People Play Mind Games In These Revenge Stories

I never thought I’d be part of a workplace rebellion, but our new manager Lincoln made it impossible NOT to mess with him.

For context, I work at an engineering firm where we travel constantly for client projects.

Our previous manager, Asher, was this amazing guy who trusted us completely. His motto was basically, “Use your judgment with expenses, just don’t go crazy.” We respected him too much to ever take advantage–we’d stay at reasonable hotels, be sensible with meals, and find ways to save money when possible.

My wife Maria would drop me at the airport and pick me up to save on taxi costs. Everything worked smoothly.

Then Asher retired, and corporate sent us Lincoln, this spreadsheet-obsessed micromanager determined to slash our expenses and “optimize efficiency.” During our first team meeting, he actually had the nerve to criticize Asher’s management style, calling it “outdated and inefficient.” We all exchanged looks–he’d just insulted someone we genuinely respected.

The changes started immediately.

First, Lincoln scrutinized my airport rides. When he learned Maria only drove one way with me in the car, he declared I could only claim HALF the mileage reimbursement. “Company policy states compensation is for employee travel only,” he said with this smug look.

We’re talking about saving maybe $12 a week.

I nodded politely and said, “Of course, that makes perfect sense.”

The next week, I checked our official travel policy. It clearly stated we could either use personal vehicles with mileage reimbursement OR take taxis and submit receipts.

So I started taking taxis–$110 round trip with tip. When Lincoln saw my expense report, he practically had a stroke. My $48/month expense had suddenly become a $440/month expense.

“This is completely unacceptable!” he fumed in his office.

I blinked innocently.

“I’m just following the official policy you pointed out, sir. Since I can only claim half the mileage when Maria drives, this is actually more cost-effective for me personally. I’m sure you understand.”

He couldn’t argue because I was following the rules to the letter–HIS precious rules.

But Lincoln wasn’t done “optimizing” yet.

Next, he moved us from our regular hotels–these charming places in town centers that were maybe $15 more per night–to budget chain motels off highways miles from anywhere. The original hotels had breakfast included, decent restaurants, and were walking distance to places we could hang out after work.

The budget places had nothing but a sad vending machine and a pancake house across the parking lot.

At our team meeting, my colleague James asked, “How will we get to restaurants in the evenings? These places are in the middle of nowhere.”

“You have rental cars,” Lincoln replied dismissively.

Here’s where it gets good.

Our company policy clearly stated we could use rental cars for personal evening activities, OR we could take taxis if we planned to have any booze. Since most of us enjoyed unwinding with a drink after 12-hour workdays, we all started taking separate taxis into town every evening.

Five of us, four nights a week, $35 each way per taxi.

Plus, the budget motels didn’t include breakfast, so we all expense-reported our $17 breakfasts at the nearby diner. Lincoln had “saved” about $15 per room per night but added roughly $70 per person per day in new expenses.

It gets better.

One of my coworkers, John, discovered our company policy allowed for laundry service if we traveled for more than three consecutive days–something we’d rarely used before because it seemed excessive. Now, with Lincoln’s penny-pinching making our lives difficult, we ALL submitted laundry receipts.

The best part?

Our previous hotels actually had been negotiated at corporate rates years ago. The “fancy” historic hotel that Lincoln pulled us from? It had meeting rooms we used for free. Now we had to rent conference spaces at $500 a day.

Three months later, Lincoln had his quarterly review.

Turns out, expenses across our department had increased by 70% despite his “cost-saving measures.” The CFO called him in for an explanation.

I wasn’t in the meeting, but my friend Kayla from accounting told me Lincoln tried blaming us for “deliberately undermining” him.

The CFO apparently just stared at him and said, “So your team is following all company policies exactly as written, and that’s… a problem?”

Lincoln was reassigned to a non-managerial position the following week. Our new manager, Jasmine, called us all together on her first day.

“I’ve reviewed the situation,” she said.

“I’m reinstating your previous accommodation arrangements effective immediately. And I’d like to propose we review the travel policies to better reflect both company needs and practical realities.”

The irony? We’re now saving the company MORE money than before Lincoln showed up, because Jasmine actually listened when we suggested better-negotiated hotel rates and more efficient scheduling of client visits.

Last week, I saw Lincoln in the cafeteria.

He avoided eye contact, but I heard he’s become quite obsessive about reviewing the company parking policy. Some people never learn.

Oh, and that historic hotel Lincoln pulled us from? Turns out the owners were so disappointed to lose our regular business that they’ve now given us an even better corporate rate than before–$5 LESS per night than the highway budget motels.

Sometimes corporate nonsense really does come full circle.

I never realized how much paperwork would be involved in getting credit for my internship at this global tech company. The whole process seemed straightforward at first, but then I met Willow, the program director at my community college who handles the work-based learning credits.

Willow is one of those administrators who seems to live for making students jump through hoops.

When I first met her last month, she explained I needed my new boss to fill out some forms before I could officially enroll for the internship credit. Fair enough.

I emailed Matthew, my soon-to-be boss, asking if he could complete the paperwork.

He responded a week later with the signed documents–he’d been on vacation, which was totally fine with me. I took the papers to Willow the very next day, thinking everything was good to go.

But no.

The moment I handed her the papers, she started lecturing me about how I’d “almost missed the enrollment window” which was apparently closing the following day. I explained that I’d been waiting for Matthew to return from vacation and even showed her our email chain.

“You need to be more prompt with paperwork next time,” she said, looking at me like I was some irresponsible kid.

I just nodded and left, thinking to myself that she was on some kind of power trip because she had a director title at a government organization.

After three years at a state university, I was familiar with these types in academia–the ones who cling to rules like they’re sacred texts.

The next week, I started my internship, and honestly, it was awesome.

Matthew turned out to be the most laid-back, supportive manager I’ve ever had. The programming work was challenging in the best way, and I was learning tons. I pretty much forgot about Willow until the end of the month when I needed to submit my first timesheet.

The timesheet was just a basic Excel file.

Matthew printed it front and back because it had all these charts for different weeks, and it made more sense to read it that way. We both signed it, I scanned both sides, and sent it to Willow on the 31st–right on deadline.

Five days later, I got this ridiculous email from Willow: “Your timesheet is invalid because it must be all on one page.

The time records on the front page are not valid since the signature is on the back page.”

Seriously? She was basically accusing me of potentially faking my hours! And the kicker? This “one-page requirement” wasn’t mentioned ANYWHERE on the class website or in any of the materials she gave me.

I had to get Matthew to sign a new timesheet, which meant bothering him with this nonsense.

By now, we had a good rapport, and when I explained the situation, he was as baffled as I was.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard,” he said, shaking his head. “Let’s have some fun with this.”

That’s when our little rebellion began.

Matthew printed the Excel sheet using the tiniest font possible–like 4 or 6 point–with the cells shrunk to microscopic proportions. It looked like a document for ants, but technically, it was all on one page. I scanned it at super high resolution so she could theoretically read it, but she’d have to zoom way in and painfully scroll across in her PDF reader to check each individual time entry.

We both signed our names at the bottom of this ridiculously formatted document, and I sent it back to her with a polite email saying, “As requested, here is the timesheet on a single page.”

But we weren’t done yet.

There was also this mandatory on-site visit that had to be scheduled by the 16th. When Willow reached out to coordinate, Matthew told her he wouldn’t be available until the 20th. Since none of these delays were my fault, there was nothing she could do that would jeopardize my class credit.

I felt a bit nervous after sending that microscopic timesheet, wondering if she might try to make my life difficult.

But two days later, Willow simply approved everything in our online system without commenting on the formatting. She also agreed to the later meeting date without any pushback.

It wasn’t some epic revenge story, but there was something incredibly satisfying about finding this small way to push back against unnecessary bureaucracy.

Matthew and I still laugh about it when timesheet day comes around each month.

The best part? I’m getting invaluable experience at this internship. Matthew has become a mentor to me, showing me how to navigate not just programming challenges but also workplace dynamics.

He told me later that he appreciated how I handled the situation–professionally but with a touch of creativity.

“Sometimes in your career,” he said, “you’ll run into people who create obstacles just to feel important.

The trick is finding ways around them without burning bridges.”

I’m definitely earning my credits for this internship, but I’m learning way more than just technical skills. And whenever I see an email from Willow in my inbox now, Matthew and I exchange knowing looks across the office–our little inside joke about the time we maliciously complied with the most pointless rule ever.

In case you’re wondering, I’ve submitted three more timesheets since then.

All in normal formatting, all accepted without comment. Sometimes a small act of rebellion is all it takes to reset the power dynamic. Or maybe Willow just doesn’t want to look at another microscopic spreadsheet. Either way, I count it as a win.

My dad Hugo is pretty much the most stubborn 78-year-old you’ll ever meet. That man has a will of iron, especially when it comes to my stepmom Fatima.

They’ve been together for nearly 30 years, and their devotion to each other is something straight out of a movie.

Fatima was diagnosed with late-stage cancer last year. It hit us all hard, but Hugo took it the worst.

For the past six months, he’s been by her side every single day. When her condition worsened last month, she was moved from the assisted living wing to the hospice care section of Green Meadows Center.

That’s when the nightmare with visitation started.

The two wings have completely different rules, which would be fine if anyone actually knew what they were. I swear, every time we visited, we got different instructions from different staff members.

My brother George and I tried to help Dad navigate the mess.

“Just call this number between 8am and 4pm to schedule visits,” one nurse would say. Then the next day: “Oh, you need to email this address 24 hours in advance.” Then: “Actually, you need to fill out this form and drop it off in person.”

It was total nonsense, but Dad stayed calm through most of it.

Until last Tuesday.

Hugo had just finished a really good visit with Fatima. She was having one of her better days–alert, talking, even laughing a bit. As he was leaving, he stopped at the front desk to schedule his visit for the next day.

“I’d like to come in tomorrow at 2pm, please,” he told the receptionist, a woman named Grace who was relatively new.

Grace barely looked up from her computer.

“You can’t schedule in person. You need to call the scheduling office at least 12 hours before you want to visit.”

Dad frowned. “But yesterday, Scarlett told me I could schedule my next visit in person.”

“Well, Scarlett was wrong.

The policy changed last week.”

“But I’ve been coming at 2pm every day for the past month.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Rules are rules.”

Dad tried reasoning with her. Then he asked to speak to a supervisor.

Grace said the supervisor wouldn’t be in until the next day. By this point, other visitors were lining up behind him, and Grace was getting impatient.

“Sir, please. You need to call the office to schedule. There’s nothing I can do.”

Finally, defeated, Dad left.

He called me on his drive home, and I could tell he was really upset.

“Dad, just call first thing in the morning,” I suggested.

“What if all the 2pm slots are taken by then? Fatima expects me at 2.

It’s when she’s most alert.”

I didn’t have a good answer for that. We hung up, and I figured he’d try his luck in the morning.

The next day, I stopped by his house around noon to drive him to the facility, assuming he’d managed to get a slot.

When I arrived, he was already dressed and ready, looking smugly satisfied.

“Did you get your 2pm appointment?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Grace said I needed to call 12 hours before, so I set my alarm for 2am and called the after-hours line.”

I nearly choked.

“You did what?”

“I called at 2am exactly. The night nurse, Amina, answered. She was very confused. Said she’d never had someone call to schedule a visit in the middle of the night before.”

“What did she say?”

“She tried to tell me to call back during business hours, but I explained that Grace specifically told me to call 12 hours before.

Amina checked the visitor policy and couldn’t find anything about when scheduling calls should be made. So she booked me in.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Dad, that’s genius, but also a bit much.”

He shrugged.

“Rules are rules.”

When we arrived at the hospice that afternoon, the atmosphere was… different. Grace was at the desk, and when she saw Dad, her eyes widened. The supervisor, an older man named Alejandro, came out to greet us.

“Mr.

Garcia,” he said warmly, shaking Dad’s hand. “I understand there was some confusion about our visitation policy.”

“No confusion on my part,” Dad replied calmly. “I was told to call 12 hours before, so I did.”

Alejandro cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, about that. We’ve been reviewing our policies and realized they weren’t very… practical. Especially for our regular visitors with loved ones in hospice care.”

Turns out, Dad’s 2am call had caused quite a stir.

Amina had documented it, and when the morning staff came in, they brought it to Alejandro’s attention. He’d spent the morning reviewing their visitor policies and found they were, indeed, a mess of contradictions.

“Going forward,” Alejandro explained, “family members of hospice patients can visit anytime between 8am and 8pm.

No scheduling required. Just check in at the desk when you arrive.”

Dad nodded, satisfied. “That sounds reasonable.”

As we walked toward Fatima’s room, I nudged Dad. “You know, you could have just waited until morning to call.”

“And risk not getting my usual time?

Besides,” he winked, “sometimes you have to show people how ridiculous their rules are.”

That’s my dad for you. Seventy-eight years old and still fighting the good fight, one 2am phone call at a time.

The best part? Three other families with loved ones in hospice care have personally thanked him for “fixing” the visitation system. And Fatima? When we told her what happened, she laughed so hard she cried.

“That’s why I married him,” she said, reaching for his hand.

“He’s just stubborn enough to move mountains for me.”

Sometimes, it takes a little rebellion to change things for the better. And sometimes, that rebellion comes from the most unexpected places–like my senior citizen father with an alarm clock and a point to prove.

I’ve been working as a temp at this package sorting facility for about three months now. The place is called “Neptune Logistics” – one of those massive warehouses where boxes go in one end and come out organized at the other.

My job was pretty straightforward: stand at a conveyor belt and push packages into the right sorting bins based on their destination codes. Nothing complicated, just mind-numbing work that pays the bills.

Last Tuesday was when everything went sideways. I was doing my usual thing, pushing packages into bins when our supervisor Vanessa (we call her “The Dragon” behind her back) came storming onto the floor with this new policy.

Her accent is so thick you can barely understand her when she’s calm, but when she’s angry, forget about it.

“Listen up! From now on, each scanner stays at their assigned bins only! No moving around!” she shouted.

Apparently management wanted some new efficiency data they hadn’t bothered to tell anyone about until that exact moment.

Brian was working the scanner position in front of me. Nice guy, about 45, always talking about his kids. He’d mentioned earlier that day he had an interview lined up to manage a barbershop downtown.

Brian has always struggled with the scanning equipment – technology isn’t his strong suit, and despite multiple training sessions, he still scanned at half the speed of everyone else.

After Vanessa’s announcement, I could see Brian getting frustrated.

The conveyor belt was running at full speed, packages were piling up in his bins, and the scanner kept beeping error messages at him.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered after about twenty minutes of struggling. Then he just snapped.

“You know what? I’m done. I don’t need this nonsense.” He dropped his scanner right in the bin and walked straight out the door. Didn’t say goodbye, didn’t clock out, just gone.

The bins Brian was responsible for started overflowing immediately.

The two guys on either side of his station, Luis and Samuel, were strictly following Vanessa’s orders and refusing to touch Brian’s packages. They just watched as the pile grew and boxes started falling onto the floor.

After about ten minutes of this chaos, the incoming packages slowed down as we finished processing the latest truck.

With a lull in the action, I figured I’d help out. I hopped over to Brian’s station, picked up his abandoned scanner, and started processing his backlog.

I’d cleared about half the pile when Mackenzie, our team lead, came over looking confused.

“Where’s Brian?” she asked, glancing around.

“Gone,” I replied, scanning another package.

“Just walked out about half an hour ago.”

“You’re kidding, right?” She looked genuinely shocked.

“Nope. Left his scanner and everything,” I said, holding up the device. “I’m just clearing his backlog since we’re slow right now.”

Mackenzie hurried off to the management office.

Five minutes later, Vanessa came charging across the warehouse floor like a bull seeing red.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, standing so close I could smell her coffee breath.

“Brian left, and these bins were overflowing, so I–”

“Did anyone tell you to leave your station?” she cut me off.

“No, but there’s barely anything coming down my line right now, and these packages–”

“I decide who does what in this warehouse!” Her face was turning an alarming shade of red.

“No one told you to move from pushing! Get back to your station immediately!”

“I was just trying to help,” I said, feeling my temper rising. “The packages were piling up on the floor.”

“Are you talking back to me?

Who do you think you are? If you can’t follow simple instructions, maybe you shouldn’t be here at all!”

“Are you seriously mad that I’m helping clear a backlog?”

“If you’re going to question my authority, you can just go home right now!”

That was it.

Three months of putting up with terrible management and ridiculous policies all came to a head.

“You know what? Fine! I’ll go home. This place is a complete disaster anyway. You’d rather have packages on the floor than let someone help who’s not assigned to that area?

That’s just plain stupid!”

As I stormed toward the exit, I ran into Nicholas, who was also heading to the parking lot. Turns out Vanessa had sent him home too for suggesting they adjust the conveyor belt speed during the backup.

“She’s on a power trip today,” he said as we walked to our cars.

“Did she scream in your face too?”

I emailed the temp agency as soon as I got home. When they called me back, they said Neptune Logistics had requested I not return, but they could place me somewhere else.

They also mentioned they were filing a formal complaint based on my description of events, as I wasn’t the first person to report issues with Vanessa’s management style.

The irony? I was planning to quit on Friday anyway since I’m moving to a new city next month.

And the real kicker? They paid me for a full eight-hour shift even though I only worked three hours. I guess sometimes getting kicked out is actually a win.

Update: Just heard from Luis that two days after this incident, Vanessa got called into a meeting with HR and regional management.

Apparently, there’s been a string of complaints and they’re finally investigating. Sometimes karma does come around.

You know how kids go through those weird food phases? My little brother Marcus is smack in the middle of one right now, and it’s driving me absolutely nuts.

For the past two weeks, he’s been doing this thing where he asks for these ridiculously precise, tiny portions of food.

Like, not a bowl of cereal–exactly seven spoonfuls. Not a sandwich–just one quarter cut in a specific way. Then, surprise surprise, he’s asking for more five minutes later. Rinse and repeat about six times until he’s actually full.

I’ve tried explaining that he could just, you know, ask for a normal amount of food the first time.

But he’s eight, so logic isn’t exactly his strong suit right now.

Yesterday was the breaking point. Both our parents were out–Dad running errands after Marcus finished his online classes, Mom at work–which left me on brother duty.

About an hour into my babysitting shift, Marcus wandered into the living room where I was trying to finish an assignment.

“I’m hungry,” he announced, standing directly between me and the TV.

“Okay, let’s get you something,” I said, closing my laptop.

We headed to the kitchen, and I opened the fridge. “How about a yogurt? Or I could make you a sandwich?”

Marcus shook his head dramatically. “I want blueberries.”

“Good choice,” I said, pulling out the container from the fridge.

I was about to pour a decent amount into a bowl when he stopped me.

“I want EXACTLY ten blueberries,” he said, emphasizing the ‘exactly’ like it was the most important word in the English language.

I looked at him, then at the full container of blueberries in my hand.

“Are you SURE you only want ten? I can give you a handful. Or, you know, a normal serving for a growing kid?”

“No!” Marcus insisted, crossing his arms. “I want ten blueberries!!!”

“Okay, okay,” I said, knowing exactly how this would play out.

I’d give him ten, he’d eat them in thirty seconds, and then he’d be back asking for more. It was getting old.

I started placing blueberries in a small bowl as Marcus counted each one aloud.

“One… two… three…” But then, as he reached “seven,” a beautiful, petty idea popped into my head.

“Hey, Marcus, why don’t you go sit on the couch while I finish getting these ready for you?”

He looked suspicious but nodded and bounced back to the living room.

As soon as he was gone, I dumped the blueberries back into the container and began my mission: finding the ten smallest, most pathetic blueberries in the entire batch.

It took some digging, but I found them–ten tiny, practically dehydrated little blue pebbles that barely qualified as fruit.

Some were barely bigger than peas. They looked ridiculous sitting in the bowl, like some kind of sad berry graveyard.

I walked back to the living room, keeping my face completely neutral as I handed him the bowl. “Here you go.

EXACTLY ten blueberries, as requested.”

Marcus started counting them immediately, pointing at each microscopic berry. “One… two… three…” When he reached ten, he looked up at the sad collection, then back at me. I could see the mental calculation happening behind his eyes.

He quietly ate all ten in about four seconds flat.

Then, exactly as I’d predicted, he looked up with those big eyes.

“Can I have more blueberries?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I thought ten was the perfect amount?”

“I want more now,” he mumbled, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Do you want a handful this time?

Like, a normal human serving?” I asked, trying not to sound too smug.

“Yes, please,” he said, holding out his bowl.

I went back to the kitchen, filled his bowl with a generous portion of regular-sized blueberries, and returned to find him waiting patiently.

“Here you go, a normal amount of food for a growing kid,” I said, handing him the bowl.

He looked at it for a moment before saying, “Thanks.” Then he added quietly, “These are better.”

I ruffled his hair.

“You know, if you just asked for a normal amount the first time, you wouldn’t have to keep asking for more.”

Marcus shrugged, his mouth now stained purple. “But what if I get too much?”

“Then you don’t finish it.

Simple as that.”

The next morning at breakfast, I was expecting the usual routine when Marcus came downstairs. But when Mom asked him what he wanted, he just said, “A normal bowl of cereal, please.”

Mom looked surprised but poured him a standard bowl without comment.

I caught Marcus’s eye across the table and gave him a subtle thumbs up.

Later, when our parents weren’t around, he sidled up to me. “Those tiny blueberries were really lame.”

“Yeah, they were,” I agreed.

“That’s what happens when you ask for exactly ten of something. You don’t get to control which ten you get.”

He considered this for a moment, then nodded seriously like I’d just shared the wisdom of the ages.

Things have been better since the Great Blueberry Lesson.

He still has his picky moments–he’s eight, after all–but the precise food measurements have mostly stopped. Every once in a while, when he starts to get overly specific with his requests, I just raise an eyebrow and say, “Remember the ten blueberries?” and he quickly reconsiders.

Sometimes the best teaching moments come from the smallest berries.

Let me tell you about the time I saved my company from a potential recall, only after they ignored me for weeks.

About seven years ago, I worked as a Quality Control inspector at a baby food production facility.

Not the most glamorous job, but somebody’s gotta make sure that pureed carrots meet safety standards, right?

My job involved taking samples from different stages of production throughout the day. The mashing stage, cooking, packaging–I’d collect samples from each area to run tests and make sure everything was up to code.

This meant I moved around the factory floor more than most other employees, seeing parts of the production line others rarely visited.

One Tuesday morning, I was collecting samples from the cooling chamber–this massive stainless steel tunnel where the food travels on a conveyor to bring the temperature down before packaging.

I noticed something strange: tiny black specks in several of my samples. At first, I thought it might be a fluke, so I waited and grabbed another batch. Same thing. Little black specks scattered throughout the puree.

I immediately reported it to Luis, our shift supervisor.

He seemed concerned and called Arthur, the production manager, who was honestly one of the best bosses I’d ever had. Arthur came down right away, examined the samples, and called Nolan, the plant director.

Now, Nolan was the kind of guy who only cared about the numbers.

When Arthur explained the situation, Nolan told us to check ten random jars from the last hour of production. If none of them contained the black specks, we should continue operations as normal.

We checked those jars–no visible black specks.

So production continued. But I knew something was wrong. Those specks had to be going somewhere, and the cooling tunnel was definitely the source.

I filled out a maintenance request form, figuring they’d investigate over the weekend. Monday rolled around, and guess what?

More black specks. I reported it again, we checked another batch of random jars, found nothing, and kept on producing baby food. This pattern continued for nearly three weeks. Every day, I’d file a maintenance request, and every day it was ignored.

By the third week, I started documenting everything with photos on my phone.

I knew this was building toward something bad, and I didn’t want to be the scapegoat when it finally hit the fan.

Sure enough, during the monthly quality inspection–when all the higher-ups from corporate came through–Whitney from the quality assurance team found black specks in a jar pulled directly from the warehouse.

Everyone froze. This wasn’t just a contamination–it was a contamination that had made it into finished products ready for distribution.

The plant shut down immediately. Corporate executives started pulling pallets from the warehouse, opening jars at random.

Every other jar contained those same black specks. By the end of the day, they had pulled over 150 pallets–about 180,000 jars of baby food that couldn’t be sold.

The financial impact was massive. Between the lost product, the emergency maintenance, and the shutdown time (which cost roughly $8,000 every hour), they were looking at a loss of nearly half a million dollars.

Not to mention the PR nightmare they narrowly avoided–imagine the headlines if that contaminated baby food had reached stores!

Nolan called me into his office with Arthur and Riley, the head of operations. He started in with, “How did you miss this?

This is exactly what you’re supposed to catch!”

I didn’t say a word. I just pulled out my phone, opened my photos, and showed them three weeks’ worth of daily maintenance requests, all with pictures of the black specks I’d found.

Then I pulled out copies of all my written reports–twenty-three in total.

The room got very quiet. Arthur looked like he wanted to high-five me. Riley’s face turned an impressive shade of red. Nolan just stared at the papers.

“Why wasn’t this fixed?” he finally asked, not looking at me.

“That’s what I’ve been asking for three weeks,” I replied.

After a thorough investigation, they discovered the rubber lining inside the cooling tunnel was deteriorating, shedding small pieces into the product.

The entire cooling tunnel needed to be disassembled and rebuilt–a two-day job that cost tens of thousands in parts and labor.

But here’s the real kicker: remember how I mentioned I moved around the factory more than others?

Well, during those three weeks, I’d also noticed the same issue beginning in the second cooling tunnel–the one handling our fruit purees. The rubber was starting to wear in the exact same way.

I’d reported that too, but Nolan deemed it “not severe enough to warrant maintenance.”

Guess what happened just one week after they fixed the first tunnel?

The second tunnel didn’t just develop the same problem–it catastrophically failed. The entire rubber lining detached and got caught in the conveyor mechanism, causing the whole system to jam and break apart. When I arrived for my shift, there was literally tons of fruit puree spread across the factory floor, dripping through the ceiling to the floor below, and the entire tunnel assembly was mangled beyond repair.

The cost of that failure?

A cool $300,000 for emergency replacement, plus another day of production loss.

The following week, they announced a new company policy: all maintenance requests from QC personnel would be reviewed and addressed within 24 hours. Nolan was “reassigned” to another facility, and Arthur took over as interim plant director.

The most satisfying part?

During the next quarterly meeting, Arthur gave me a safety innovation award and a bonus. But honestly, the look on Nolan’s face when I showed him all those ignored reports was worth more than any bonus could ever be.

Working as a bank teller isn’t exactly glamorous, but the pay is decent and the benefits package makes it worth dealing with the occasional difficult customer.

That’s why none of us would risk our jobs by stealing – contrary to what one of our most problematic customers thinks.

Valerie has been accusing our branch of theft for months. She’s convinced that someone at our location is stealing money from her account, despite all evidence pointing to her own spending habits and the fact that her debit card gets “lost” around town with suspicious frequency.

The first time she accused us, I was shocked.

The second time, concerned. By the fifth time, all of us tellers had developed a special Valerie protocol: document everything twice, make her fill out withdrawal slips even when using her card, and keep meticulous records of every transaction.

She’s accused everyone from the newest teller to our branch manager, Ryan.

Ryan barely handles cash – he’s mostly in his office making calls or meeting with clients about loans and new accounts. He definitely doesn’t have the access or motivation to steal the $20-40 that Valerie claims goes missing every few days.

Anyway, last Tuesday was unusually slow.

Our drive-through was only getting a customer every 20 minutes or so, giving us rare time to catch up on paperwork and actually answer the phone when it rang. And ring it did.

“Thank you for calling First National on Maple Street, this is Ian speaking.

How can I help you today?”

Silence.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

More silence. I was about to hang up when I finally heard a voice.

“Yeah, it’s Valerie. Can you hear me now?”

I immediately felt my stomach tighten.

“Oh, hi Valerie! Yes, I can hear you clearly. What can I do for you today?”

“I’m missing money again!” she snapped, her voice rising. “I had over $100 in my account on Friday, and now there’s less than $50!

Someone at your branch is stealing from me!”

I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to hear that. Let me check your account history right away.”

A quick look at her transaction record told the real story.

“Valerie, I can see here that you had those funds on Friday, but then you made a withdrawal on Monday for $30 and another one yesterday for $25.”

“No I didn’t!” she interrupted. “I’ve told you people a hundred times – I don’t want anything coming out of that account unless I authorize it!

I have my cards shipped to the bank because they keep getting stolen. I need that money to live off of!”

My colleague Sofia slid me a note: “If she thinks she’s being stolen from, transfer her to fraud.”

I waited for a pause in Valerie’s rant.

“Valerie, do you believe someone is fraudulently taking money from your account? I can transfer you to our fraud department.”

“What you can do–” she paused dramatically, “do you even know how to add and subtract?!”

I bit my tongue.

“Yes, I do. And all your transactions add up correctly from what you had Friday to what you have now.”

“Whatever. Just transfer me to Ryan. Is he available?”

I looked toward Ryan’s office.

He was on the phone but caught my eye and mouthed “Who is it?” When I mouthed back “Valerie,” he shook his head vigorously and pointed to his phone call.

“I’m sorry, Valerie, but Ryan is with a client right now.”

“Fine.

Have him call me back then. You have my number in your computer.”

I checked her account. The phone number we had was from 2018. “Is your number still 555-0178?”

“Let me check,” she said. “I don’t know.

I don’t call myself. Can you call me? See if that’s the right number? Check if my phone’s working?”

I smiled. An opportunity had presented itself. “I’d be happy to do that for you!

I’ll need to hang up first though. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” she agreed.

I hung up and looked at Sofia, who was watching me curiously. “Are you really going to call her?”

“Company policy,” I said with a straight face.

“We need to verify contact information.”

I dialed the number and waited as it rang… and rang… and rang…

Finally, a robotic voice: “THE NUMBER YOU ARE TRYING TO REACH IS NO LONGER IN SERVICE.”

I hung up and smiled.

“Guess that wasn’t the right number. Oops.”

Sofia laughed. “You’re bad.”

“Not as bad as someone who constantly accuses bank employees of theft,” I replied.

Valerie did call back the next day, but by then Ryan had prepared a formal letter explaining that if she continued to make unfounded accusations against staff, we would need to ask her to move her accounts elsewhere.

When she demanded to know why he never called her back, he simply explained that we had tried the number on file and it wasn’t in service.

She huffed about getting a new phone soon and how we should have tried harder to reach her.

But the best part? She hasn’t accused anyone of stealing since then. Instead, she’s suddenly become very careful about tracking her withdrawals and even started using a checkbook register.

Sometimes a little inconvenience is all it takes to make someone take responsibility for their own finances.

And sometimes, just sometimes, it feels good to give difficult customers exactly what they ask for – nothing more, nothing less.

You know those moments in life where you do something so incredibly dumb yet so perfectly right that you can’t help but look back and laugh?

I had one of those epic moments back in 4th grade that basically made me a legend for exactly one day.

It was mid-October, and our regular teacher, Ms. Lila, had gotten herself into quite the situation. She’d been trying to hang up our science projects on this ridiculously high bulletin board.

Being like 5’2″, she needed this rickety old step ladder that had probably been in the school since the 1970s. Long story short, down went Ms. Lila, broke her arm in two places, and suddenly we had the substitute teacher from hell.

Ms.

Ruby was her name, but we all secretly called her Ms. Doom behind her back. She had this permanent scowl etched into her face like someone had wronged her in a past life and she was determined to make every 9-year-old pay for it.

Her rules were absolutely insane–no talking, no getting up, no breathing too loudly (I swear).

So there I was, sitting in class, trying to focus on whatever boring multiplication tables we were supposed to be working on, when nature decided to call.

And when you’re 9, nature doesn’t politely knock–it basically kicks down the door and demands immediate attention.

I raised my hand and waited. And waited. Ms. Ruby was deliberately ignoring me, I was sure of it.

Finally, after what felt like forever, she acknowledged me with an annoyed “What is it, Jordan?”

“Can I please go to the bathroom?” I asked, trying to sound as polite and desperate as humanly possible.

You’d think I’d asked to set the classroom on fire.

“Absolutely not,” she snapped.

“You should have gone during lunch period. Class time is learning time. You will remain in your seat until the bell rings.”

I tried explaining that it was an emergency, but she just got louder. “I said NO.

Stay in your seat!”

At this point, I was faced with two options: have an accident in front of my entire class and be known forever as “that kid who peed his pants in 4th grade,” or maliciously comply with her exact instructions.

Now, I was normally the quiet kid.

The one who never caused trouble. I had approximately zero friends and spent most recesses reading books about dinosaurs. But something in me just…snapped.

“Yes, Ms. Ruby,” I said politely. “I’ll stay in my seat.”

And then I did exactly that.

I stayed in my seat…as I scooted it backward, inch by inch, toward the door.

The first scrape of the metal chair legs against the linoleum floor made everyone’s heads turn. Ms. Ruby looked up from her desk, completely confused.

I just kept scooting.

“Jordan! What are you doing?” she demanded, her face turning the color of a tomato.

“Staying in my seat, Ms. Ruby,” I replied, continuing my slow journey across the classroom. “You said I couldn’t leave my seat, so I’m not.”

The class erupted.

Omar and Rafael lost it completely, falling out of their chairs laughing. Sofia was crying she was laughing so hard. Even Leah, who was the teacher’s pet, was giggling behind her hand.

By now I’d made it halfway to the door, scooting backward in this ridiculous chair, feeling like some kind of revolutionary hero.

The scraping noise was so loud it probably could be heard in the principal’s office down the hall.

Ms. Ruby was practically vibrating with rage. “Stop this right now! This is completely inappropriate behavior!”

“But you told me to stay in my seat,” I replied, somehow finding confidence I never knew I had.

“I’m following your instructions exactly.”

I made it to the door, opened it with one hand while still sitting, and began my chair journey into the hallway. That’s when Ms. Ruby completely lost it and started yelling about detention and calling my parents.

Lucas, who sat by the door, held it open for me and whispered, “You’re my hero, man.”

Of course, I ended up in the principal’s office.

And yes, my parents were called. And sure, I got grounded for a week. But you know what? It was totally worth it. For one glorious day, I wasn’t the quiet kid with no friends. I was the kid who stood up (well, technically sat down) to the tyrant substitute and won.

The best part?

When Ms. Lila came back two weeks later, she heard all about it from the class and actually laughed. She called it “creative problem-solving with a touch of rebellion.” Ms. Ruby never substituted for our class again.

That was nearly twenty years ago, and I still think about it sometimes when I’m stuck in a boring meeting at work.

I’ve never again had the courage to scoot my office chair out the door when nature calls, but man, sometimes I really want to try.

And for the record, I did eventually make it to the bathroom that day.

Some victories are small, but they still count.

I never planned on becoming the secret tech wizard at SuperSave Foods, but that’s exactly what happened after our store manager Nadia messed up my computer access when I first got hired.

See, at our store, only Nadia and her assistant manager Raymond were supposed to have full access to the computer system.

Department managers only got access to their specific areas. But somehow when they set up my profile, Nadia accidentally gave me the keys to the entire kingdom.

I didn’t say anything about it at first. I was learning the ropes pretty fast, and it actually came in handy when little problems would pop up that needed fixing.

I’d quietly take care of them when Nadia wasn’t around, and nobody was the wiser.

This went on for a few weeks until our regional director, Oliver, showed up for a surprise inspection one afternoon. Nadia had already left for the day, and Oliver discovered some serious pricing errors that needed immediate attention.

“Where’s Nadia?” Oliver asked, looking annoyed.

“These pricing issues need to be fixed right now.”

Raymond shrugged helplessly. “She’s gone for the day. I could call her to come back?”

Oliver was not happy. That’s when I stepped up.

“I can fix those,” I said, maybe a little too eagerly.

Oliver looked at me like I had two heads.

“You have access to the pricing system?”

I explained the situation–how I’d accidentally been given full access and had been quietly fixing small issues here and there. Instead of being mad, Oliver seemed impressed.

“Show me what you can do,” he said.

I sat down at the terminal and fixed all the pricing errors in about ten minutes.

Oliver watched the whole time, nodding occasionally.

“This is good work,” he said when I finished. “Why doesn’t Nadia have you doing this regularly?”

I shrugged. “She doesn’t know I have the access or that I’ve been fixing things.”

Oliver got a strange look on his face.

“Interesting. From now on, I want you to keep doing what you’re doing. And I want you to send me a report every time you fix something that should’ve been handled by management. Can you do that?”

I nodded, feeling pretty important all of a sudden.

For the next two months, I continued quietly fixing system errors and sending reports to Oliver.

Nadia remained completely clueless until one day she came back to the store about half an hour after her shift. She’d forgotten to send an email or something.

And there I was, sitting at the main computer terminal, fixing pricing errors like it was my job (which, technically, it wasn’t).

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, her face turning an alarming shade of red.

“Just fixing some pricing errors,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“They’ve been in the system for three days.”

“Who authorized you to access that part of the system?” she asked.

I didn’t want to throw Oliver under the bus, so I just said, “No one.

I just thought it would be good to get them fixed.”

She was furious. “You are getting a written warning for this. And if I ever catch you accessing parts of the system outside your department again, you’re fired.

Do you understand me?”

I nodded meekly. “Yes, ma’am.”

That night I emailed Oliver about what happened. He told me to go along with it for now and forwarded him a copy of the written warning when I received it.

He also mentioned that if there were any serious system issues, I should let him know, and he would get corporate IT to fix them remotely.

So that’s what I did. For the next two months, I didn’t touch anything outside my department.

Problems piled up. Pricing errors, inventory discrepancies, payroll glitches–all things I could have fixed in minutes sat there festering. I kept a detailed list and sent it to Oliver weekly.

Then came the day of reckoning.

Oliver showed up unannounced with a clipboard.

He asked for a meeting with Nadia and Raymond. I could see them through the office window, and it didn’t look pleasant. Oliver was pointing at his clipboard, checking things off one by one.

After about twenty minutes, Raymond came out and called me into the office.

“Jack,” Oliver said as I entered, “I’m conducting a system audit.

I’ve identified several issues in the computer system. Can you tell me how you would fix this pricing error?”

I explained the process step by step. Oliver then called another store manager on speakerphone and asked them the same question.

Their answer matched mine exactly.

Nadia looked like she wanted to crawl under the desk.

“Jack, thank you,” Oliver said. “Could you give us a few minutes?”

I left the office, but I could still hear raised voices through the door.

Raymond came out first, looking shell-shocked.

“Things are going to be different around here,” he told me with a small smile.

Ten minutes later, Nadia stormed out without even glancing in my direction. Oliver followed and pulled me aside.

“You can go back to fixing system errors when you see them,” he said.

“And I’m recommending you for the management development program.”

I took three weeks of vacation after that. When I came back, Nadia was gone–transferred to a much smaller store across town. Raymond had been promoted to interim store manager, and he made me his assistant.

The first thing Raymond did was call a staff meeting.

“I want to introduce everyone to our new assistant manager,” he said, gesturing toward me.

“And I want to make something clear–we’re going to fix problems around here when we see them, not hide them or pretend they don’t exist.”

I couldn’t help smiling. Sometimes all it takes is one person to stand up and say, “I can fix that” to change everything.

And sometimes you need to let things break before people realize what they’ve lost.

Turns out my accidental computer access wasn’t so accidental after all–it was the universe giving Nadia enough rope to hang herself with.

And I’m not even sorry about it.

I spent three summers working at Clearwater Pool Club as what they officially called a “Maintenance Assistant” but what we all knew was basically just being professional wipers.

We wiped down tables after messy families left chip crumbs everywhere. We wiped chairs that had mysterious sticky substances on them (never ask, trust me). We wiped up puddles when kids inevitably ignored the NO RUNNING signs. And occasionally, we got to wipe paint onto things – fences, walls, the pool deck before opening season.

By my third summer, I somehow got promoted to “Lead Maintenance Coordinator” which was just a fancy title that meant I got to tell the other guys what to wipe and when.

The pay bump was literally 75 cents more per hour, but hey, it looked good on my college applications.

My promotion wasn’t because I was particularly skilled at wiping things. It was mostly because I had mastered the art of looking busy when our micromanaging supervisor Marcus was around.

See, most of the guys would sit in one spot and reach as far as their arms could stretch to clean or paint something, then they’d just sit there, not moving, until someone yelled at them.

My friend Carter was notorious for this.

Dude was like 6’4″ with arms like a basketball player, so he could cover a decent area without moving his butt an inch. But then he’d just zone out, staring at his work until Marcus would storm over and lecture him about work ethic.

I gave Carter what I thought was solid advice: “Just keep moving, man.

Even if you’re going slower, if they see you constantly shifting positions, they think you’re working harder.”

This strategy had worked wonders for me. I wasn’t necessarily faster or better than anyone else, but I moved around a lot, and the bosses ate it up.

Marcus would walk by and nod approvingly while I was mid-shuffle, looking like I was on a mission.

So anyway, it’s mid-July, about 95 degrees with humidity that makes you feel like you’re swimming even when you’re not in the pool.

Marcus tells me we need to repaint the long wall behind the deep end – this ugly 4-foot-tall concrete barrier that stretches maybe 40 feet across the back of the property. It’s out of sight from the main pool area, so perfect for pawning off to someone else while I handle the air-conditioned snack bar area.

I assign Carter to the wall job.

Give him the paint, brush, and basic instructions. From my vantage point near the snack bar, I can occasionally see the top of his head and sometimes an elbow popping up over the wall, moving steadily along. Perfect! He’s following my advice about constant movement.

After about an hour, I head over to check on his progress, maybe even compliment him on his work ethic.

I round the corner expecting to see a beautifully painted wall.

What I find instead is a wall with exactly THREE FEET of fresh blue paint at the beginning, and then… nothing. Just the same sun-faded, chipped old paint for the remaining 37 feet.

But there’s Carter, at the far end of the wall, diligently moving his brush against the concrete.

“Dude, what are you doing?” I ask, genuinely confused.

Carter looks up at me, completely straight-faced. “I’m painting the wall.”

“With what?

There’s no paint on your brush!”

He shrugs like I’m the idiot in this scenario. “Yeah, I ran out like an hour ago.”

“The paint shed is literally right there,” I say, pointing to the small storage building maybe fifteen feet away.

“Why didn’t you get more paint?”

“You said to keep moving,” Carter explains, completely serious. “You didn’t say anything about actually having paint on the brush. Besides, it’s hot and I didn’t want to get up.”

I stand there, mouth hanging open.

“So you’ve been dragging a dry brush against the wall for an HOUR?”

“Yep,” he nods proudly. “And Marcus walked by twice and gave me a thumbs up.”

Part of me wanted to be mad, but honestly, I couldn’t help but laugh.

The absolute bare minimum effort while still technically following instructions. It was both the dumbest and most brilliant thing I’d ever seen.

“You realize we still need to actually paint the wall, right?” I ask him.

“Yeah, but now it’s almost lunch break, so we should probably wait until after,” he says, checking his watch.

The next day, Marcus called me into his office.

I was sure we were both getting fired – me for poor supervision and Carter for… whatever that was. But instead, Marcus just handed me a clipboard and said, “You need better project management skills. Write down exactly what you want your team to do, step by step.

Some people need very explicit instructions.”

I nodded seriously, but as soon as I left his office, I nearly collapsed laughing. Carter got away with literally pretending to paint a wall for an hour, and somehow I’m the one who needed to be more clear?

We did eventually get the wall painted – properly this time.

I stood over Carter the whole time, making sure his brush was actually wet with paint. He complained the entire time about how much heavier a brush is when it actually has paint on it.

Four years of college and two actual career jobs later, I still think about that day whenever I’m training someone new.

Some people will find the path of least resistance no matter what. And sometimes, that path involves dragging a bone-dry paintbrush against a wall for an hour rather than standing up to get more paint.

I’m not even sure if it was laziness or some weird form of malicious compliance.

All I know is that to this day, whenever someone tells me to “keep moving” on a project, I have to fight the urge to ask if actual progress is required.

You know that feeling when someone throws you under the bus after years of loyal work? Yeah, that was me three months ago.

I worked as a specialist machinist at Wilson Manufacturing for almost three years.

Our department was this small team that handled custom projects separate from the main production floor. We had a nice mix of old-school manual machines and a couple of fancy CNC setups that cost more than my house. The work came in waves – sometimes we’d be slammed, other times we’d have downtime to work on side projects or improvements.

Our team was mostly apprentices rotating through from the main factory, with only me and Nathan as the full-timers with actual experience. The company loved using apprentices in our department because they were cheap labor – the main production budget covered their wages, while our department only paid for materials and broken tools (which happened way too often).

The apprentices were decent kids, except for Ryan. He was in his final year and had that annoying ‘I know everything’ attitude. The number of expensive bits he broke trying to prove how skilled he was… man, I could’ve bought a used car with that money.

Tool quality was always an issue since our department wasn’t a big money-maker. Nathan had been there forever and kept his good tools locked up – he’d let me borrow stuff occasionally since he trusted me. I’d brought in a bunch of my own specialized tooling from home or bought it out-of-pocket rather than fight with purchasing. These were high-quality items that I’d collected over years, and everyone used them (important detail).

Everything changed when they hired a new head of development, Mr. Thompson. He looked at our department like we were just a drain on resources. Within six months, our manager got replaced. The old guy was fantastic – flexible, understood our value – but Thompson wanted someone who’d cut costs.

Nathan sensed trouble immediately. “They’re looking to trim fat,” he told me. “And we’re expensive compared to those kids.” I disagreed – we had skills and experience the apprentices didn’t, plus our contracts were solid. They’d need a legitimate reason to fire us.

Nathan decided to retire early. He’d been there through multiple owners, and nobody had documentation on which tools were his, so he gave me some and took the rest. ... Click here to continue reading