Generally, I'm pretty much down with people returning clothes. It's the Wal-Mart. It is not a high-fashion type of place where you can send sales clerks out for twenty-seven different variations of a pink blouse in a large and then ask "Does this make me look fat." Chances are, if you're shopping for fashion at the House of Wal, you're not a discriminating shopper in the first place. Grab and go. That's the motto.
Anyway. Probably 4 out of five of the clothing returns we get come back with the tags still attached. Most of the rest at least come back with the tags after they've been cut off to try on, or because they were given as gifts. The one in ten that don't come back with any sort of tags usually look like they've been through wreck on the turnpike and then used to make a tourniquet. And then worn out to a rave with a Zombie Bloodbath Bash theme the next night.
Every now and again, we get back used undergarments and ladies intimates. I've actually taken back swim trucks that made me think I was at the beach - they smelled so strongly of ocean water, beach sand and salt. I swear to Kali we were about thirty seconds from hanging ten with Kelly Slater up at my counter.
My point. I had one. Somewhere. Right.
This man brings up a buggy full of white. At first I thought it was sheets or maybe a comforter, because people do that - unpack sheets and are then completely unable to get the stuff back in the package. Oh no, it was shirts. Lots and lots of shirts.
White cotton button-down dress shirts. The ultra-cheap Wal-Mart $17.64 type. FIFTEEN OF THEM. Not one. Not two. FIFTEEN. QUINCE.
These shirts are sold in sealed plastic packages. None of these shirts had packages. None of them. He throws the wad of shirts up on the counter and I start counting. I ask him "Are all these the same?" The answer is the affirmative. I start counting. We get up to fifteen and my mind boggles.
And he has a receipt. A receipt from a week ago no less. I'm screaming to ask "What the hell do you do with fifteen white cheap faux cotton dress shirts in a week? What the hell?"
Thankfully, he supplies the answer without me having to ask.
"I bought all of these and took them straight to the dry cleaner. I didn't notice they were long-sleeved. I wanted short sleeves."
I'm pressing [REPEAT LAST ITEM] and then [ENTER] on my touchscreen fourteen times while he's talking. When he says dry cleaner I pause. Surely this man is not taking Wal-Mart shirts to the dry cleaner.
But then he confirms my worst fears.
"I dry clean all my clothes before I wear them. When I picked them up from the cleaners, that was when I noticed the long sleeves." You sir, have too much money.
So, load them up into the car and drive all fifteen freshly chemically treated shirts straight back to the House of Wal for your $280.48 (complete with tax) back.
I can understand cleaning your clothes.
I can understand buying the wrong shirt - maybe not FIFTEEN of them, but I can understand buying the wrong shirt.
I can certainly understand washing anything you buy at Wal-Mart before wearing it.
I can MAYBE understand dry cleaning your House of Wal garments. I mean, they DO come from the House of Wal.
This man, I do not get. Not in any way, shape or form.