Sound-bar

I went to walmart today; bought a sound-bar the day before and it zert-zert out after a few hours. I had to return it.

Strolled through the white-trash-vapor-lock and got stopped by a vigilant greeter. He said I needed a sticker. I carried the long black lemon through my old stomping-grounds and to the opening called “Customer Service.” An image crossed my mind: a killer holding a shotgun in a box of roses.

That place is in the center of the “front end.” I came from general merchandise; some scarries came from the grocery side. We met at the end of the “Customer Service” line … at the same time, so naturally I got behind them; not much of a killer.

Turned out that the scarries knew another scary who was farther up in line; they leap-frogged a dad with a kid. The kid was way past infant and was sitting up, but had a head the size of a tennis ball. The dad looked around the whole time. He seemed to be searching for a fellow “normal person” to share in the experience: wrongs exerted by the scarries. He did this before anyone had done anything really wrong … and it turned out nobody ever did.

A lone guy was two line-spots ahead of the leap-froggers’ friend. He wore a white shirt. Behind him, and in front of the leap-froggers’ friend, was a twitchy fellow that liked to face backward. Having people behind him seemed to make him nervous. He was scary to me too. The dude in front of him, the one in the white shirt, was trying to cash a check.

The clerk wrote a phone number on the check and told him that they couldn’t cash it, and that he should call the number to find out why. The guy was upset, and he seemed to take the news as an insult. A different clerk offered some advice. The guy said something I couldn’t hear. The advisory clerk told the guy that he didn’t have to be rude. The guy talked more, but I still couldn’t hear. His body language said: “fuck you, I’m outta here,” but the clerk’s assertiveness was enough to keep him at the counter long enough for her to explain that she didn’t need him dropping F-bombs, and that she was just trying to help. She even reiterated and expanded her previously interrupted advice. The dude left.

That clerk, the one who had jumped in with advice for the white-shirt, wasn’t there to help customers. She was using the computers, or the desk, or some unknown system for some unknown task. The customer service line was processed by two clerks to her left. She had only spoken up because she had seen that type of thing before, and she had hoped to educate the white-shirt. When he left, she went back to processing whatever it was that she was processing, and customer service continued via the other two clerks.

I watched the whole thing from the back of the line. The twitchy-backward-facer had been very committed to the outcome of white-shirt’s transaction. But before I could spy his customer service experience, the non-customer taking clerk noticed me and called me before her. I had recognized her from my days as a maintenance associate, but she either didn’t recognize me, or didn’t acknowledge any recognition. She looked at my sound-bar and said I needed to take it back to electronics to have them make sure everything was there. Nobody ever asked me if I was returning it, they just assumed correctly. She also told me to come up to the front of the line when I got back.

I navigated the aisles and racks like only an associate can. The electronics counter was customer-less until I plopped my dead speaker upon it. A man helped me right away. I told him that I was told that they needed to make sure it was all there. He opened the box and touched a few parts like he knew what should be there. He asked me what was wrong; didn’t I like it? I told him it fizzled out. I had it mounted and everything. He said:

“It looks good to return. I’ll call up front and let them know.”

I fast-walked back to customer service; critiquing the wax job all the way. The maintenance lead always insisted on leaving a bare patch between old wax and new. I knew that this chalky, un-waxed tile would take shoe-sole transfers like copy paper, but that is a gripe for another day.

When I got back to the front end, I walked confidently past a line which had nobody I recognized. I was hoping there would be someone waiting who recognized me from ten minutes earlier. That way, they could calm any bellyachers should they see me “cut” and start bellyaching. But, I was not afforded any such comfort. So, I avoided eye-contact, and prepared my retort should I be confronted.

I had stepped back up to the clerk who had pulled me from the line the first time around. She took excruciatingly long to acknowledge me. I stood there with my box, looking at her longingly. Finally, she told me that the clerk to her left would help. She said it loud, so that the clerk would understand that I had been there, and that I was to be helped next. It felt good.

I sensed eyes on my back, daring me to turn so their masters could jab. I refused the challenge, and returned my item unimpeded. There was no such remark, even as I left. I kept to myself all the same, no need to tempt fate.

Now, here there should be some wisdom, some meaning to bestow upon the reader, but I have none. I went back to electronics and got a new sound-bar. I bought a name brand this time; went home and installed it; has worked ever since. So, sorry … the end.