I shook my head and flared my nostrils as my body temperature began to rise. A feeling of uneasiness broke free. "I'm aware this is what I ordered, but I thought I was getting a lot more," I reasoned as I slid the cardboard box across the counter.
I was beginning to get pretty agitated. I convinced myself that this would be the time I played hardball, I stood up to corporate America. I was tired of them pushing me around. I was fed up with the hiked-up prices, my parks torn down in favor of parking lots. I wouldn't stand for any more shopping carts with defective wheels.
As if I was trying to hold back my anger, I slowly, calmly demanded, "I want to see your manager."
"That's not feasible sir."
I squinted my eyes and pounded my fist on counter, "Don't tell me it's not feasible, I know damn well it's feasible!"
The clerk shrugged his bony shoulders and with a smirk on his face remarked, "Actually sir, it's not, My supervisor is attending a luncheon. I'm sorry, I'll have to do."
By now I was enraged. If the anger under my skin escaped serious trouble could have ensued. Mothers would have covered their children's eyes. The elderly women behind me might have soiled her diapers. It would have been ugly. It wasn't just the fact that the manager was out, he was at a luncheon!
What kind of discount store treats there managers to a luncheons? Did they have their own beach volleyball team too? This probably wasn't even a luncheon. Most likely he was in the back room cramming a quarter pounder down his throat.
Not being able to speak to the manager was definitely a blow to my momentum. By chewing out the manager I would have gotten to the core. I was set on making my opinions known, conquering their leader (the manager). If the manager were there I would have held up the line. The other customers would have trembled in disbelief. The old man behind me might have whispered about how he hadn't seen a young man so bold since the war. The girls in the next aisle would have put down their magazines. They would wonder where they could find this kind of man, one that had guts enough to take on a task so treacherous he risked getting his privilege card canceled.
Without the manager I would have to settle for a lowly clerk, the pawn of all commercial enterprise. My complaints would never get to the CEOs. My words would never be included in the mission statement. My little fit would probably be forgotten by the time the next consumer got up. At best the clerk would go to his lunch break and pound his hand on the table and imitate my whiny little voice. I'm sure this episode would provide a nice laugh for his co-workers.
"Why don't you tell me what's wrong with your purchase sir."
"Well, it's sort of hard to explain"
I began looking to the floor. I couldn't think of a way to express my side of the case. In order to avoid any more of this awkward silence I blurted out the next thing that came to mind, "These floors are really ugly. I know someone that could retile this pretty cheap."
The clerk let out a sigh and glanced back to the end of the line, which was now about seven people long. Obviously my comrades were not as dedicated as I. Some had even grown restless. It seemed as if the hefty woman behind me could barely stand it. Covered by electric blue leotards her flabby thighs swayed about like a sailboat. A clammy hand moved up the opposite side of her body to scratch the sweat-dampened armpit of her Clint Black T-shirt, which, to my dismay, did not appear to be covering a bra. In spite of her vulgarity, her next action won my respect.
She turned away from the register and swiped a candy bar from the snack shelf. Adding to her small revolt, she proceeded by unwrapping it. She peeled the plastic sheath away like some soft porn actor undressing his lover's binding clothes. Once the treat was uncovered, she eyed it and lifted it to her lips. As she bit down on the bar, melted chocolate clung to the seeds of a sprouting fu-man-chu. It was evident she had little regard for the monetary system. I knew as soon as the cashier spotted her she would turn coward and pay for it. Nonetheless I was impressed. There she was, screwing "the Man" like he had us for years, with out any conscience or sense of consequences. It was comforting to know I was not fighting this battle alone. Someone, a defiant ally was standing by my side. The road to economic justice could not be traveled single-handedly. I gave her a nod of approval as she plucked a hair from her candy bar.
The cashier coughed, pulling me back to my original focus. He cringed and pleaded, "Sir could you get to the point, you're holding up the line. Maybe You could take this up with Customer Service?"
I knew that wasn't an option. Once my sister negotiated with those people about a stained sweater. She stood up there for an hour and a half. Do you know what she got out of it? Three pairs of tube socks. She tried to pass them off to me but I wouldn't take them. I hate tube socks, no form, no direction. They're a big puzzle, even an enigma some would say. "This will just take a second. See, the problem was that the ad said it was innovative. It said it would raise my intelligence, improve my memory, all for ten ninety-seven.
When I opened the box, this was it." I pulled out a book. It's jacket was spotless, it's pages still ivory.
The clerk bobbed his head and muttered, "Yeah, ah, I see. So you are dissatisfied, Is that it?"
It was likely that he was using some technique he learned in the forty-five minute training seminar. Maybe the moronic, patronizing approach.
"I was expecting interactive, something I could use easily, maybe a little mascot showing me how to use it at the start, you know, that kind of thing,” I explained. “It would take me a few hours to find the information I need with this book. I don't have enough time for this. I need something faster, I need software. Flipping the pages is just too slow."
The clerk nodded his head in empathy. He handed me a pink slip of paper and muttered, "Here, fill this out, and drop in that box over there."
I got the feeling this operation was not unlike the lottery. If I was lucky the manager would pull out my slip, call me and tell me he was happy to inform me that in consideration of my unfortunate ordeal I had been selected to receive an electric carving knife or a free calling card.
Reluctantly, I went over to the bubble gum dispensers and filled out my required information. On the back I printed, "PS this is for sure. You have lost one Customer. I vow to never shop here again. Exceptions may be made in emergancies, such as milk or underwear"
From that day on they would remember February the second as the day they lost me as a shopper.
I tore the slip away from a unknown adhesive on the gum dispenser, and placed it in the intensely orange box. I left the store through the automatic doors. Although I didn't make as much of an impact as I intended, I felt I had represented my fellow consumer fairly well. If individuals never stood up to the indignity of commercial enterprises we would have no say in capitalism. The steamroller that is the corporate world would crush us, thus shaping the working man into a middle class slave. Instances like these restore my faith in our economic system.