Ah, yes, it’s happened to me on numerous occasions, And in two cases, I was able to exact some modicum of revenge.
Story No. 1: When I was in fifth grade, my teacher, who shall remain nameless even though the bloodless minion of Satan is long since dead, abused me repeatedly and viciously. Ironically, she did it because she was a close friend of my grandmother, who had shared with all of her friends what a disappointment my father was to her (that was Grandma doing the sharing, not Mrs. Linc… oops!) Anyway, the teacher’s apparent motive was that I would not be the great disappointment my father apparently was, and to that end she physically and verbally abused me throughout fifth grade, leaving me with some pretty serious issues to deal with well into my thirties. Many years later, as we were gathered at a tiny cemetery on the Colorado prairie to bury my grandmother, who should approach me but my childhood tormenter, all a-smile, and asking, “Hello, J., do you remember me?” She acted like she expected me to hug her, but I held onto my wife’s hand. “Yes, I remember you,” I said. “No matter how hard I try, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget you and what you did to me.” I didn’t wait to see her expression, but led my wife back to our car, and we left. It wasn’t a spontaneous response, by the way; I’d rehearsed for years what I’d say to the old bitch if I ever saw her again.
Story No. 2: Worst boss I ever worked for was a sleazebag I’ll call Carl who owned a radio station here in town. He was the oiliest pile of walking pond scum I’d ever known, and constantly bragged about the 22-year-old chorus girl form Vegas he married (she was a doll – but all tits and no brains). He constantly made remarks about how he was older than me, yet his wife was younger and, in his view, much prettier than mine. I worked for him for two years as news director of the station, and they were two years of broken promises, unreasonable expectations and constant harrassment, both at work and at home. The sonofabitch called me at home on Christmas Day to make sure I had my fucking police scanner on (for what reason, I don’t know – I never went to the scene of any police activity because we could never “go live” from any location other than the studio). What I remember most about him was the make-me-gag cologne he wore – it was very distinctive, and the only time in my life I ever smelled it was when he was around. After putting up with his insanity for two years, I quit and went to journalism school here in Colorado. The first job I found was working the night shift in a porno store. Most of our business was the video arcade, accessed from a rear door. There was almost nothing to do but sell the occasional film or magazine and make change for the constant stream of movie watchers, so mostly I got paid to study. One night, the door opened and closed, but I didn’t even look up, so engrossed was I in community sociology – and suddenly, I caught a whiff of a scent that made my stomach turn. I looked up – it was Carl. He was standing there with a $5 bill in his hand. He pretended to not recognize me (my hair was longer and I was thinner, but I have a memorably ugly mug.) I gave him the change and, as he turned to walk back to the arcade, I said, “Hey, Carl, how’s the wife?” He ignored me. I think he watched half of one movie and left.
on a previous occasion.