The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a constant reminder of my personal purgatory. Another day at Zap's Electronics, another stream of disgruntled customers with their busted gadgets and flimsy excuses. I stifled a yawn, running a hand through my perpetually disheveled hair.

"Next," I called out.

A middle-aged woman shuffled forward, cradling a smartphone. The distinct smell of cheap perfume mixed with the ever-present odor of ozone that permeated the air.

"It just stopped working," she said. "I didn't do anything to it!"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. They never did anything to it. It was always the phone's fault, or the manufacturer's, or sunspots, or whatever convenient scapegoat they could conjure up.

"Let's take a look, shall we?" I said.

As I turned it over in my hands, I noticed the telltale signs of water damage.

"Ma'am, this device has sustained water damage."

"Yeah, but it was only in the toilet for a few minutes."

I notice a brown smudge on the back of the phone and instinctively drop it on the counter.

"Are you serious? You just dropped my phone! Look, it won't even turn on now. It was perfectly fine when I came in."

"But you just told me you dropped it in a toilet."

"I did no such thing. I demand to speak to your manager!"

And there it was. The battle cry of the entitled customer. I suppressed a sigh.

"Of course. One moment, please."

I trudged to the back office, each step feeling like I was wading through molasses. The manager's door loomed before me, a portal to another circle of retail hell.

Three sharp knocks. "Come in," a muffled voice answered.

I poked my head in. "Customer wants to speak with you. Water damage denial."

My manager, a balding man named Vinny with a permanent sheen of sweat, nodded wearily. "I'll be right out."

As I waited, I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the display mirrors. Green eyes stared back, dull with resignation. Welcome to the life of Stanley Oakes, where the customer is always right, and the employee is always wrong. At least until closing time.

I trudged back to the counter, bracing myself for the inevitable shitstorm. The woman's face twisted into a triumphant smirk as she saw my manager following close behind.

"What seems to be the problem here?" My manager's voice oozed false cheer.

"Your employee dropped my phone and now it won't turn on!"

I opened my mouth to protest, but my manager's sharp glance silenced me. Customer's always right, even when they're dead wrong.

"I see. Well, we certainly apologize for any inconvenience. Let's see what we can do to make this right."

My jaw clenched as I watched him kowtow to her lies. The familiar bitter taste of injustice coated my tongue.

"Perhaps we could offer you a replacement device at a discounted rate?"

The woman's eyes lit up. "Well, I suppose that would be acceptable. But I want the newest model. For free."

I couldn't hold back anymore. "But ma'am, you admitted—"

"Stanley." My manager's voice carried a warning. "Why don't you go restock the accessory wall?"

Dismissed. Like a child sent to time-out. I shuffled away, the woman's smug chuckle following me. The accessory wall. A graveyard of overpriced phone cases and knockoff earbuds. I methodically arranged them, trying to lose myself in the mindless task. A booming voice shattered my fragile peace.

"Yo, tech boy!"

I turned to find a mountain of a man looming over me. Muscles strained against a shirt two sizes too small, veins popping in his neck.

"You the one who sold me this piece of crap?"

He thrust a battered laptop in my face. The scent of stale cigarettes assaulted my nostrils. I took a step back.

"Sir, I don't actually sell—"

"It keeps freezing up! I got important business to do, and this thing's costing me money!"

I glanced at the screen. Dozens of sketchy pop-up windows cluttered the desktop. "It looks like you might have a virus. We offer virus removal services—"

"Virus? You calling me stupid?" He slammed the laptop down on the counter. The sharp crack made me wince. "Fix it. Now."

"Sir, I'm not actually authorized to—"

His meaty hand grabbed my shirt collar, yanking me closer. "Listen here, you little shit. I paid good money for this, and I ain't leaving till it's fixed."

The fabric dug into my neck. My heart raced. Where the hell was security?

"I-I'll need to check it in for servicing," I stammered. "It'll take a few days—"

"Days?" He released me with a shove. "Useless! All of you! I want my money back!"

"I'm afraid our return policy—"

He slammed his fist on the counter. The impact rattled my teeth. "Policy? I'll show you policy!"

As he wound up, a small voice piped up behind him.

"Daddy? Can we go now? You promised ice cream."

The man froze, his daughter's words deflating his rage like a punctured balloon. He glared at me one last time before snatching up the laptop.

"This ain't over," he growled, stomping away.

The Karen from earlier sees me and saunters over on her way out the door. Brand new smartphone in her hand.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"See, it's not just me. Obviously, there's a problem with the way you treat customers, otherwise this wouldn't be happening to you so often. I almost feel bad for you."

Before she had a chance to dig her talons in further, the new phone in her hands rang.

"Hello," she answered, "new phone, who is this? Oh my God Carol, how funny is that? I know! My daughter just told me about it. I know, it's too funny. Yeah, yeah. No, I asked to speak with the manager after some idiot her didn't listen to me and he gave me a new one. You're right, I should have asked the manager to fire him."

She offered one final glare before making her way to the door. I had to fight the urge to give her the finger with every ounce of my being. Vinny frequently watched back the security camera footage for fun after hours. Right now though he was motioning me back to the Returns counter so he could go back to the relative peace and quiet of the managers office. No need to interact with customers unless it was to undermine your employees, right?

I sagged against the counter, pulse still pounding in my ears. Another satisfied customer at Zap's Electronics. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. The encounter with Mr. Muscles left me rattled, but there was no time to recover. The queue of impatient customers stretched nearly to the door.

"Next," I called out, my voice cracking slightly.

A teenager with bubblegum pink hair sauntered up, tossing a mangled pair of earbuds onto the counter.

"These are, like, totally defective," she mumbled, not looking up from her phone.

I picked up the tangled mess. The cord was frayed, one earbud dangled by a thread, and there were distinct teeth marks on the jack.

"What seems to be the issue?"

She glanced up, fixing me with a look of utter disdain.

"Uh, they don't work? Duh."

"I see. And how long have you had these?"

"I dunno. A week? Maybe two?"

I untangled the cord, examining the damage. "It appears these have been... chewed on?"

"Oh yeah, my dog got them for a sec. But that's not why they don't work."

I blinked, momentarily stunned by her logic. "I'm afraid pet damage isn't covered under our warranty."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, I'm just explaining our policy—"

"Whatever. I want new ones. For free."

"I'm sorry, but that's not possible given the condition—"

"Ugh!" She threw her hands up dramatically. "This is ridiculous! I'm gonna blast you guys on social media. You'll be sorry when I tell my followers how you treat paying customers!"

She snatched the earbuds back and stormed off. I barely had time to process before the next customer approached. An elderly man, hunched over a cane, shuffled up to the counter.

"Young man, I need help with my cellular telephone."

I nodded, relieved at the prospect of a potentially less hostile interaction. "Of course, sir. What seems to be the trouble?"

He fumbled in his pocket, producing a flip phone that looked like it predated the Bush administration.

"The Google isn't working."

I blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"The Google," he repeated, louder this time. "My grandson showed me how to use The Google on here, but now it's gone."

I gently took the phone, noting the distinct lack of any internet capabilities. "Sir, I don't believe this model has web browsing functions."

His bushy eyebrows furrowed. "Nonsense! My grandson wouldn't lie. He showed me how to find recipes for bran muffins on here."

"Perhaps he was using a different device?" I suggested.

"Are you saying I'm senile, boy?" His voice rose, drawing attention from nearby customers. "I may be old, but I know what I saw! Now fix The Google or I'll report you to the Better Business Bureau!"

I opened my mouth to explain further, but was cut off by a shrill voice behind me.

"Stanley! A word, please."

My stomach dropped. The general manager, Linda, stood there with arms crossed and a sour expression that could curdle milk.

"I'm with a customer—"

"Now, Stanley."

I turned back to the old man. "I'll be right back, sir. Perhaps you could try powering the phone off and on while you wait?"

His grumbles followed me as Linda led me to a quiet corner.

"Stanley, we've had some concerning feedback about your customer service today."

I bristled. "Linda, you know those complaints are bogus. The woman with the water-damaged phone straight-up lied—"

She held up a hand, silencing me. "The customer is always right, Stanley. You know our policy."

"But—"

"No buts. Consider this an official warning. One more complaint and we'll have to discuss your future with the company."

My cheeks burned with a mixture of anger and humiliation. I nodded stiffly, not trusting myself to speak.

"Good. Now get back out there and remember – smile!" Her own grin was more shark than human as she walked away.

I returned to find the old man jabbing furiously at his flip phone's keypad.

"You broke it!" he accused. "The Google is completely gone now!"

I closed my eyes, counted to three, and plastered on my best fake smile.

"Let's take another look, shall we?"

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, a monotonous drone that matched the soul-crushing rhythm of my day. As I attempted to explain the concept of smartphone technology to a man who probably remembered the invention of the telegram, I caught my reflection in a nearby display.

Green eyes stared back, a little more deadened than before. Stanley Oakes, returns and exchanges specialist, slowly dying inside one customer interaction at a time.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally managed to placate the old man with a promise to "look into The Google situation" and send him a letter with our findings. As he shuffled away, muttering about the decline of customer service, I glanced at the clock. Only three more hours until closing. I could do this.

"Excuse me?" A shrill voice cut through my thoughts. "I've been waiting for ten minutes!"

I turned to find a woman tapping her manicured nails impatiently on the counter. Her designer handbag probably cost more than my monthly rent.

"I apologize for the wait, ma'am. How can I help you?"

She thrust a sleek laptop at me. "This piece of junk is defective. I demand a refund."

I took the device, noting its pristine condition. "What seems to be the issue?"

"It doesn't work! I tried to log into my Facebook, and it kept saying my password was wrong. Then it locked me out completely!"

I blinked, processing her complaint. "Ma'am, that sounds like an account issue, not a problem with the laptop itself."

"I know it's the laptop's fault! My password works fine on my phone. This thing is clearly broken, and I want my money back!"

I took a deep breath, summoning my last reserves of patience. "I'd be happy to check the laptop for any issues, but if it's just a matter of your Facebook password—"

"Listen here, you minimum wage monkey," she hissed, leaning over the counter. "I don't have time for your techno-babble. I know my rights as a consumer. Now give me my refund before I call corporate and have you fired!"

The threat hung in the air between us. I glanced around, hoping to catch my manager's eye, but of course, she was nowhere to be seen.

"Ma'am, I understand your frustration, but—"

She slammed her hand on the counter, making me jump. "No buts! Refund. Now."

My shoulders slumped in defeat. "Yes, ma'am. I'll process that for you right away."

As I went through the motions of the refund, the woman's smug satisfaction radiated off her in waves. Another victory for the entitled customer.

Just as I finished, a commotion erupted near the store entrance. A lanky teenager burst through the doors, clutching a boxed gaming console to his chest. Security alarms blared as he sprinted towards the exit.

"Stop! Thief!" Our security guard, a retiree who looked about as intimidating as a sleepy labrador, called out half-heartedly.

Without thinking, I vaulted over the counter and gave chase. Adrenaline surged through my veins as I weaved through startled customers. For a brief moment, I felt like a hero.

Reality came crashing back as my foot caught on a stray power cable. I stumbled, arms windmilling, and crashed into a display of smart speakers. The tower of boxes came tumbling down, burying me in an avalanche of cardboard and plastic.

Laughter erupted around me as I lay there, tangled in cables and surrounded by scattered electronics. The thief was long gone, along with any shred of dignity I had left.

"Stanley!" Linda's voice cut through the chaos. "My office. Now."

I extricated myself from the wreckage, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. As I followed her to the back, I could hear customers still chuckling and whispering.

"What were you thinking?" she demanded once the door closed behind us. "You know employees aren't supposed to engage with shoplifters!"

"I was just trying to help—"

"You destroyed hundreds of dollars worth of merchandise and made a spectacle of yourself in front of customers!"

I stared at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

She sighed heavily. "See that it doesn't. Now clean up that mess and get back to work. And Stanley?"

I looked up.

"One more incident, and you're out of here. Understood?"

I nodded mutely.

As I trudged back to the sales floor, a group of teenage boys snickered as I passed.

"Hey, it's Fumbles the Clerk!" one called out. "Better watch out, he might trip and fall on you!"

Their laughter felt like daggers in my back. I grabbed a broom and dustpan, focusing on cleaning up the remains of my ill-fated heroics.

With each broken speaker I swept up, a little piece of my soul seemed to crumble away. Stanley Oakes, once bright-eyed tech enthusiast with dreams of adventure, now reduced to a laughingstock in a dead-end job.

The fluorescent lights continued their relentless hum overhead, a droning reminder of the monotony that stretched endlessly before me. Two more hours until closing. Two more hours of purgatory.