After years of tireless service, a few weeks ago my DVD player had finally spun its last disc. At first it couldn’t recognize my Four Seasons CD. (Vivaldi, not Frankie Valli.) Well, that was an irritation. But when it wouldn’t play Shutter Island (the movie, not the book), I got the telegram—it was time once again to face the horror that is Wal-Mart.
I bought essentially the same DVD player that had so faithfully served me. And for less money. Either they ripped me off years ago or this was a steal.
Anyway, I hook it up and the tray won’t eject. I try pressing the button several times on the theory that I didn’t press it quite correctly the last four times. Yeah, it takes me that long.
Then upon closer inspection, I discover that there’s a slight dent in the case just above the tray. I am immediately sickened at the prospect of my impending fate: not only must I return to Wal-Mart, I must somehow come up with a convincing story for the dent.
The lady at the Returns desk pulls the player out of the box and checks to see if everything’s there. I gird my loins for the inquisition that must surely come next. Do I deny God or burn at the stake?
But she simply smiles at me and says, “Do you want to get another one or do you want your money back?”
A little bit of pee comes out.
Now, I told you that story so I could tell you this one. Let’s compare and contrast, shall we?
I’d sent my sister a card and it came back to me as undeliverable. I was puzzled because I’ve sent her a bunch of stuff in the past with no problem and I couldn’t see anything wrong with the address. I needed to buy stamps anyway so I took my somehow Evil Card and an envelope with her address on it to the Post Office.
The guy there can’t explain it either so I say to him, “Can you resend it for me?”
He says “Sure” and proceeds to take one of my stamps and sticks it on the letter.
So I say to him, “You know, I could have done that.”
And he just looks at me like I’m stupid. “What did you expect me to do?”
“I expected you to send it.”
He’s beginning to get exasperated, as if I’m a dog that suddenly won’t roll over for a Milk Bone©. “I’m going to.”
“I meant with your stamp.”
His exasperation now turns to pity: I have apparently transmogrified myself from simply stupid to profoundly mentally challenged. Very slowly, he explains: “I can’t do anything because I didn’t make the mistake. The people in San Antonio made the mistake. You have to speak to them about it.”
Yeah. Right. Like I’m going to jump on a plane and fly to Texas or something.
But I am amazed as The Awful Truth dawns on me: there is still a place in America where the customer is always wrong.
I know what you’re thinking. “But Chas,” you say, “it’s only a stamp. You shouldn’t let such a minor thing upset you so much.” And you’d be right, it really doesn’t bother me much. Especially when I press the Send button on my email account.
So if you don’t get this letter, it’s me writing to you again.
