Being a scientist meant attending conferences as an occasional part of my professional life. Little did I know that one trip would take an unexpected turn and leave me questioning my sanity.

Arriving at the hotel after a two-hour flight, my colleagues and I were eager to check in and settle before the conference commenced. The process seemed straightforward enough: queue at the hotel reception, provide our names and organization, and receive our room keys after signing the pre-paid account. Then, proceed to conference registration to sign in and collect our name badges.

Having arrived slightly later than my colleagues, I approached the reception desk, anticipating a quick check-in. I simply gave the receptionist my name since my colleagues had just checked in before me. However, to my surprise, the receptionist seemed unfazed by my arrival.

Receptionist: *With a knowing smile* “Ahh, [My Name]. You are already booked into your room. Your conference registration is also already done. Everything is taken care of.”

With a wave of her hand, she called over a hotel usher, instructing me to follow him. Doubt gnawed at me, and I started to voice my concerns about not having completed the check-in process. But before I could finish my sentence, the receptionist interrupted me, assuring me that everything was indeed in order and urging me to follow the usher. The usher wasted no time and briskly led the way toward the elevators, leaving me with no choice but to hastily grab my luggage and follow in his wake.

Reaching the elevators, I found my colleagues waiting alongside me. They had already pressed the buttons for the second and third floors, but the usher had other plans. With a quick swipe of his security card, he selected the fourteenth floor — the topmost floor, adorned with red buttons indicating floors eleven to fourteen. One of my colleagues couldn’t help but jest:

Colleague: “[My Name] is so lucky; he got the penthouse suite.”

As we ascended, the last of my colleagues disembarked on the third floor, bidding me farewell with light-hearted remarks. From that point onward, it was just me and the usher, traveling to the very top.

Upon arriving at the fourteenth floor, the usher swiftly exited the elevator, briskly walking down the corridor with me following as best I could. Struggling to steady my luggage, I couldn’t help but feel perplexed. Shouldn’t the hotel usher have assisted me with my belongings? The usher then opened a set of double doors and turned back to the elevator, leaving me alone in a corridor. Shaking off the confusion, I proceeded to enter what I believed to be my penthouse room, only to be met with a shocking sight — a conference room filled with attendees listening to a presentation.

All eyes turned toward me, and I realized with a jolt that this was not my conference. A large banner displayed the words “[Large Insurance Company] Financial Conference,” confirming my suspicions. Staggering backward, I hastily closed the double doors, desperately trying to make sense of the situation. Could this be some kind of joke? Then, it dawned on me that this must be a case of mistaken identity, likely caused by a keynote speaker with the same name who was late for his presentation.

Left without a security card to operate the lift and return to the ground floor, I embarked on a short search along the corridor. Finally, I encountered a catering lady setting up a table with refreshments. Explaining my predicament, I was surprised by her calm response. She promptly contacted the catering manager, who arrived shortly after and used his security card to activate the lift, granting me access once more.

Returning to the reception desk, I recounted the bewildering turn of events to the incredulous and slightly irritated receptionist. She reluctantly asked for my full name and initials, proceeding to type several commands into her computer. Staring at the screen in disbelief, she summoned her supervisor, exclaiming:

Receptionist: “Look, there are two bookings for [My Surname] — one with initials [My Initials] and another with slightly different initials.”

Rebooking my room turned out to be a complex process, and I waited for more than ten minutes before finally receiving my room card.

With the key in hand, I realized the importance of confirming my situation before unpacking my suitcase. Seeking clarity, I inquired about the location of the registration desk for my intended conference. The receptionist simply pointed to the nearby staircase and stated:

Receptionist: “First floor.”

Determined, I hauled my suitcase up the stairs (I later realized that I could have taken the lift to the first floor) and found myself in a vast, empty area — a conference foyer devoid of activity. My colleagues were likely already in their rooms, preparing for the welcome function, and the conference staff had departed for the day.

At the staircase landing, a small round table caught my attention. It was covered with a white cloth and held scattered sheets of paper. On the topmost sheet, I read the words, “[My Conference] Attendance Register.” A sense of relief washed over me as I realized the familiar nature of the document. I quickly spotted my name, the only one without a signature, and proceeded to sign beside it.

Finally, I had arrived at the right place.

I am working with a new hire going through all the prep work before we open. I am picking pimentos out of olives to stuff them with other stuff.

New Hire: “I bet that’s just the worst job…”

I’ll bite.

Me: “What job’s that?”

New Hire: “Making pimento cheese. Can you imagine having to pick all those pimentos out of olives just to make cheese? No wonder it’s so expensive!”

Now I know why they kept him doing the dishes.

I really wanted my own cosplay outfit; I went for the Brotherhood of Steel from the “Fallout” game series.

I went onto [Handmade Craft Site] and found an amazing outfit made by (apparently) a place that makes Hollywood movie props, so I went ahead and ordered a full suit that set me back £1,200.

The guy selling it took a week to get back to me to confirm the order, already making me feel uneasy; I had just sent £1,200 to some dude in the USA.

Obviously, it takes time to make a suit to measure, but this guy’s response time got slower and slower until he appeared to have gone offline for good.

I remembered him saying he was not too up on technology, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I got an email from him saying he was going on holiday and would be back in two weeks.

Six weeks and countless emails later, nothing.

I finally got a message from PayPal.

PayPal: “An order you placed has yet to be marked for delivery/completed. You only have seven days left to put in a dispute before time runs out.”

I sent [Seller] another email and got no response.

On day two, I sent him an email and got no response.

This repeated for day three, all the way up to:

Me: “Dude, I have twenty-four hours to put in a dispute. Please respond.”

And guess what? You guessed it: no response.

I was a little cheesed off, as well, as he knew I had a deadline: the midnight release of “Fallout 4”. I had the copy that came with the Pip-Boy, too (and had ordered a working custom Pip-Boy from [Seller]).

That deadline had come and gone. I was playing “Fallout 4” between sending him emails. I finally gave up with three hours to spare and put in a PayPal dispute.

PayPal asked me to allow two weeks for them to attempt to contact [Seller], and I agreed. In those two weeks, [Seller] didn’t respond to ANY of their communications, so they sided with me and refunded the £1,200.

The end of it, yes?

No, actually.

Two weeks later, I had to go pick up a delivery that had import tax to pay. I didn’t realize it at first, but when I opened the package at home, it was my cosplay outfit and Pip-Boy!

I loaded up my email program to try to make contact again and found an email waiting for me.

Seller: “Why did you dispute the transaction?! You’ve f****** scammed me! You’re a con artist! I’ve been had! F*** you!”

I sent an email back stating how he hadn’t responded to me and just for all I knew had up and died. Not only that, but PayPal had tried, and he’d ignored them, too. What did he expect to happen?

I also offered to return the £1,200 as I was looking at the product and was more than happy with it; the deadline I could get over.

His response? Lots of swearing and more abuse, and it ended with:

Seller: “I’m not comfortable giving you more personal details. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!”

It’s been about eight years. I have not heard from anyone’s lawyers, I got a free cosplay outfit, and I had some leftover cash to treat my parents. I also ended up buying an “Oculus Rift” DKII!

I still feel kind of bad…

When my store’s location closed, I worked at two locations that were farther away. One was in a better mall than I had worked in. The other was one of the top three high-end malls in our province at the time.

I’m working in one of the high-end areas, and I witness a customer asking my coworker a question.

Customer: “Excuse me, how much is this?”

Coworker: “If you have to ask, can you afford it?”

The customer leaves.

Me: “Wasn’t that a bit rude?”

Coworker: “Our customers have money. If they want it, they’ll buy it.”

Me: “Oh, where I came from, two-thirds of the customers would always ask, ‘Why’s it so expensive?'”

Coworker: “Treat them like crap, honey. Trust me, they’ll buy it anyway.”

That, I could not do, and guess what? My sales were astronomical!

Apparently, rich people (like all people, I guess) like it when you are nice to them! Both locations offered me a manager’s position, but I took the store closest to me. Before I left, I had to retrain the staff on the system, including the owner and her sister.

I was making $17 an hour in 2000, which was double the minimum wage. Good times.

Once upon a time, I was a travel agent and accepted a job at a small family-run agency in Austin. Both owners also worked there along with their daughter, and they were not good managers. They were also really cheap b*****ds.

When I joined, I brought the agency a ton of business, including a very big corporate account. When I’d finally had enough of all of the stupid interoffice conflict, I applied and got a job at another agency where I had always wanted to work and gave two weeks’ notice.

Instead, I was summarily escorted out the door within minutes of giving my notice.

This was back in the medieval days when we all had a Rolodex where we kept our important contacts, and the owners refused to allow me to take it with me. I knew the names and numbers of all the clients that I wanted to take with me anyway. Whatever.

I had worked there for two years by that point. Eight months prior, the owners had sent me on a familiarization trip, which was a pretty customary way to allow an agent to experience a destination to better sell it. As I had never skied before, they sent me to Colorado for four days. The entire trip cost them $125, which included my airline ticket, shuttle, lodging, ski pass, equipment, and one morning of beginner lessons. Meals were on me, which was fine. When I received my last paycheck, they had written on the stub that they had deducted the $125.00. Again, whatever.

I immediately spent the entire morning calling everyone that I had ever worked with there, whether I really enjoyed working with them or not. If they had spent money with me, they got a call. Everyone.

The big account, of course, came with me, along with 99% of the clientele, including those clients that I had developed through the last agency.

I ran into an airline representative at a function about six months later, and he told me that the travel agency owner had whined and complained that I’d cost him $250,000.00 in that time alone — all for a measly $125.00.