The Coffee Machine

Martin stepped up to the counter with his receipt in hand. The clerk, who stood two inches taller, looked at him with expressionless green eyes. Awkwardly, he placed the box with the 12-cup coffeemaker in it on the smooth white counter-top.

“I’d like to return this,” he said. “It doesn’t work.”

The clerk took the receipt from his hand and studied it as she brushed a strand of sandy-blonde hair back from her eyes. “You’ve had this for two weeks,” she said. “What’s wrong with it?”

He hesitated. The woman stared at him and he had to make an effort to control his voice as his confidence began to fade. He disliked returning things, making a fuss, drawing attention to himself.

“I put the coffee and water into it but nothing happens,” he said.

“Did you turn it on? Was it plugged in?” she asked.

She continued to stare at him. Her thin lips looked severe to Martin.

“Y-yes. Of course. I’d like a refund,” he said as his voice trailed off.

The woman quickly opened the box and took out the kitchen-size coffee machine. She turned it around in her hands and inspected it for damage.

“Two weeks is a long time to decide you don’t like it,” she said as she stared at him again.

“I want a refund,” he said with as much confidence as he could muster.

Abruptly the woman replaced the coffeemaker in its box and turned to place it in the cart behind her. She entered the information from his receipt into the cash register and when the drawer slid open, she pulled out some bills and coins and handed them to him without speaking. Martin stuffed the money in his pants pocket.

“Thank you,” he said with a forced smile. “Have a nice day.”

The woman looked past Martin without speaking to him. “Next,” she said to someone behind him.

Martin could feel his face burning as he walked away. ‘I should complain,’ he thought, then just as quickly knew that it would not do any good. He had the money and it was done. Some electric kettles in a display caught his attention and he thought he would browse for awhile before leaving. The image of the woman in her blue uniform and striped shirt kept reappearing in his mind and his mood soured. He speculated that she was middle-aged, like himself. She had no business taking that tone with him, but he was often disregarded. Eventually, his mood was so bad he could not distract himself with trinkets and store displays and he decided to leave.

As he stepped onto the sidewalk outside the sliding doors of the department store, he paused and squinted in the mid-afternoon sun. He looked around and saw the female clerk who had been so cold to him standing about 20 yards away to his right. She was leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. Her black purse hung from her shoulder. A tall man with long black hair, dirty jeans, and a ripped tee-shirt stepped in front of her. The woman looked frightened. Martin walked slowly toward them until he could hear what they were saying.

“I said give me your money, or I’ll beat the crap outta you,” said the man in a rough, deep voice.

The woman looked terrified but clung to her purse. She had dropped her cigarette and was shaking her head ‘No’.

“Are you deaf?” the man growled. ”Give me your money … now!”

Martin reached for his cell-phone then remembered leaving it at home to recharge. Frantically he looked around but there was no one else in sight. He was the only witness. The man grabbed the strap of the woman’s purse and yanked on it. Frightened as she was, she held tight to it.

“Hey!” yelled Martin as he rushed toward them. “Leave her alone.”

The big man glared at him. “Mind your own business!” he shouted.