shattered glass and casually bends down to enter the store through it.

Customer: “The door was broken.”

Me: “Sir… what the actual f***?! The door was locked, not broken! Locked, because we’re still closed!”

Customer: *Starts walking into the store* “Sell me my cigarettes.” 

Me: “Sir, we will not be selling you any cigarettes! In fact, we will be calling the police because you have willingly damaged the store!”

Customer: “Sell me my cigarettes, or I’ll use you as a punching bag!”

Threat of violence — that’s it. I call the silent alarm, which means someone has been tasked with calling the police. I follow the customer over to the tobacco counter. He is still so ridiculously calm and oblivious to his bad behavior that I am in shock.

Customer: “I’ll take [Brand, [size]. Two packs.”

Me: “Sir, I don’t think you understand. You broke down the door and threatened to assault my staff, and the police are on their way to arrest you. We will not be selling you cigarettes today!”

Customer: “Fine. What about tomorrow?”

He was still totally oblivious to the trouble he was in when the police arrived to escort him out.

When I was probably six years old, I was playing “kick the crackerbox” in the kitchen with my older sister. I had my socks on, and I slipped and fell chin-first into a stool. I was taken to the emergency room and had seven stitches put in.

As this was the late 1980s, there were still cigarette vending machines in the hospitals. A guy had bought himself a pack of smokes, and with his change, he had gotten a pack of Reese’s Pieces. He gave them to me and told me he hoped I would feel better soon. Thirty-five years later, I still remember that moment.

I also remember my grandmother pouring the candy into a bowl for me the next day and how painful it was to eat them with my wound — but they were all the more pleasant because of it.

I seriously doubt that man remembers that day, but I will never forget that random act of kindness that a stranger gave to a little kid in a lot of pain.

My father’s ancient bar phone finally died; the battery won’t hold a charge. For some reason, he decided to buy a smartphone — without consulting me, the person who is expected to fix all things he deems IT-related.

Dad: “[My Name], can you come give me a hand with my new phone?”

Me: “What new phone?”

Dad: “The new phone I bought yesterday.”

He proudly shows off said device.

I decide to skip telling him off for buying it without asking me because he’s never listened before — why would he start now?

Me: “Ooookay. What’s up with it?”

Dad: “I just downloaded an app, and now I can’t find it. I’ve tried everything!“

The phone is thrust into my hands. I stare at an Android system far newer than anything I’ve encountered.

My Internal Monologue: “I have no f****** idea how this works. And I can’t see what’s on the screen very well because I’m colourblind, and the background image is making things hard to read. But I don’t think I can break anything unless I really try. I guess I’ll just start in one corner and randomly press buttons until I figure it out.”

I click on the first icon. Lo and behold, there’s the app!

Dad: *Watching over my shoulder* “How did you do that? I clicked on everything, and it didn’t do that for me!”

Me: *While adding the app to his home screen* “Clearly, you didn’t try everything, or you would have found the app. Was there anything else?”

Dad: “No. Thanks for fixing that.”

Tech-wizard image preserved.