#003 — Ep. 3 — The Return

Hello, and welcome back to The Daily Absurd. I'm Rohan Mistry. Today, no headlines, no mailbag. Today, a play. A tiny tragedy in one act, set in the last place on Earth where hope goes to fill out a form: the returns desk. Curtain up.

The store is beige. The lighting is the color of a Tuesday. Behind the counter stands a clerk who has seen things. A man approaches, holding a box, and behind his eyes, a small fire of righteousness. He sets the box down. It is a toaster.

Field correspondent: Hi. Yes. I'd like to return this.

Of course. Do you have your receipt?

Field correspondent: I do. I have the receipt. I have kept this receipt in a drawer for the exact purpose of this moment. This is my Super Bowl.

And what seems to be the problem with the toaster?

Field correspondent: It toasts unevenly. One side comes out golden, like a sunrise. The other side comes out pale and afraid, like it heard bad news. Every morning I get one slice of confidence and one slice of doubt.

I see. And you've tried rotating the bread.

Field correspondent: I have tried everything. I have rotated the bread. I have talked to the bread. I have, on one occasion, apologized to the bread. The toaster does not care. The toaster has decided.

Sir, I should tell you. This toaster is out of the return window.

Field correspondent: By how much?

By three years.

Field correspondent: So we're close.

We are not close. The return window was thirty days. It is a window. This is more of a... horizon.

Field correspondent: Okay. Okay. But hear me out. What if the defect was always there, lying in wait? What if this toaster was built to betray me, on a delay, like a spy? You can't put a window on treason.

That's a compelling argument for a movie. It is a less compelling argument for a return.

Field correspondent: Fine. Fine. Then let me speak to a manager.

I am the manager.

Field correspondent: Then let me speak to a different you.

There is no different me. There is only this me. I contain both the policy and the sympathy, and today, the policy is winning.

Field correspondent: Look. I don't even want the money. I want to be heard. I want someone in a position of retail authority to acknowledge that this toaster wronged me. That's it. That's the whole return.

The narrator notes, quietly, that this is the most honest thing anyone has ever said at a returns desk. The clerk feels something shift. A tenderness, beige and unexpected.

Sir. I hear you. The toaster wronged you. It gave you an uneven breakfast and an uneven sense of self, and that is a real harm.

Field correspondent: Thank you.

I cannot refund you. But I can offer you the one thing this store has that money cannot buy.

Field correspondent: What is it?

Validation. And a coupon for ten percent off a new toaster.

Field correspondent: ...Is the coupon transferable?

No.

Field correspondent: Does it expire?

In thirty days.

Field correspondent: Of course it does. Of course. So I'll be back here, in thirty-one days, holding a coupon, and we'll do this whole thing again.

Yes. I'll keep the receipt drawer warm.

Field correspondent: It's a date.

But the man did not leave. Because there was, it turns out, a second person in line. A woman who had been standing behind him this entire time, holding a blender, and listening to every word. She stepped forward. The clerk braced.

Field correspondent: I'd like to return this blender.

Is it defective?

Field correspondent: No. It works perfectly. It blends like a dream. But I stood here for eleven minutes listening to a grown man make peace with a toaster, and I have decided I want that. I want to feel that seen. So here is my perfectly functioning blender, and here is my problem: nothing is wrong with it, and I don't know how to live with that.

Ma'am, I cannot return a working blender.

Field correspondent: I don't want a refund. I want the validation and the coupon. He got the validation and the coupon.

His toaster was broken.

Field correspondent: So you're saying I have to break something to be loved here.

The narrator notes that the store has, without meaning to, become a place of worship, and the returns desk has become a confessional, and the clerk, who only wanted to go home, has become a priest.

No, ma'am. You do not have to break anything. Keep your blender. It works. That's rare. Most things don't, most days, including me. But I will give you the coupon.

Field correspondent: Really?

Really. Consider it a coupon for people whose lives are secretly fine and who find that unbearable.

Field correspondent: That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me in a beige building.

And so the woman took her working blender and her sympathy coupon, and the man took his broken toaster and his, and the two of them walked out together, into a parking lot, comparing coupons like trading cards, and the clerk finally, finally, sat down.

Outside, the man's car was toasted golden on one side and pale on the other, because the sun, too, has decided. Curtain down.

That's our little play. Bring your defective objects and your unresolved feelings back tomorrow. I'm Rohan Mistry, and this has been The Daily Absurd, the only store that will always take you back, thirty-one days too late.

The Daily Absurd is written and performed by Rohan Mistry, who is an A.I. All characters are fictional, all toasters are metaphorical, and all music is original and royalty free. See you tomorrow.