Store Policy

A young man in his late teens pulls into the parking lot and enters the store one afternoon in late June. Fernando has never seen him before. The gent browses the older releases for a while before grabbing a pair of cases and approaching the counter.

“Yeah, I want to rent these?” he says with a strange interrogative inflection, placing the cases down on the glass.

“Firstly, I'll need you to fill out an application.” Fernando rises and retrieves said paperwork, then crosses the office to lay it upon the countertop.

“Um...that wasn't what I meant. I meant how do you rent a movie here.”

“Like I said, first you need to have an account here.”

“How do you know I don't have an account?”

“It is somewhat evident this is your first time here based on the questions you are asking of me. Added to this is the fact that you're a new face and I actually only need the tags from the cases. But worry not, the application process is painless both physically and emotionally, and in a short while you'll be ready to go.”

Fernando's jovial verbosity spread much confusion across the young man's face. “Huh?” 

Time to dumb it down, then. “I need you to fill this out.” Fernando gestures towards the application.

The young man picks up a pen and sets to work. He writes down that he is from Happyrock, a municipality which lies about thirty-five minutes away. Why he came all the way out to the Dominion is a question for the ages, but whatever. People from Jobsdaughter, thirty minutes in the other direction; or from Hephaestus, twenty minutes in the other other direction, swing by as well. “Do you really need my driver's license number?” he asks after a short while.

“Afraid so.” Though Fernando is willing to rent to people who reside well outside the Dominion's sphere of influence, he did not fall off the back of the delivery truck yesterday.

“Why?”

“Store policy. It's just the way it is.” That's an excuse Fernando hasn't been able to use in a while. Might as well dust it off.

“That sucks,” the teen says. “Your boss sounds strict.”

Oh, my. “You have no idea,” Fernando says, doing his best to emulate Jeremy Irons' Scar. However, the documentation is presented and Fernando verifies that the lad's responses were not made up whole cloth. The application is filled out to Fernando's satisfaction and the pair of older releases head out the door in the hands of a new customer. Things looked bright.

This being a Chronicle, the astute reader will no doubt already have arrived at the conclusion that things did not work out in any way which approaches the ideal.

The movies wound up late, Fernando had to leave a series of voice messages at the young man's number, and the guy who had rented a pair of older movies on a rent-one-get-one-free day managed to accrue $15 in late fees. The DVDs were in Fernando's drop box one morning in early July and Fernando figured that the irresponsible young man would never return to the Dominion out of shame or good sense, and his name would join dozens of others on Fernando's super-scary late fee list.

This being a Chronicle, the astute reader will no doubt already have arrived at the conclusion that a tale which opens with the story of a new customer has more to it than just “Ha-ha, Fernando got burned.”

In mid-September the guy returns. He heads to the new release rack and selects a pair of cases to bring up to the counter.

“Hey man,” he says to Fernando, no doubt recognizing him from his previous visit. He puts the cases down on the counter.

“Hello. Did you want to put something on your late fee?”

“Uh...my late fee?”

“Yeah. From when you were here in June and rented Who's Your Daddy and Knocked Up.”

“Oh.”

After a few moments' silence, Fernando says, “So, did you want to put something on it?”

“Do I have to?”

Fernando checks his late list for the precise amount owed. “It's at fifteen bucks.”

“Oh. Well, can I pay it next time I'm in?”

“Sorry, but I can't rent to you until some sort of good faith payment has been made.”

“Fine.” The teen digs in his pockets and pulls out a handful of change, which he dumps on the countertop with a clatter.

Fernando squints at the small pile of dimes, nickels, pennies, and pocket lint. It sums to maybe sixty or seventy cents. “I was hoping something a little more substantial, actually. Five bucks or something.”

“Come on, man.”

“Sorry, store policy,” Fernando says, remembering what he had invoked at the boy nearly three months prior.

The kid digs through his wallet and pulls out a crumpled five dollar bill, muttering, “Your boss is kind of an asshole.”

“Yeah, I know. On the bright side, I believe in giving people second chances. Optimism at work.” The guy looks at Fernando oddly but it doesn't seem as though he has registered that the asshole boss is the bloke standing before him.

Maybe next time it will sink in.