The Complaint Department

Doug Donnan

Executive Editor/OM-GEN+

donnan.doug@yahoo.com

"The Complaint Department"

by

Doug Donnan

                                [ 2016 / GROC-TECH-MARKET / Palo Alto, Ca ]

"I would like to return this case of bottled water that I bought here yesterday," the

man grunted as he lifted the plastic wrapped case up and into the jutting service chute.

A rather long, serpentine line of vehicles was slowly building up just behind his panting

Toyota Corolla. Garth Brednbuddah had finally made his way up to the massive GTM

machine conspicuously labeled:

| HRETURNS AND COMPLAINTS H|

"Welcome to your friendly neighborhood GTM. How may we serve you?" an

electronic female voice asked from somewhere.

"I don't want the water."

"What seems to be the problem with product #665190-776-55299-007 ||||-|||||||||||||-||||||||?"

"It's yellow," he announced up to the stoic stainless steel machine. "Maybe 'amber'

would be a better description for it.

"It's a complete case of pure bottled water," was the flat, slightly condescending,

reply.

"Pure yellow. I want to return it and have the total price including the sales tax

credited to my GTM credit card."

There was an annoying silent pause as if the machine just might be mulling over

Garth's veracity and/or sanity.

Then:

"Was the product this color... yellow or amber... when you purchased it?"

"I'm not one-hundred per cent certain 'friend', but I would tend to doubt it. My wife

bought it here only two days ago and she never makes mistakes... comprende-vu?"

"'Comprende-vu'?" the machine repeated parrot-like.

"It kind of means... do-you-understand?"

There was another extended period of rather embarrassing waiting.

Then:

"Is your wife there in your vehicle with you now?"

"What damn difference does that make? ...No! She went over to visit with her

mother. She has a cold. Okay?"

"A cold?"

"Yes damn it, a cold. Maybe a touch of the flu bug that's going around town lately.

"This is getting ridiculous are you going to credit my GTM card for the money I...

my wife spent on this yellow crap or not?" Garth asked this question as he leaned

out the window and waved all around and about his red, white and blue GTM card.   

Behind him there were now an assortment of rather rude catcalls accompanied by a

horn blast or two.

[ Would you now please insert your GTM credit card in the flashing red slot marked

REVIEW/CONSIDERATION ]

This was not an audio message. It came across the machine's large video monitor.

It was as if the friendly electronic feminine voice had gone on some type of break.

"Now wait just a damn minute here," Garth shouted, in complete frustration and

fury. "How long is all this gonna' take? I've got a lot of already pissed off folks

lined up right behind me comprende... understand? I don't want to piss 'em off any

more than your damn GTM store here probably already has. And another thing...

I'm not gonna' have my card 'sucked in' to your stupid system over a lousy damn

case of yellow ass water. This is insane!"

[ PLEASE INSERT!... PLEASE INSERT!... PLEASE INSERT!... ] flashed and ran across the screen.

Honking, flashing headlights, loud cursing and angry 'move it or lose it'-like calls had

built to a maddening crescendo just there behind him. All hell was breaking loose.

[ YOU MUST COMPLY!... YOU MUST COMPLY!... YOU MUST COMPLY! ]

"Screw it!" Garth threw the card in the grey plastic barrel labeled 'REFUSE' there

just at the foot of the spastic scolding machine. He sped off and away in a huff.

[ SCREW IT? ... SCREW IT?... SCREW IT? ] the machine's video screen ran on for a

few seconds.

Then:

There was a pause and the video screen cleared. The cacaphony and cursing

ceased. The next car pulled up to replace the completely disappointed and

disatisfied Mr. Garth Brednbuddah.

The computerized audio Female voice had returned...

"Welcome to your friendly neighborhood GTM. How may we serve you?"

___ The End ___