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October 30, 2006
JCPenney 2501 Mt. Holly Road Suite 300 Burlington, NJ 08016
Dear JCPenney,
Once upon a time, in the land of 24-hour drug stores and rush-hour traffic, there lived a very patient man. This man’s name was Kevin Dickinson (me). He set out on a journey to the legendary castle of JCPenney! Battling his way through fierce red lights and fire-breathing traffic jams, Sir Dickinson nobly ventured into the realm of Department Store Merchandise.
Sorry, I have a tendency to be medieval sometimes, in an anachronistic sort of way. I’m writing you this letter to tell you about a very strange man you have employed in the Belt department. I spent a good three hours walking around the belt rack, saying “Hmm…” and “Would Bertha like it?” Bertha is my imaginary friend who pre-approves all my fashion decisions. I took my belt up to the counter (“a very nice belt with a Renaissance feel and a subtle cowboy undertone,” according to Bertha) and gave it to the cashier to ring up.
“$11.42,” said the cashier. I am very particular about my belts. If it’s under ten dollars, it’s crap. “Jesus, you can’t hold your pants up with a Hamilton!” I always say. I gave the cashier four $2 bills, a Sacajawea dollar, a Susan B. Anthony dollar, a regular dollar, a nickel, and 37 pennies. After giving me (and the currency) a suspicious look, he signaled for his manager. “There’s no such thing as a $2 bill,” he told me. “Moreover, there is no such thing as a gold dollar, and there was never anybody named Susan B. Anthony.” His manager agreed, as I gathered from subtle clues – he nodded his head and said, “Yes, I agree.”
“I’m sorry if you think this is fake money,” I told them, “but it’s 110% real. I got it all in change at the monkey wash. The tail scrub was $38.58 and I paid with a $50 bill. The monkey technician gave me four $2 bills, a Sacajawea dollar, a Susan B. Anthony dollar, a regular dollar, a nickel, and 37 pennies. Now I am passing it to you, in order to obtain a fine Renaissance belt with a cowboy undertone.”
The manager proceeded to call the loss prevention manager on a walkie-talkie, who said, “CCCCHHHHHHt (static)… Don’t accept it. It’s fake money. CCCCHHHHHHHt.” At this point I was becoming frustrated. “I wasn’t born three days ago, and neither were you. We all know this is real money. It says ‘legal tender’ and you are going to accept it!” But they still refused. If I had eaten an additional salmon donut that morning I would have had the energy to argue even further. But instead, I resorted to using all regular money.
“Here is a ten dollar bill, a one dollar bill, and 42 cents in assorted change. Now please let me have this belt!” I yelled. But it didn’t end there! The manager called the LP guy again. “CCCCHHHHHt… There’s no such thing as a ten dollar bill. It’s obviously fake. Call security. CCCCHHHHHt.” Immediately afterward I found myself being dragged backwards through the store… and my pants were falling down.
I am very displeased with the service I received. It was not “up to par;” in fact, it was a double bogey eagle par 4 putt 5-iron wedge. Your employees need to be educated on American currency, then hit in the head with the back of your hand.
Irritated and Beltless,
Kevin Dickinson |
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