Upon entering one of the classiest novelty stores in the small town of LaVale, Maryland, I was drowned in the culture of the beautiful, mountainous area. The Walmarket in the local Country Club mall is nearly the mall itself, though I am promised that there is also an Auntie Anne’s and at least one Radio Shack elsewhere in the behemoth. Starbucks, you ask? No, that is for arrogant city-folk.
I believe the last mall I went to had at least two Starbucks right next to each other, unless I am confusing them for one big Starbucks. Oh yeah, the last mall I went to also had a Merry-Go-Round. And a child was enjoying it. She probably giggled, but I was walking away. I’m going to just assume she giggled at least once. And I’ll go ahead and lie and say she had a balloon. It was red. But that was another mall, in another part of Maryland, in a completely different century.
This was indeed a “Country” Club, entirely to itself. Casually walking in from the summer heat with brown plaid shorts complete with aviators hanging from a non-white T never felt so un-casual. The fancy boy I am, I got a return sticker for my coffee maker. It stopped working a few weeks ago, and despite persistent cursing on my part, it still decided be my slave no more. But, before pitching out the most expensive nugget of General Electric’s shit that I ever held in my hands, my Mother overheard a recall of my exact model on the radio.
We listen to the radio in Western Maryland. The Public radio. If it counts I think it was FM. Is that better? Okay, I’m lying. It was AM. Apparently my model had been burning down other people’s homes, or at least trying to do so. Why do I always pick the boring ones?
So I returned it. But not before waiting in the least productive return line I’ve ever waited in. I was second in line. Yippie-skippy-doo. I almost considered doing a cartwheel, but that is generally difficult to do while holding a 12-cup coffee (refuse-to-work-rather-burn-the-kitchen-cabinets)-maker in your hands. Two women behind the counters who were possibly pregnant but more likely to have instead eaten babies apparently realized that they have job security regardless of how poorly they do their jobs. One talked on the phone in a language unknown to both God and civilized man. The other was, well, she was… doing nothing. Practicing standing, is all I can assume. She was alright at that I guess, but even if standing were a job, I’d hire someone else.
An elderly woman behind me attempts to coyly pass me in line, as does every person older than 34, because at age 34 every adult goes to a special once-weekly night class where they get trained to believe in their heart that I am a poor lost child searching for my mother in the large stores, and I’m never in a line to buy or return anything because I am but a meager little child lost in life. This is where facial hair comes in handy. At 20, I’m not going to hold my breath. It is at this point that I notice the line behind me growing very, very long. I am now first in line, *Happy Days and Sunshine.*
The Stander, as she shall be called from this point in time, opened a roll of coins for the register slower than a dead bee regains consciousness when you freeze it for too long. Why won’t it fly? I have it all tied to this string and everything. Damn it.
Then, the Stander spoke to me in a language I can only assume was some dialect of English that had long branched from the modern dialect long ago.
“I have a recall,” said I as clearly and plainly as possible.
Just as I feared, she could not understand me. A confused look on her face, like a dumbfounded dog watching a car from the safety of the dotted yellow center line. I was hoping whatever vehicle was headed straight for her in her mind would take her out of her misery, but then she walked away without saying anything to me. She walked to a bulletin board which contained a picture of my model. Thing in real life match thing in picture. Very good.
The Stander got the attention of the Talker. “I dun’t hav a code fer this one. Waat du aye du?” “Well lemme seehere, u jusgatta do thus her. Her it is”
“Syx, syx, fahyve, foor, tu, thray…”
The Talker talked, while the Stander typed.
After a very long time, I got a Walmarket card that they promised had something of value on it, so I left as quickly as possible.
Next time, I’m going to return a coffee maker with a pipe bomb in it. Haha. I’m just kidding of course, that’s crazy. Only crazy people say those things on the internet. I’ll just plug the GE death-maker into the wall and let it burn the store to the ground. If all else fails, I might get a freshly brewed cup of Joe out of it.
