"Actually sir, that goes in the coatroom, right next door," I say politely. He was trying to return the public wheelchair that he'd borrowed for his wife.
"Oh," he says, and pulls the chair back out of my office, pulling the door almost shut behind him.
Stupidly, I think this exchange is over. I'm used to being confused for the coatroom; it's one of the hazards of being located right next to both it and the front door.
Not a minute later, there's a crash as my door swings open again and slams into the shelves next to it. The empty wheelchair once again makes its way into the center of my office. This time the little old man angrily tells me in a scolding tone: "I know this goes in here!" And then he stands there and glares at me.
I sigh. This is definitely not worth the argument. "I'll take care of it, sir."
He sniffs a bit, and turns around and leaves, shutting the door behind him. I immediately get up and push the wheelchair ten feet into the coatroom next door. He was still outside my door standing in the rotunda when I did this. He stared at me the whole time, in that disapproving way that only crotchety old people and Baby Boomer parents seem to possess.
Is it time to go home yet?