This happened in mid-October when the weather was still nice where I live. I went to our local grocery chain to grab a few things I needed for dinner. I wasn’t using a cart, just a basket. I was wearing a light blue polo, but the store dress code was a dark blue polo with the store logo and khakis. I was wearing jean shorts that in no way were too short but definitely wouldn’t be allowed for any employee of a grocery store

My oldest son, who is three and a half, loves to go to the store and do anything that involves getting out of the house, so I decided to let him tag along and leave his other brother at home with Dad. Grocery trips for us are kind of like our little Mom-and-Son dates, and I usually let him pick out a toy or a treat of some kind. Since outings aren’t happening as often since the [global health crisis], I try to keep things normal and exciting for him.

About twenty minutes into our trip, I had grabbed the few vegetables I needed, and I was just shopping around the canned goods aisle to grab some things I might need in the future. I was putting a can of something back in exchange for a larger version that I didn’t see at first when I heard:

Woman: “MA’AM, I NEED YOUR ASSISTANCE RIGHT THIS INSTANT!”

I figured someone was just being an a** to a nearby worker and carried on. Thirty seconds later, the yelling woman grabbed my arm and pulled me around.

Me: “Excuse me! Can I help you?!”

Woman: “I know you heard me! Help me find the molasses now!”

Me: “I don’t work here, clearly, so how about no? And don’t touch me again. As a matter of fact, we’re in a pandemic and you’re not even wearing a mask, so get away from me.”

Woman: “I have COPD! I can’t wear one! Where is your manager?! That’s a violation for you to even ask about my medical condition! Now—” *gesturing to [Son]* “—go find this child’s parents instead of dilly-dallying around, like you’re supposed to, or else I’ll tell the manager you weren’t gonna give this child back!”

I was completely stunned and pissed.

Me: “For one, I didn’t ask about your medical condition; I said to get away from me since you are above health codes. How dare you accuse me of stealing a child?! Again, I don’t work here, lady, and this stolen child happens to be my son. Are you okay?!”

Woman: “Yes, you did! You did ask me, you little b****! I know you’re a little rotten liar who doesn’t want to get in trouble! Now take me to the manager! You’re no older than sixteen. Who are you keeping this child from?!”

Me: “I am twenty-five years old! He came from my vagina and is my son! I. Do. Not. Work. Here. Get the h*** away from me before I get a manager myself. You are scaring my son!”

[Son] was visibly scared and on the verge of tears at that point.

Woman: “HE LOOKS SCARED BECAUSE YOU STOLE HIM!”

Me: “So now, I’m no longer finding his parents but stole him on the clock?!”

Woman: “SEE?! YOU JUST ADMITTED IT! YOU DO WORK HERE!”

By then, [Son] was crying, so I just grabbed his hand and walked to find a manager as fast as I could. The woman was screaming behind me that she was getting a manager and that I was kidnapping a child, so people were starting to look.

I finally found the manager, and it didn’t take much to explain the situation as the woman was trailing behind me screaming as I spoke to him. He very quickly confirmed that I did not work there. Then, he told the woman to leave for making such accusations and not adhering to local health department guidelines.

The woman, of course, refused, and she started causing an even bigger scene about how we were trafficking humans in the store. She eventually called 911 to report a kidnapping.

She ended up getting arrested in front of a good 150 people. I basically just had to tell the cops my situation and how the woman was following me throughout the store accusing me of stealing my own son, and that was that. I went home and got on with the rest of my day.

[Woman], I sincerely hope a jar of molasses was worth a trip to jail and you received the mental health care you clearly need.

I got a Ph.D. placement abroad in Switzerland, but because I was starting directly after my Masters, I only got about three weeks’ notice that I had been accepted by the university. Of course, this meant that my choices in flat hunting were limited. I ended up renting a room in a flat with two other people both in their forties.

Things quickly started going downhill — things like being accused of not doing the cleaning when I had, not being allowed to use the kitchen if the main tenant was cooking (he was technically my landlord as I had the contract with him), and having to eat my breakfast while the main tenant was having his morning meetings at the dining table. While not terrible, it did make the whole situation awkward.

Finally, I’ve had enough, and I start flat hunting and find a nice place closer to the centre of the city. Once I have signed the contract, I arrive back at the flat to tell the main tenant I’m leaving with four months’ notice. (It’s May.) He starts speaking before me.

Tenant: “I’ve got a favour I want to ask you. Would you mind if you moved out during August so my daughter who is visiting can stay in your room? Don’t worry; you wouldn’t have to pay any rent for that month.”

I pause in shock for a second.

Me: “Um, no. I’m working over August. I need to use my room.”

Tenant: “Oh, but aren’t you going home for the summer?”

Me: “No, I’m working in the lab over the summer.”

Tenant: “But you’re a student.”

Me: “Yes, I’m a doctoral student. It’s a full-time job. I only get twenty-eight days of holiday, which I imagine is the same as you. I’m not going to put in for all my holiday just because you want your daughter to use the room.”

Tenant: “Oh. Really? Oh, in that case, never mind.”

At that point, I gave him the news that I’d found a new flat and would be moving out.

The next day, I had a thought. I’m young for a Ph.D. student in Switzerland. (I was twenty-two when I first arrived, and all of the other students in the building were three to eight years older than me.) It didn’t help that I have a baby face. I think that somewhere along the line, the “doctoral” part got dropped, and the guy thought I was an undergrad and based his respect on that. The whole situation made me so glad I’d already got a new place.

While driving home, I get stuck waiting at the railway crossing near the station of my little hometown. The station is to my left, the train has just stopped there. From my right, over a grassland, two preteen boys are biking toward the crossing. I mostly notice them because I am a bit worried about them knowing to look out for the train. They do; they lie down on the grass just under the bank, probably to watch the train from below. They’re nearer than I’m really comfortable with but safe enough.

Once the train is gone, one of them runs up the bank and puts something on a rail. Then, he looks around and adds two rather large stones — about the width of the rail itself, as far as I can see from where I am sitting in the third car from crossing. Then, he grabs his bike and goes to join his friend standing near the crossing; they obviously want to cross both the railway and street.

Seeing these actions, I roll down my right window. With half a dozen cars in each direction, they won’t be able to cross the street before my car reaches them, so I will be able to tell them off.

Only… the first car stops at the crossing. I don’t hear what is said, but one of the boys runs back to the rail and swipes the stones off. The cars in front of me drive away.

Wait, but he left the first thing. It’s not a stone but something colourful; maybe it’s soft, but still, I’m not going to take any chances.

I stop by the boys and shout for them to get the last item, as well, while the first car from the opposite direction has also stopped and is honking. The boys go and get the third item, as well, and we all drive on.

Somebody got a triple dose of being raised by the village today. And I got my belief that I am living among decent people confirmed.

The old Woodward’s store in downtown Vancouver used to have a photo booth near the food court. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, my friends and I loved to go down to the photo booth. We would save up our change, bring props, and get all sorts of fun selfies.

One day, I was there with a friend having fun as usual when I noticed that a very small girl, maybe three or four, had appeared next to the photobooth. She was looking longingly at the curtains and at us.

I could see that her mom was nearby, so I said something like, “Sweet girl!” to her.

Mom: “She’s really curious about what’s going on in there.”

Me: “Would it be okay for me to bring her in there and take some pictures?”

The mom was 100% on board with this idea, and the little girl was somewhat in awe of being allowed to go into the booth. I still have two of those four pictures. I gave the other two to the girl and her mother.

I’m meeting a friend at a small coffee shop about halfway between our respective houses. I’ve never been to this coffee shop, so I message my friend as I enter to see if she’s already there. A brief check and I don’t see her, so I figure I’ll order and grab a table.

As I’m heading to the counter, someone reaches out and grabs my arm. I realize it’s my friend; she has her back to the door so I didn’t immediately recognize her. Sitting across from her is a guy I don’t know.

Friend: “Hey, [My Name]! Glad to see you.”

Me: “You, too! Did you get your coffee?”

Friend: “Yeah, I’ve just been chatting with…”

Guy: “[Guy].”

I sort of acknowledge him and realize my friend isn’t quite panicking, but she’s sort of starting to dig her nails into my arm.

Me: “Ah. Well, sorry I’m late. I’ll just go get some coffee.”

Guy: “Oh, do you mind if I hang out with you guys?”

Friend: “You know, that’d be great. But she and I haven’t seen each other in a long time, and we want to catch up.”

It has only been a couple of months if that since we’ve seen each other in person, and we text all the time. Plus, her brother and my brother are best friends. But I get the idea.

Me: “Yeah, sorry, just been a while. Lots to catch up on.”

Guy: “Cool, cool. All right, thanks for the drink.”

He finally gets up and leaves. I slip into his empty seat.

Me: “So…”

Friend: “Sorry about that, I—”

She’s interrupted by one of the baristas coming over; I think he might be a manager.

Barista: “Did he bother you at all? I tried to keep an eye on him, but we got really busy.”

Friend: “Oh, no, it was fine. I was waiting for my friend anyway.”

Barista: “He comes in occasionally and tries to get people to buy him coffee. We haven’t had issues yet, but he’s made a few people uncomfortable. If he comes back, let me know. In the meantime, can I get you some coffee?”

Friend: “I still have mine, but she might want something?”

I went up and ordered, and the barista didn’t let me pay because my friend had bought the guy a coffee. She told me that he’d come into the coffee shop right behind her — not following her but the next person in the door. They’d started chatting while in line, and when she mentioned meeting someone, he’d wormed his way into getting her to buy his coffee and then sitting down with him. He wasn’t outside when we left as far as we were able to tell. 

It’s been almost ten years, and I wonder about him occasionally. From my friend’s discussion, he didn’t have any obvious issues, but we didn’t want to assume. We didn’t meet at that coffee shop again, although that was more due to relocations and it no longer being in the middle than outright trying to avoid this guy.