We're Here for You

 

In about a month, give or take, I will be releasing my short story collection, Ethical Aspects of Animal Husbandry. Leading up to that time, I am going to post some opening excerpts from the stories.

This story was published a few years back (have to look that up), and gives a window into the life of a returns clerk. Reading it again, I can see the George Saunders' influence - which is kind of funny, as I had not read him yet. Damn Saunders was influencing me from the future.

We're Here for You

Here I am coming to work just like regular and I'm told that they're moving me down to returns. Just like that. I sit down at my desk, then, I stand up from my desk. They give me some long-winded explanation about why I'd fit in better down there (I only followed some of it).

"Clive, go down there."

That's all I heard, like they were giving a dog a command.

Down there is right. They should have gave me a trident and a cape. I swear that wall is sweating. And weren't three of those fluorescents working when I came this morning?

I get no orientation, no phase-in time, not even a manual or a memo or something. Just plunked behind a desk, behind a window, behind a squarespace on the floor with a big "X", next to a sign that says, "Stand here for Service." Every few minutes a person with a problem appears on the X.

Now, I do know that the best thing to do, in these situations, is to listen. I guess that's why they put me down here, I know listening is important. Whether someone has a crisis of faith, a marital dispute, or a dented can of cream corn that's not marked down – wait, does that make sense? It doesn't matter – you have to listen. Isn't that what Job's friends did, for what… seven days? Who's got time for that? And didn't they turn on him like thrice-wrong weathermen? Still, the point is to listen. Like I am listening to this rather large fellow in the checked shirt.

"So, you agree then?"

Oh, I see by his quizzical look that it's time to give a response. "Yes, indeed."

"That you're an idiot?"

"Well, yes, in those terms... quite." There. That should satisfy him. I'm not sure what he's referring to, but that seems an eloquent response for any answer. What he's rambling on about now? His face is turning the colour of those undercooked beets she served me last night. Okay, he seems to be done now.

"Sir, you've left your," I look down at the metal box with the springs spilling out the side, "uh… device. What would you –"

"Shove it!"

I'm getting a lot of that this morning. What's his problem? I told him we'd give him a refund, didn't I? How in the world am I supposed to remember everything when people ramble on at such length? I've got a lot on my mind. I feel a bit trapped down here too, maybe that's why they needed the replacement. How long before I can get a break?

Oh-oh, here's another one. I better pay attention.

"It burnt my tarts."

I nod my head and smile. I am just not getting it.

"Sorry, your what?" I express as much sincerity and empathy as I know possible. But, still, there she goes. She's a roundish woman, carrying a bag that is sure to give her shoulder problems somewhere down the line. She's saying something about how it was supposed to toast things and make a ding and how she bought some frozen raspberry tarts and the dinger didn't ding and, holy crap, am I supposed to listen to all of this?

Don't these people know what I have on my plate these days? 

Ethical Aspects of Animal Husbandry - out this summer on Amazon.