December 24th, and the toy store is packed. Red-vested Toysaurus managers, cashiers and stock-boys swarm the floor, dash between the desperate last-minute shoppers and their carts. Christmas music plays unnoticed, drowned out by the sounds of mirthful commerce. A giant cartoon brontosaurus adorned with a Santa hat watches over the activity from above, a satisfied look on its face.
“I’m going to have to get my manager, sir.”
Joe shifts his weight from foot to foot, stares up at the woman behind the big blue desk.
“Why is that? There’s no problem here, I just want my money back.”
The cashier looks at him archly.
“And why are you returning this item again?”
“I bought it for my son, but he already has it. You know — typical stupid dad.”
Joe gives her his best hapless smile, tries to align himself with some sympathetic current. The cashier isn’t having it. She considers the box Joe has handed her. The corners have been crushed bouncing around in Joe’s backseat, and the lid doesn’t quite fit over the cellophane window anymore. The tape on the top flap of the box has peeled back, incriminating Joe with a single fat thumbprint.
“Sir, this has been opened.”
“But it hasn’t been played with.”
The cashier peers through the plastic blister.
“Some of these figures don’t belong in this package.”
Sweating now, Joe laughs unconvincingly.
“What do you mean? Sure they do.”
“Sir, Spider-Man is not one of the X-Men.”
Joe opens his mouth to reply: instead of speaking he grabs the package and runs out the front door. No one bothers to follow him.
Joe eyes the returns desk warily. There are two women working, which could be a problem. He stalls for a moment, futzing with the bag, pretending to look for the receipt. He’s had trouble at this store before — the employees have a tendency to be nosy. Still, he isn’t doing anything wrong. He’s just returning an item. People do that all the time. Just then one of the women abruptly leaves the desk. Seeing his opportunity, Joe quickly steps up to the counter.
“Hello, sir. How can I help you?”
The remaining clerk is older than Joe had expected: she reminds him of the elderly women he knew as a child.
“Hi. I’d like to return this. I bought it for my son, but he already has it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. It’s so tough to keep up with kids these days.”
“Yeah.”
The clerk opens the box’s front panel and frowns.
“Oh, my goodness.”
Joe grits his teeth. His ankle hurts from running before, and he’s not sure if he’s up to it again.
“Toys are so strange these days.”
“It is a strange assortment,” Joe concedes. The clerk blissfully takes Joe’s receipt and begins to fill out the requisite paperwork for a cash refund. Joe rocks on his heels. The front of the store is bright, harshly lit. He feels huge, exposed in his sweatpants and t-shirt.
“Okay, sir, if you’ll just…”
Just then the co-worker returns, with no love in her eyes for Joe.
“I’ll take care of this man, Erma.”
Joe smiles weakly, but the younger clerk does not return it.
“Sir, we cannot give you a refund on items that have been tampered with.”
“Tampered with? I don’t…”
“Sir, I just got a call from our Boardman store, where you tried to return this package. You have been banned from that store, as well as this one.”
She gives him back his box but keeps the receipt. Joe leaves without a backward glance.
The giant cartoon dinosaur looks at Joe reproachfully as he pulls into the Toysaurus parking lot. 13 miles. It’s a long way to go to make a return, but he has no choice. Joe can only hope the call hasn’t gone out this far. He can’t afford to be blacklisted at every toy store in eastern Ohio.
Joe takes the now thoroughly-dented box past the sliding doors and straight to the front desk. The clerk is an older man. Short, made smaller by life, he nonetheless looks down on Joe.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“I have to return this. I really need the money back.”
Joe is surprised at his own words. What happened to his imaginary son?
“Okay. Your receipt?”
Joe winces.
“I, uh, don’t have it anymore. But I bought it here — it’s a Toysaurus exclusive.”
Joe points the the foil certificate the corner helpfully. The clerk looks at the sticker, then back at Joe. He flips the cardboard lid open, considers the contents carefully. His eyes are dark, haunted: he peers at Joe as if from a distance. For a moment everything seems to stop.
“Okay. But only for a fellow mutant.”
Joe opens his mouth to speak, but no words come. What passes between them is wordless. Inexplicable, intangible, a communication born of alienation, a passive acknowledgement that is bond.
“$ That’s 64.13.”
The clerk hands Joe the money and nods.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Yeah, uh, you, too.”
Joe heads for the door, ignoring the gaze of it’s saurian mascot. The sounds of the holiday vanish behind him as he steps into the darkness of the parking lot, as he closes his car door, as the radio begins to play the local classic rock station. He pulls into the slow-moving stream of traffic and heads home.
More Fwoosh Fiction: Wolverine and Werewolf by Night in “Beasts”
Superman in “Strange Visitor”
The Punisher in “You Dirty Rat!”
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