My day was already bad, you know? Like, one of those days where you drop your toast butter-side down and then spill coffee all over your good shirt. So, when I got to the grocery store, all I wanted was my stuff and to go home and maybe watch some TV. I walked straight to the produce part, becaus I needed my special apples. I only like the Granny Smith kind, the ones that are perfectly round and don’t have even one little dent or bruise. It takes me a while to find the right ones, but it’s worth it. I don’t like getting home and finding a soft spot when I take a bite.
I was picking through a pile of apples when I heard it, this kinda whiny voice from the bakery section. It was coming from a lady, maybe in her early twenties, pushing a stroller with a little baby inside. The baby was just sitting there, quiet, looking around. The lady was talking to Mr. Henderson, the baker. Mr. Henderson is a nice old guy, always smiles. He makes the best bread. But today, he looked kinda stressed.
I got my apples, all four of them perfect, and put them in my cart. Then I just kinda stood near a display of cereal boxes, pretending to look, but really I was listening. The lady was saying how she had ordered a cake last week, a big one for a party, and how it was just “not right.” She said it tasted “weird” and her baby, who couldn’t even talk yet, apparently “didn’t like it.” She kept pointing at the baby in the stroller, like the baby was proof or something. I thought that was a strange thing to say, becaus how would she know what the baby thought of the cake? It just seemed like a silly excuse to me.
Mr. Henderson was trying to be polite. He said he was sorry she didn’t like the cake, but they hadn’t had any other complaints. He asked if she had brought any of the cake back, or a receipt. The lady just laughed, a kinda loud, fake-sounding laugh. She said she ate some of it, then threw the rest out. And a receipt? She looked at Mr. Henderson like he was the dumbest person in the world for even asking. She said she didn’t keep receipts for “bad food.” She said she wanted a new cake, a different kind this time, the big fancy chocolate one with the strawberries on top, and she wanted it for free. She even said something about how it was inconvenient for her to come all the way back here to complain.
Mr. Henderson looked real uncomfortable. He explained that they needed proof, like the cake or a receipt, to give a free replacement. It was store policy, he said. He was trying to be nice, but his voice was getting a little tired. The lady rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. She then started saying things about how bad their customer service was and how she was a “loyal customer” and how she told all her friends about this store. I had never seen her before, and I come here all the time. She got louder, saying how hard it was to be a new mom and how this was “the last thing she needed.”
Just then, the baby in the stroller, who had been quiet the whole time, suddenly started to cry. Not just a little whine, but a full-on, ear-splitting scream. The kind that makes you jump. Karen, that’s what I decided to call her in my head, started patting the baby kinda roughly, shushing it, but the baby just cried harder. Karen’s face got all red. She looked even angrier, like the baby crying was just making her point even stronger, or maybe it was just making her more mad in general. She snapped at Mr. Henderson, telling him he was upsetting her baby and that she needed that free cake to “calm her nerves.”
Mr. Henderson looked even more stressed. He rubbed his temples. He was trying to talk over the baby’s cries, saying he couldn’t just give away a cake that big without manager approval. Karen cut him off, talking about how she worked hard and deserved something nice. She pointed at the cake display, shaking her finger. Her voice was really high now, and a few other people were starting to stare, trying not to look directly but you could tell they were listening.
A lady nearby, stocking cans of soup, looked over with wide eyes. She probably wanted to help Mr. Henderson. I just wanted to finish my shopping. My cart was feeling heavy, and my bad day was getting worse just listening to this. Karen pulled out her phone, holding it up like she was going to record Mr. Henderson. She said she was going to call the head office and complain about “discrimination” against mothers and “poor quality control.” She kept talking, listing all the things she thought were wrong, and the baby kept screaming, and Mr. Henderson just looked more and more tired.
Finally, Mr. Henderson, looking like he was about to burst, just sighed real big. He put his hands up. He walked over to the display, grabbed the fancy chocolate cake she wanted, and put it on the counter. He didn’t even wrap it up. He just put it there and said, “Just take it. Please.” His voice sounded like he had given up. Karen stopped talking, and her face went from red to a kinda smug look. The baby was still crying, but she didn’t seem to notice as much now. She picked up the big cake with one hand, her other hand still pushing the stroller. She didn’t say thank you. She just turned around and pushed the stroller away, the baby’s cries slowly fading as she went toward the exit. She didn’t even look back.
Mr. Henderson just stood there, staring at the empty spot where the cake had been. He looked so defeated. The soup lady went over to him and patted his arm. I felt bad for him, but what could I do? I wasn’t going to start a fight. My apples were still perfect in my cart. My day was still bad. And now I had to watch that whole thing. I just wanted to go home and forget it ever happened. Some people really just get away with everything, don’t they?
