The drug store line had stopped moving. A woman was returning Pez. Two packages of Pez candy, with dispenser. One was Popeye. I couldn't see the other. Three weeks till Halloween and she's returning candy. And after much paperwork, the store refunded her money.
Unable to contain myself, I said it:
"You're not gonna let her return candy."
Silent stares shone from the clerks and customers.
"You're not going to put that back on the sales floor, are you?" I said.
"Why not?" said the clerk who handled the return.
"That bitch could be a psycho who gets off injecting candy with anthrax."
The clerk looked at me, then picked up the phone.
"Manager to register one," she said.
Soon the manager arrived. She was tall, thin, all business.
"Look," I said, "it's real simple, people are sick, demented, cruel. You can't accept returned food. I don't know that woman from Post Toasties and neither do you."
The manager looked at the packaging. "You think so?" she asked. "It doesn't look opened."
"You'd be surprised," I said. "What kind of person returns Pez anyway?"
We all stood there, thinking about it.
"Well I'll put it in the damaged goods bin," said the manager finally.
"If she comes in here again," I said, "call Homeland Security."
And we left it at that.