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Of all the mundane tasks Winnie must carry out as part of her job at The Kitchen Counter, working the returns desk has always been her least favorite. There’s little stimulating about it:, the monotony of cross-checking labels and ISBN numbers on receipts, circling the item in highlighter, and handing it back to dash the customer’s hopes they would be refunded what they paid instead of the nonexistent sum that came with showing up at the store 25 days after the return deadline had expired.
That’s generally the crux of her issues at the desk: the return policy.
There are plenty of people who have no issue with it, who bring in their item on time, or if they don’t, understand that they’ve missed the window and leave with little incident. With the exchange of a couple of sentences, everything is wrapped up and everyone moves on.
Then there are others. The ones who make sure the desk still holds a few surprises for Winnie.
In between the typical excuses of “the blender didn’t work right” or “someone actually got me this pizza oven as a gift so I don’t need two” come the over-explained, out-of-the-realm reasons a person has appeared at her desk. “My dog is allergic to low-thread count linens.” “I told my girlfriend this towel was the color of shit and she told me to take it back immediately.” “I couldn’t bring this within the 30-day window because my iguana, Carl, died.” Some of them are so random that Winnie has wondered if they were the product of a Mad Lib, or some online sentence generator, or a medicinal high.
The excuses are where the entertainment ends and the fights begin.
No matter how many times Winnie parrots the policy printed on the back of the receipt, a few righteous return policy warriors always pretend that they don’t hear her and proclaim themselves as the true rule-knowers who need to speak with a manager. The handbook calls them irate customers. The rest of the world calls them Karens.
Today, it’s a customer who refuses to accept that the large coffee stain marring her otherwise “pristine” alabaster apron means she cannot return it. As Rhoda, per the name embossed on her debit card, rants to/at Winnie about the lack of understanding staff at The Kitchen Cupboard and how it’s just another loose string of the ever-fraying fabric of American society, Winnie’s eyes wander, scanning the store floor beyond the cash register to the aisles of kitchen machinery, tools, seasonings, plate setti—
Winnie freezes, her breathing caught in a corset of muscle and tissue, rigidity spreading throughout her body.
In an aisle of slotted spoons and throwaway cutlery, she watches Noelle perusing the shelves with her dad—or, more accurately, watches her dad peruse, as Noelle sways back and forth, a green shopping basket hooked in the crook of her arm, and her phone in the holster-grip of her hand.
Why is she here? Winnie doesn’t understand why Noelle would come into the store—willingly or unwillingly—when she knows full well that this is one of Winnie’s usual shifts. After what had happened, Winnie didn’t think Noelle would want to risk it, crossing her path. Unless it didn’t bother her and she has no qualms about stepping inside the sliding electric doors.
Winnie can’t say the same.
As the manager, Hilarie, intervenes and Rhoda switches the target of her berating, Winnie wishes life came with its own return policies. If it did, she would’ve already cashed in on them at least 100 times. The time she crashed her bike into the patio table and shattered the glass or told Tobey Wesley that she thought he was hot only for him to run and say he’d talk to her later. (He never did).
Instead of living with the pain, shame, and regret of a moment for the rest of eternity, you could go to the help desk of the universe and request a new moment, one that was less detrimental. Call it what you want—an exchange, an erasure—but any which way, you would get a do over, a chance to right a wrong, and move forward with gratitude.
If given the chance, Winnie would be marching up to the universe employee right now to plead her case.
Winnie hadn’t meant to snap on Noelle when they hung out a few nights ago.
It was a slow buildup, like a kettle of water set to boil at a two on the stove dial. Through subtle manipulations and dexterous shifting, Alexis—their so-called friend—had inserted herself smack dab between Noelle and Winnie, pushing and pulling until there was more space between Winnie and Noelle than Alexis and Noelle. Not that Noelle had seemed to notice what was happening. When you’re not the one losing, you don’t always realize you’re being played.
Of course, Winnie shouldn’t have called her blind and stupid for not seeing it after Noelle told her—again—that Alexis had invited her over for a movie marathon, an invitation which never made its way into Winnie’s inbox. It was a bad move, hitting below the gold-plated belt. Then again, Noelle shouldn’t have called Winnie needy and self-centered either, but here they were.
If she could take back the moment and exchange it for a new one, Winnie would’ve told Noelle the truth that was underlying her emotions, this fight.
She’d share that ever since her sister, Devin, left the family and never looked back when Winnie was just 11, her armor went up at any sign of abandonment. In doing so, she had created a metal suit so thick that no one could touch her, and even if they could, she wouldn’t feel it. The only sensation they’d remember was that she was cold to the touch.
She would’ve spewed it over and over, letting the explanation flow from her like lava that, when it hit the air, would finally cool and lose its power. She would’ve said that in her effort to keep people close, she had a habit of pushing them away, like she just had with Noelle.
But Winnie didn’t, and the magma has stayed deep inside her, scorching her vocal cords until they could produce nothing that would’ve helped her or saved them.
“I demand that you let me return this or at the very least give me an exchange!” Rhoda says, slamming her hand down against the countertop, the charms of her bracelet jumping with the force. A tiny bear. A wine bottle. A moped. A drama mask. How fitting.
An exchange. Winnie would petition for that, too.
She’d pass Alexis over the counter, a gigantic red sticker marked “did not work as promised” plastered across her forehead, and ask for a different, non-backstabbing friend. If needed, she’d pay an upcharge.
Although, she’d exchange herself, too, if she could, and ask for someone who could be a better, less insecure friend to be placed at Noelle’s side. To help her with her math homework when she couldn’t decide between sine and cosine. To listen to her as she went off on a tangent about her latest crush, Gennie. To bolster her when everything around her slid into quicksand.
Noelle trails her father out of the aisle, and, on her way past the endcap of pizza cutters and trays, she turns her head, eyes sliding towards the front desk. Up, up, up until, just like that, their gazes lock. The magma crawls up Winnie’s throat, the heat through her body, and she has to tell herself to not let her feet move beyond the square of carpet below her feet, to not pull the mic for the sound system and tell the entire store how sorry she is to her oldest and oldest and best friend. The only one she really has.
In Noelle’s gaze, Winnie thinks that she sees a similar longing, but that may just be wishful thinking, because with a blink, it disappears, Noelle’s eyes focusing on her dad and the pizza oven he’s grabbed. He puts it in the cart as Noelle skirts down the next aisle, leaving again with no resolution.
“Are you even paying attention?” Winnie’s attention snaps back to Rhoda, who is not only just as angry but has gone as red as a pimple bursting through skin.
“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t think I was needed anymore,” she mumbles, and Rhoda recommences her rant. Customers’ eyes roll, their mouths produce sighs. Others stuff their bags in purses and head for the carts, so uncomfortable they’re making a break for it. Winnie pretends to care as she wishes she could bring her life to this desk, and return that as well.
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