Returning to the Scene of the Whine

You might recall that Hick was off work all last week. So it's only fitting that he assigned about-town chores to Genius and me today, since he has gone back to work and can't follow through.

Genius drew the License Office short straw. Heh, heh. You can be sure there was no actual straw-drawing involved. No way would I take a chance on going back to that den of incompetent photo-takers. I suppose Hick saw that job as more manly than returning the unfittable moisture-barrier mattress pad. That was my delightful duty. Uh huh. On the Monday after Christmas, when folks flock to Walmart to return "gifts" they have tired of, or have worn out, or just want to trade in their old belongings for new items.

In the past, I have had issues with Walmart Customer Disservice. No matter whether I had my receipt and pristine purchase, others around me would be serviced while I was put through the task of jumping through hoops. Seriously. What am I, a person who makes a living returning stolen goods? Standing in line at the Walmart Customer Disservice Center is not worth it. Better to suck out septic tanks with a crazy straw than go through that maze every day with unminded kids flinging items out of the return cart and bearded mountain men banging on the CoinStar machine.

So off I headed to complete my task. Begrudgingly. I had my receipt. My bag of moisture-barrier bed cover. My driver's license. A story that would hold up in court. I snagged a cart in the parking lot to use as a walker. Plopped my faulty purchase in the child-seat part of the cart. Headed in the EXIT door. That drives The Pony crazy, but he wasn't with me today. Besides, everybody does it at the Backroads Walmart. AND they go out the ENTRANCE. That's because the doors are wonky. I pushed my bone-rattling walker across those rough entrance tiles. Looked for the greeter to put a sticker on my mattress cover. But there was no greeter. That's a bad omen. The last time I returned something without a greeter, I was detained longer than normal while my interrogators espoused that there was ALWAYS a greeter, and I should have a sticker, because how else do they know I didn't just bring in my receipt from the previous day, and hike through the store to grab an item, and come back up front to get a Walmart card for the amount of the item? Huh. I don't know. Maybe review the last five minutes of all that surveillance footage from the 50 cameras?

This time, I was 9th in line. Dang that Hick and his ignorant bedding-buying ways! A people-watcher would have had a heyday in this queue. Unfortunately, the lady behind me had brought a couple of her little people-watchers. I'm not a kid-hater, but if you're not my kid, and you're not my student, I don't really want to have anything to do with you, unless you're an infant with fat little bare feet, which are, like, the best part of a baby, and quite aesthetically pleasing. This little people-watcher made a point of walking all the way up beside my cart and turning to stare into my face. Go away, pest. I'm not talking to you. Go mind your business. I'm not a clown handing out balloon animals. You've got to be at least eight years old. Get some manners. You'd have thought I was that old woman Elaine Benes volunteered to visit, complete with a football-sized goiter jutting out of my neck. Get your peepers off of me, you little creeper.

As I waited. And waited. I noticed an alarming trend. The Customer Disservice clerks were actually servicing people. ALL people. No matter what they plopped on the counter. An old man and 6ish-year-old boy had a game in a green case. I don't know my games, but I'm guessing Xbox or an equivalent. There was clearly no wrapping on the case. The clerk looked all around it. Popped it open. Turned to her colleague and asked what she should do. Colleague nodded. "Refund it." Are you freakin' kidding me? As if that was not an obvious enough case of a kid taking back a game he already played, the kid shouted, "YEAH!" and pumped his fist. Grampy tried to calm him down with a glance and a hand on his shoulder.

THEN the lady in front of me stepped up with her little girl of around 5, and set a Fairy Barbie kind of toy on the counter. I'm not sure, because I'm not a Barbie collector or a girl-toy aficionado. But it was a slim standing doll in a green flowery base kind of toy. No box. No wrapping. Like it was right out of the toy box. No questions asked. Just two statements. "My daughter got this for Christmas, and she has one." "Okay. We'll need you to go get one in a box so I can scan the price."

Seriously? That guy from the convenience store in Florida who caught an alligator in the park and tried to trade it for beer should have driven up here to Backroads. He could use his Walmart cash refund to buy his beer.

You might be thinking I was given a hard time with my cash-paid receipt and crackly mattress pad. Nope. That clerk took the receipt, forked over my cash, didn't even ask to see my driver's license (you know how disappointed I was not to have a chance to show off that picture), and told me to have a nice day.

You might think that's too simple an ending for Val. It is. The rest of the story tomorrow.