Many Happy Returns (PsyCop short 2.2)

Kenneth shot a plastic tab through the seam of a hideous sweater. He wasn’t sure why he bothered. It wasn’t as if the sweater hadn’t been returned at least three times. Not that it was defective, per se. It was just so ugly that no one would ever want it.

But Kenneth was only there to earn enough money to buy a new computer. Part-time, seasonal work seemed harmless enough, or at least it had, the day he’d accepted the job of staffing the most obscure return desk in the least-known subbasement of SaverPlus.

He shot a plastic tag through a baseball cap, and wondered what type of person would return a hat. Someone with a head that was really big, or really small? He decided that he thought too much. Always had.

The clock clunked. It was an industrial piece of electronics, circa 1953, and it was far too retro to simply tick. Eight fifty-nine. He turned around and looked at the piles of clothes that had accumulated during his shift. Time to fold up the ugly returns and punch his timecard.

Forty-two years old and punching a time clock. Kenneth tried not to spiral down into a haze of self-pity by distracting himself with another thought, since his brain was so insistent on thinking.

Flat screen monitor. Bluetooth keyboard. Relax. Breathe.

The sharp ring of a call bell sent images of new computer systems scattering to the edges of Kenneth’s mind. He looked up at the return desk, startled, and found a man in a leather jacket with spiked blond hair leaning over the counter on both elbows, chewing gum. He smiled at Kenneth. More of a devilish smile than an expression of actual happiness.

“We’re closed,” Kenneth said. “They’ve shut the lights off.”

The customer peeked back over his shoulder, as if something had snuck up on him while he was trying to get Kenneth’s attention.

“Sure,” he said. “But look, maybe you can do me a favor.”

Kenneth resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He couldn’t imagine what would prompt him to do a favor for a total stranger, particularly at this purgatory of a job, and especially at 9:01 pm.

“This shirt,” the customer said, swinging a plastic bag onto the counter. “I need a large.”

Kenneth sighed through his nose and reached into the bag. He had a big enough pile of returns. If he had the shirt in a large, he could scan them, swap them, and send the gum-chewer on his way.

He pulled the shirt onto the counter. It was, in Kenneth’s opinion, the only decent shirt that SaverPlus carried. He owned three, himself.

“Whoa,” said the customer, pointing. “You’re wearing the same one.” He levered himself up onto his palms, leaning over the countertop, into Kenneth’s personal space. “That’s pretty wild. Don’t you think?”

“We haven’t got this in a large,” Kenneth said. “Not in black, anyway.”

“But I need black,” he said. “The shirt’s from my mom. And she’ll get all weird if I don’t wear it the next time I see her.”

“I’m sorry, sir....”

The customer snorted. “Call me Crash.” He squinted at Kenneth’s name tag. “Kenny.”

Kenneth composed himself. Bluetooth. DVD-RW. Five hundred gig hard drive.

“These shirts are sold out in black large. They have been since November. If you’d like the shirt in mocha, I can do the exchange, but....”

“Gimme yours.”