Returns-counter man reacted not, but silently slid the slip of paper my way. Twelve dollars plus tax in store credit.
“Thanks,” I repeated. “But, so . . . would it be possible for me to talk with the manager about the . . .”
“I’ll tell the manager, okay?” the man spat back, clearly insulted and annoyed as hell. “I know who Monk is, and I know how to spell his name, all right? I’ll tell the manager.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, taking the credit slip. “Sorry. I just wasn’t sure you’d heard, and I was . . .”
“I’LL TELL THE MANAGER!”
(He’ll tell the manager.)
Epilogue: One Year Later
No. He didn’t tell the manager, or else he did, but the manager didn’t do a goddamn thing. The fuggin poster’s still there, same price, same spot on the wall. Someone, please, I beg you — take it down. Take it down for the children.
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