The Point of No Return

“I’d like to return this TV, please.”

Herbert Whistlebottum - a middle-aged man with the appearance of a college professor, had waited patiently for his chance in the Returns line at one of London’s top electronics stores.

The January sales were in full swing with shoppers looking for bargains, spending gift certificates received in their Christmas stockings, and some, like Herbert, were trying to return unwanted items.

“Certainly sir,” the young casually dressed shop assistant replied. “Have you brought your receipt with you?”

Fumbling through the inside breast pocket of his coat, Herbert’s fingers excitedly searched for the narrow piece of paper, commonly issued in store purchases.

“Yes, I have it somewhere here… Aha, here it is!”

Handing the receipt to the shop assistant, Herbert proceeded to lift the large but surprisingly light cardboard box he had brought with him, then placed it on the counter separating the two men. As the shop assistant read through the receipt, circling parts of it with a red pen, Herbert took a brief look at the line of fifteen people or so waiting their turn to return something. Exchanging smiles with a few of the more patient-looking returnees, he avoided contact with the not-so-happy looking customers, fearing they may resent him for taking up too much time at the returns desk. Looking at the variety of items brought back, Herbert noted the array of rejected televisions, radios, drones, and most things electronic, littering the floor beside their reluctant owners. Some of the packages appeared crudely re-packed into their torn-apart cardboard housings, while others were simply held together with makeshift sticky tape. Bits of Styrofoam packaging also littered the busy area - a daily result of items being removed from their boxes for inspection by store staff.

“May I ask why you’re returning the TV, sir?” The shop assistant was following protocol and store policy to determine any potential fraudulent practices by unscrupulous customers.

“Erm, yes.” Stuttered Herbert. “I bought this just before Christmas, then after Christmas, I saw on the Internet the same telly advertised for two hundred less, so I’d like to return it and buy another at the sale price.”

“Hmm,” the shop assistant reflected.

“It was a bargain to begin with,” Herbert continued. “But now, it’s a bloody steal!”

“Yes,” agreed the employee, checking his tablet PC. “We’ve only a few left in stock at this price.”

Proudly patting the tv box, Herbert pleasingly added, “I’ve not even opened the box, see? It’s still stapled and taped in its original packing. You can take a look, if you don’t believe me. I still want the telly, but at the lower price, so you can just refund me, then re-sell it to me at the lower bargain price.”

His sound logic and simplistic interpretation of returning something not wanted, made the transaction of product turnaround sound like it was an easy process. However, a few snickers emanating from down the waiting line, suggested otherwise. It was apparent that some of the people waiting were well versed in matters like this.

“Yeah, right,” and “Good luck wif that,” filtered up to the head of the line, but seemed to miss Herbert’s attention.

“This is the Returns department, sir. We don’t sell down here in the basement. We just issue refunds or store credit.”

“A sale is a sale, no?” Herbert ignorantly asked.

“Not in the Returns department, sir. They put us down here in the basement specifically for a reason. We deal with returns and refunds. Away from the hordes stomping through the sales departments upstairs, you see, we down here, invisibly feed the upper floors with returned goods like yours. When we receive a faulty or unwanted item, it has to go up one floor to Returns Inspection, where they conduct a five point analysis of the product to determine its destination. If it’s faulty, it goes to Repairs, where they attempt to refurbish it. From there – if it’s been repaired, it goes to Refurbishments, where it’s re-packaged, re-priced, and re-turned to the display floor’s Clearance section. If it can’t be repaired, then it’s chucked in the big bins out back, ready for landfill, and we claim the warranty.”

“But you don’t have to tell them that you refunded the difference, right, erm…?” Herbert squinted to read the shop assistant’s name tag. In his rush to get to the store before it got too crowded, he had unintentionally left his reading glasses at home.

Seeing Herbert strain his neck to move his head and eyes closer to him, the shop assistant intervened. “Greg, my name is Greg.”

“Yes,” Herbert confirmed with a point of his finger toward the name tag. “It says, Greg.”

As several more people joined the end of the queue, the ones already waiting began uttering a few vocal murmurs of impatience.

“Come on,” someone muttered. “For fuck’s sake,” another annoyed customer mumbled. All restrained protestations went unheard at the returns counter.

“You can just send this one straight to the clearance section.” Herbert applied more logic. “I’ll just grab it on my way out.”

Staring blankly back at Herbert, Greg’s face took on an expression often seen demonstrated by petulant children. You know, the one that causes a drop of the head, a rise in both shoulders, a look of closed-eye distaste, a sneer, and an exasperated jet of air to escape through the nostrils.

“It doesn’t work that way, Mister…?” Greg looked at the name on the receipt, before stifling a childish chuckle. “…Mister… Whistlebottom.”

A few more snickers raised their volume from the people waiting behind Herbert. Then, the sound of someone whistling followed by blowing a raspberry, caused a few laughs to ring out among those listening in to the conversation.

Herbert heard everything this time but ignored the obvious ridiculing of his name. He was used to it. Ever since primary school, he had suffered the taunts. Now, as an adult, they just washed off his back. However, the rudeness of those chuckling had no doubt, been exasperated by the fact that this transaction was trying everyone’s patience. This irked Herbert, because he saw nothing wrong in what he was doing. He too had waited patiently – without comment - for his turn at the head of the queue. Realising the interruptive factor of his name being repeated in the ensuing conversation, Herbert decided to demonstrate his disapproval by turning to face the line.

“Grow up,” he snidely remarked before turning back to face Greg.

“We didn’t mean anything by it, mate,” a male voice apologetically rose above the crowd.

“My refund, please.” Herbert emphatically demanded.

“Yes, Mister Whistlebottom,” came the giggled pronunciation.

“It’s Whistle… Bot… Um… U.M, not O.M.”

“Sorry,” Greg apologised. “The lighting down here is not always conducive to reading.”

Re-scrutinising the receipt, Greg noticed something that needed further clarification.

“Can you please confirm the date you purchased the telly, sir?”

“Yes, it was about five days before Christmas, I believe.” Herbert recollected.

“Oh,” a hesitant Greg responded. “But it’s January now.”

“Happy New Year,” Herbert facetiously stated.

“What I mean, is that you’ve gone beyond the seven-day returns policy for refunds.”

“Preposterous,” Herbert blurted. “Where does it say that?”

“In the small print at the bottom of your receipt, see?”

Pointing to a paragraph on the base of the receipt, printed in a very small font, Greg held the slip of paper steady for Herbert to study.

“I can’t read that,” Herbert frustratingly argued. “It’s too small.”

“It says,” Greg pointed out. “That any return of your purchase for a full refund must be made within seven days from the date of purchase. It’s now thirteen days since you bought the telly.”

“You mean, I can’t get a refund?”

“No, Mister Whistlebottom.” Greg stifled another snicker. “That’s not what I mean. By law, you are entitled to a refund. But we are obligated to charge a re-stocking fee.”

“A re-stocking…?” The words stuck in Herbert’s throat. “I had to take a taxi van to get here. Do you know how much that cost me?”

“You could have called ahead, sir. We have an excellent pick-up service for returns.”

“I tried, but I was twenty-seventh in the call queue. After waiting forty minutes listening to some god-awful racket someone thinks is music, I was still twenty-seventh in the call queue. So, I thought it would be quicker and easier to bring it here personally.”

“Well, you made it and you’re here. Would you like to proceed with the return?”

“How much is the re-stocking charge?”

“Two hundred.”

“Two…? That’s almost a quarter of the price I paid for the telly.”

“Yes, twenty-five percent of the sales price is the re-stocking fee.”

“Can’t you waive it?”

“I can’t go against company policy, no. I just don’t have the authority.”

Losing his temper was not the best way to get results; however, Herbert was becoming increasingly frustrated and angrily impatient.

“Then, who in Christ’s name does?” He demanded to know.

“Would you like me to call my manager?”

Impatient groans broke out from the line behind Herbert, prompting several disgruntled people at the back to curse the situation, then turn and leave.

“Can he waive the fee?”

“Probably not, but he might be able to reduce it.”

“Great, then call him, please.”

Speaking into the small headpiece wrapped around his temple, Greg called for assistance.

“David, immediate assistance needed in Returns, please…”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, I didn’t speak to him directly. It’s an internal comms system. Everyone hears it. If my manager is otherwise engaged, someone will tap him on the shoulder to let him know that his presence is required.”

“Shame you can’t use that with your telephone returns system,” Herbert sarcastically suggested.

“That would be too impersonal,” Greg innocently explained. “We pride ourselves on customer service.”

“Well, you’re not living up to that, right now, are you.”

Pushing the boxed tv slightly to one side, Greg attempted to pacify the increasing impatience of those waiting for service.

“Could I please ask you to step to the side, sir? I’d like to take care of the other customers while you wait for my supervisor.”

Flabbergasted, Herbert’s first instinct was to hold his ground. Every impulse in his mind, suggested that he not yield the floor until satisfaction was given. However, as a courtesy to the other poor tortured souls waiting to return or exchange goods, he took a reluctant wide step to his right to allow things to proceed.

“Yes, Madam, how can I help?” Greg resumed.

“It’s Miss, you cheeky bugger,” corrected the young woman. “Me boyfriend’s mum bought me these ear pods for Christmas, and I already have some, so I want a refund.”

Dressed in what could only be described as summer clothes in the middle of winter, the young lady, appeared impervious to the cold outside, and extremely uncomfortable with the heat radiating from the metal heaters at the base of the far wall.

Ignorantly complaining, she stated, “Bloody hot down ‘ere, innit?”

Unwilling to respond to the rhetorical question, Greg flashed a condescending smile back at her, prompting her to continue. “I don’t ‘ave a receipt. It was a gift.”

“That should be fine,” Greg assured her. “What is the last name of the purchaser?”

“Cummings, Richard Cummings.”

“…Richard… no, sorry. He’s not on the system.”

“Try Dick,” the young woman suggested.

“Dick Cummings,” Greg choked. “Oh my, I don’t think I’m going to last the day.”

Stifling a schoolboy’s immature laugh, Greg tried breathing out slowly.

“No, no, don’t. Keep it under control, Greg.” He muttered to himself before letting out a repressed, “Ha ha!”

“What-choo laughin’ at?” The young woman knowingly asked.

“Nothing, Miss. The database shows no Dick Cummings in here. Blahaa! I do beg your pardon. It’s a day for it, isn’t it.”

“For what?”

“…oh, confusion, I think.”

“Oh, yeah, forgot. He bought the ear pods, but used his mum’s card to do it.”

“Okay, okay. That changes things. What’s her first name?”

“Connie. She’s really his step-mum. Not his real mum, so has a different name.”

“Okay, and what is that?”

“She’s Irish. It’s erm, Lingus.”

“Okay, let’s see if my records show a Connie Lingus, Oh…”

Before Greg could finish typing the name into his tablet, he quickly disappeared out of sight behind the counter. The only sign he was still there, was the guffaw of laughter rising up from behind the marbled-top pay point.

Disdainfully listening in, Herbert felt he needed to add a little comfort to the young woman’s embarrassment.

“We’re not all blessed with names like Greg or John.”

“Is alright,” she replied. “I ‘ave me own doubts as to marrying Dick.”

“Because of his name?”

“Nah, because of my first name.”

“What is it?”

“…Ima,” she shyly explained.

Just then, Greg’s voice from behind the counter bellowed, “Ima cummings, harghh!”

“Oh, fuck off, you wanker!” Ima’s distaste of being mocked caused her to loudly display her feelings on the matter.

“Is there a problem, miss?” The authoritative sounding voice interrupted.

“Yeah, your immature employee, that’s the problem,” Ima accused.

“How may I help?”

“Oi,” Herbert stepped in. “You were called to help me.”

Ima acknowledged the fact and took a half-step backwards, inviting Herbert to resume his business. Uninformed of the situation, David attempted to ascertain the details.

“Greg, what on Earth are you doing down there?”

Wiping the tears from his cheeks, Greg re-emerged from under the counter, slightly ashamed by his lack of professionalism.

“Yes, sorry. Erm, Mister Whistle… Um, Herbert, here, wants to return the telly he bought five days before Christmas; however, I explained to him that any returns beyond the first seven days, will be charged a re-stocking fee.”

“That is correct,” Dave confirmed.

“But I haven’t even unpacked it,” Herbert tried to explain.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s company policy.”

“Can’t you waive the fee?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Then, can you reduce the fee?”

“Sir, you must understand that most of our sales staff survive on the sales commission afforded them through the various commercial transactions they make. The re-stocking fee covers both the reduced re-sale price and the cancelled commission. As all of our prices are at the most competitive of levels, it is only fair that our sales staff are generously compensated for their endeavours. The only way I can provide a full refund, is if the television is faulty. Then, as a courtesy to our customers, we personally send the faulty item back to the manufacturer while still under warranty.”

“Okay,” Herbert nodded his understanding. “Then, I want a full refund because it’s faulty.”

Duplicating Greg’s earlier petulant manner, Dave became slightly unsettled.

“What is the fault?” Dave enquired.

“It doesn’t work.”

“Have you tried plugging it in?”

Herbert remained quietly irritated.

“I see. Have you taken it out of the box, then? Is there something missing from it…?”

Herbert couldn’t think of a single condition to deem the tv faulty, so he just defeatedly shook his head.

“Then, I’m sorry, sir. We can’t issue a full refund, but I would be delighted to issue you a part refund, minus the twenty-five percent re-stocking fee.”

It was then that all the pieces of what Herbert’s mind had been processing, came together, forming one devious solution.

“How long is the warranty?” Herbert deceivingly asked.

“Twelve months from date of purchase,” Dave quickly replied.

“And what does it cover?”

“Oh, an array of things from manufacturer’s defects to accidental damage.”

“Like this?”

Tipping the television’s box at a ninety-degree angle, Herbert waited for gravity to forcefully guide the box’s descent to the polished concrete floor, where it arrived with a loud crash. For the next several moments, a hush floated around the room. Ima childishly giggled, Greg stood wide-eyed and surprised, while David stared in shock at the twisted box on the floor. Studying the line of customers, Herbert awaited some response. However, no-one wanted to be witness to his act of vandalism. Calmly and directly, Herbert addressed the supervisor in attendance.

“I’d like to return this tv, please.”

The bold extraordinary action on Herbert’s part, had shocked Dave beyond any comprehension. Almost robotic in tone, he responded.

“What… appears to be the problem, sir?”

“It fell and broke, but it’s under warranty.”

“Do you have the card you purchased it with?”

Herbert swiftly produced his debit card, and after a few button pushes, followed by the tap of his card on the card reader’s face, the transaction was complete.

“There you are, sir.” Dave mechanically stated. “A full refund to your account.”

Turning to Ima, he continued, “And for you miss, a store credit in the amount of your gift’s purchase. Now, who is next?”

Herbert nodded his appreciation to Dave, before asking a quick question.

“Pardon me,” he very politely asked. “What floor will I find the same tv?”

“That would be the second floor, sir.”

With a wave of his hand, Dave turned to leave as the next customer propped a kitchen blender onto the counter.

“Receipt?” Dave blandly asked before being handed the printed sales slip. “What name is it under?”

“Cox, Harry Cox,” the innocent reply announced.

A tumultuous explosion of laughter shook the surrounding Christmas decorations – still waiting to be taken down. It was all too much for poor Greg, who stumbled his way toward the Employees-Only door, uncontrollably laughing his head off.

“Greg, where are you going?” Dave annoyingly asked.

“I’m beyond the point of no return,” he spluttered out. “I’m going on a break, then I might call in sick.”

Disappearing behind the swing door, his screams of laughter accompanied Herbert up the fire escape stairs, as he headed toward Level Two. A satisfied look of mission accomplished spread across his face, then one final emanating scream from Greg, echoed up the stairwell from the direction of the basement store…

“WHISTLEBOTTOM! HAARGH!”

Undeterred, Herbert’s lips produced a quick whistle sound, followed by the blow of a raspberry.

“Up yours, Greg…”