There are only two places where time truly stands still: the DMV, and the customer service desk at a discount department store. Welcome to mine - a fluorescent-lit slice of purgatory with sticky counters, squeaky floor tiles, and a line of customers that never ends, only regenerates.

The store motto painted above the desk says “Hassle-Free Returns.” I see it every day and laugh, because nothing screams “hassle-free” like an argument over a $14 toaster at 8:07 a.m.

This morning, I’ve barely clocked in when the first customer waddles up, hauling something that looks like it survived a minor kitchen explosion. It’s a blender - or at least what’s left of one. The lid is missing, the pitcher is sticky, and there are still green smoothie remnants congealed along the sides like a science fair project gone wrong.

“I’d like to return this,” she announces, plopping it on the counter.

I take one look and can already tell: this blender has not only been used, it has lived. It has seen kale. It has seen frozen strawberries. It has, at some point, witnessed the death of a banana.

“Is there something wrong with it?” I ask, because that’s what the handbook says I have to say.

“It doesn’t blend right,” she replies. “See, it leaves chunks.”

Chunks. Of course. She bought a $19.99 blender and expected it to liquefy steel beams.

“Do you have the receipt?” I ask.

She beams at me, proud as if she’s about to win a prize. “No. But you should be able to look it up. I bought it here… sometime last year.”

Of course. In retail land, “sometime last year” covers every month between now and the day Lincoln gave the Gettysburg Address.

I put on my best fake smile. “Unfortunately, we only keep records for ninety days without a receipt.”

She gasps like I’ve just personally insulted her lineage. “That’s ridiculous! I’m a loyal customer. I shop here all the time.”

Translation: She shows up twice a year when something breaks, always without a receipt, and always with righteous indignation.

Still, I scan the mangled barcode. The system helpfully informs me: Item discontinued. Not eligible for return.

I deliver the news gently. “Sorry, looks like we don’t carry this model anymore.”

Her eyes narrow. “So you’re telling me I’m stuck with this piece of junk?”

Yes, Brenda. That’s exactly what I’m saying. But corporate prefers I phrase it as: “I’m afraid so, unless you’d like to contact the manufacturer directly.”

She huffs, scoops up her smoothie-encrusted blender, and storms off like I just shattered her dreams of blending nirvana.

The line shuffles forward. Another day, another battlefield. My war is fought not with swords or shields, but with receipts, expired warranties, and a company policy that makes me the bad guy every single time.

And it’s only 8:15 a.m.

Continue reading (Chapter-2) » The Mattress Incident