Letters to Sperling ➳ H.S.

One: The Absent Presence

I used to be less, I used to feel less, but now I feel it all.

I'm filled to my brim with the memory of you; you're so close, but I'm alone.

"Styles?"

My head shot up from my place at the break room table to find Sheetal, my manager, standing in the doorway. I crumpled the piece of napkin I was scrawling on, shoved it into my pocket, and raised my eyebrows at her.

"Hey, I know it's an hour 'til you're off, but two people just walked in, one with some TV remote issue, and the other is—"

"No worries," I smiled, picking up my half-finished chicken noodle soup and pouring the rest down the sink before running the tap for a few seconds to wash my hands. Sheetal disappeared while I was doing so, but not before giving me a nod of her head, signifying her thanks in that silent way most people do when they're too used to being in charge of things. Once she left, my smile turned into an eyeroll and a deathly grimace — I couldn't care less about this goddamn job.

I paused for a moment, thinking about the lump of napkin in the pocket of my slacks, knowing that I'd be stuck in yet another writer's block if I didn't finish what I had started.

But alas, "duty called" or whatever it is people said who had nothing better to do with their lives than work.

I wheeled myself out from the break room, past the home theatres and stereo systems, through the video game aisles (simultaneously making a mental note that I needed to pick up that new Lego game for myself) before whizzing past the ever-impatient customers at the service desk at the front of Best Buy. The first customer in line was a fat, mustachioed man, with either a soy sauce or blood stain splattered on the front of his polo shirt (it was difficult to tell, to be honest, and I was someone who paid much attention to detail). I made sure my mouth was closed so as to not let out the prolonged groan I yearned to expel.

"Sorry for the wait, sir, what can I—?"

"This stupid TV remote! It won't work! I just bought it with my new TV and—"

I usually drowned out the voices of nearly everybody I came in contact with, especially if it was some half-wit that didn't know how to use whatever it was he thought was broken and, to find some consolation in himself, would decide to blame it on the employees of a big-box electronics store.

You'd think that the general public would be more sympathetic towards a guy in a wheelchair, right? Wrong: the first thing you learn when working in customer service is that the general public is a ruthless species, capable of breaking the hearts of fully grown men, and will argue to their deathbeds about returning a final sale item or getting a twenty-five cent refund.

The man was still ranting on about how he'd wasted four-thousand dollars on a television set because the remote didn't work. I looked at his receipt that he shoved into my face and pretended I was listening, and that I genuinely gave a shit about everything he said.

"—and this establishment is full of nothing but con men!"

That was inaccurate; firstly, I was the only con man in the building, and I was sure of this because if any of these losers was also a con man, we would've been out of business already due to fraud. Secondly, I believe the correct term is con artist. Anyway.

"Thank you for your words of suggestion, sir," I began flatly, "I see on your receipt that you purchased batteries—"

"If you think I'm stupid enough to not put batteries into the remote before using it—"

"That's not at all what I was implying, sir," I replied, completely implying it, "However, ninety-nine percent of all of our customers that come in with issues such as this only put one battery into the slot, not both. It's a common mistake, really, seeing as the human brain does this thing where—"