I work at a non-profit thrift store that funds a homeless shelter. Thirty minutes before closing time, I have a customer check out at my register who seems, by all means, to be rational and intelligent. This is a non-profit, it says so on the door and on your receipt. An employee dropped a hammer on his own steel toe boot and then started limping and complaining about needing PTO paid time off for his work-related injury.
Safety had to step in and assess, and then they both came to my office to fill out the required paperwork. I noticed that [Employee] was not limping when he came in. A broken foot? He gets up and starts limping again, so severely he seems to be putting almost no weight on the foot. The EMTs took him to the hospital, ran all kinds of tests, and came to the conclusion that he was not injured.
This is the story of that one time. To be precise, it was fifteen years ago, on the day of my twenty-first birthday β the day I was legally allowed to drink. Riding the bus home from college, I decided to actually stop somewhere and get myself a beer, just to try it, and just to shut everyone up.
So, upon getting back to my hometown, instead of walking home, I took a detour to one of the nearby restaurants that happened to have a bar in the middle of it. As it was something like pm in the middle of the week, there was absolutely nobody there and it was dead silent.
I walked over to the bar and proceeded to order a Budweiser and a basket of fries. So, I took a sip andβ¦. Feeling that answered my question, I ate the fries, paid for everything, and walked the two long blocks and three short blocks to home. When they did finally arrive, I greeted them, grabbed the bottle, held it out, and dramatically saidβ¦.
