An Army of One

Sometimes you gotta face the fact that you're just outnumbered. Like Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Or the Spartans at Thermopylae.

Any time someone uses the phrase "That's our policy" as a smoke screen for laziness, or obstinance or just plain meanness, I imagine myself drawing the razor-sharp, white-hot sword of righteous indignation from its scabbard (schwing!) and lopping off heads like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Especially when the policy is clearly the antithesis of common sense. Which it usually is.

The other day I needed to return nine 50 lb. bags of mulch to Lowe's. "Why so much mulch?" you might well ask. Despite my meticulous calculations as to how much mulch would be needed to fill three flower beds, I was off by a quarter ton. But let's not get side-tracked. Needless to say nine 50 lb. bags weigh...well...a lot! So I pulled my vehicle right up next to the pallet where they keep the mulch, so all they had to do was lift the bags directly from my truck onto the pallet. Easy.

I darted inside the garden center, and handed my receipt to the cashier.

"We don't do returns here...you'll need to go to the customer service desk."

If you've ever been to Lowe's, you know that Customer Service is about a quarter mile from the Garden Center. So off I trotted. Walking at a brisk pace the journey took about 3 minutes. I presented my receipt.

"I'd like to return some mulch, please."

"You'll need to bring the mulch inside so we can count the bags" droned the obviously bored and under-worked customer service representative, not even looking up at me.

That's what I'd call about 450 lbs. of unhelpfulness. Are you effing kidding me? These thoughts scrolled across my forehead in 6 foot tall red neon letters.

"Um...isn't one of your employees gonna have to accompany me to my vehicle to unload the mulch?"

"Yes sir...This is Brandon. He'll help you."

"How 'bout this idea? I'm parked right next to the pallet of mulch. To make it easier for everyone, how 'bout we go ahead and handle the return now, and then Brandon can verify the number of bags. If I miscounted, then I'll come back and we'll square up."

"I'm sorry sir...that's our policy."

It occured to me that I might have a stroke right there at the customer service counter. How's that for about a quarter ton of irony?

"May I speak to the manager please?"

Rolling her eyes and sighing heavily, she dialed the phone and explained the situation to the manager in an exasperated tone, then hung up and monotoned "The manager says that's our policy."

Am I insane? Is this really happening? Have I unwittingly stepped through a hidden portal into Crazy World?

"May I SPEAK to the manager please?" By now the other employees nearby were starting to take notice. Meanwhile Brandon had wandered off to download the new "Complete Waste of Time" app on his iPhone. Or maybe was he "tweeting" about the Mad Man at the counter who thought he was William Wallace waging war against the English.

She dialed the phone again and handed me the receiver....

"Hi...my name's John Langford. How are you this evening? I need to return nine 50 lb. bags of mulch and I was wondering if...."

"I'm on my way."

The manager arrived and I shook his hand warmly. Assuming there had been some misunderstanding, I described the situation in calm detail, to which he responded "Oh yeah...we can handle that...no problem."

Turning to the cashier and trying to conceal my expression of glee, I handed her my receipt.

"Sir...we'll need to see the bags of mulch before we can process the return" the manager said.

I couldn't believe my ears! I WAS in Crazy World!! I was speaking English, but they only understood "Red Tape." No wait...I'd been here before. This was one of those "Am I gonna just laugh at the complete and utter absurdity of it all...or am I gonna lose my cool (too late!)" moments. Why didn't I realize it sooner?!

"Let's go..." I said.

As we hiked to my truck, I told the manager not to take it as a personal attack, but that I'd like to respectfully register my protest against their policy in the strongest terms possible, and that I thought it was completely ridiculous.

By the time we completed our cross-country trek, we were chatting amiably about his kids, how long he had lived in Austin and so on. Sure enough there were nine bags of mulch in my truck. Be still my tongue.

A quarter mile later we were back at the cash register, where he confirmed that I had indeed returned nine bags of mulch. The cashier issued a return, and I strolled the now familiar route back to my car. It was like deja vu all over again.

At least I got some exercise. And a 450 lb. reminder that when I least expect it, I'll find myself in yet another episode of Cosmic Candid Camera.