Return line

While doing laundry at the laundromat this morning, I thought it would be an ideal time to head over to Wal-mart to return a doohickey I purchased there last week that didn't work. The thing was supposed to make your iPod play over the car stereo, but all that came out was static, so I decided to return it.

If there is anything I hate to do, it is return things I have purchased. Most of the time, I just put them in a box under the steps to avoid the guilt and hassle. Because I am in retail, I take a dim view of people who use liberal return policies to bring back perfectly good products after they have changed their mind.

It is irrational, but even though this product didn't work, I dreaded returning it like I would dread going to the principal to explain why I was in trouble.

Without thinking, I went on a Saturday morning. The return line was long. It was not a group of people I was proud to associate with.

The man in front of me was a jerk. A red-faced cranky old man with a wierd red-white and blue cowboy hat hanging over his eyes, I thought this is a typical white-trash southern person who's trying to get something for free. When the lady asked if there was anything wrong with what he was returning, he barked "No!" and looked at me a rolled his eyes, as if the question were out of line.

The lady was nice to me and the transaction was effortless. I didn't try to explain beyond saying the thing didn't work. She accepted that.

After I got in my car and was working my way out of the parking lot, I happened to fall behind the car holding the obnoxious white-trash southern man that was such a jerk.

His plates were North Dakota. He had bought his car in Grafton.

Uff da.