Monday. It was raining.
I went to the bookstore to, you know, get the books I needed for class. My IPol course had three books assigned. While I was hesitant to drop 600LE in a country where everything is subject to change, they only had a few copies left. In a class three sections, they could go fast. Besides, I could always return the books later if for some reason the professor wasn't using them.
On Tuesday I went to buy the eight books for my literature class. I inquired as to the return policy, and found out that it was two days. Two? Like, 2? Two. Huh. Can we sell the books back at the end of the semester? No.
Wednesday: my IPol course meets for the first time. After an hour and a half explaining the two ways the course could be taught, the professor remarks that he's never heard of those three books and definitely won't be using them; that must have been the other professor.
Do the subtraction, and Wednesday is my last day to return the books. Of course I don't have them with me, but maybe I could talk to the manager and ask for a one-day extension. The bookstore closes at 6:00. It's 5:55, and I'm on the other campus.
I run.
I get to the bookstore by 5:58, and the doors are closed. I sweet-talked my way through the doors (the guard and I are BFF), and pleaded with the manager. After much debating and suspicion, he told me to bring the books back first thing in the morning, and I just about kissed him. 600LE goes a long way in
In
When I returned Thursday morning with my books in tow, I encountered a series of litmus tests from the manager, a young man from Miami of Cuban descent, who somehow ended up running the AUC bookstore. He seemed like a laid back guy, with a hint of a Spanish accent, but when it came down to it, he was all business.
First, he examined my receipt. Next, he looked at the books, fondled their spines, and stood them each upright, ostensibly to see if they had been subjected to massive photocopying. Then, he called in "his expert," one of the cashiers I knew well, to take a look. "This man will know if you are lying," the manager said, and winked at me. They decided to do the return.
The cashier was running my card, and asked if I just didn't want the books. No, I explained, the teacher wasn't using them for his course. The manager, doing his best James Dean behind the counter, flipped up the collar on his leather jacket: "You know we're going to talk to the professor, right?"
Sigh.
Pictured: Hafsa and I lament a world where an honest girl can't return merchandise to a store without judgment.
3 comments:
I'm reminded of a 1973 trip to the Soviet Union and how one bought something in a "socialist" store:
1. Find what you want (if they had it -- often the shelves were bare) and then get in line.
2. When you get to the front of the line, the clerk takes your item and gives you a receipt showing you how much it costs.
3. Go get in another line.
4. When you get to the front of the second line, give a second clerk the receipt and the rubles to pay for the item. The clerk stamps your receipt "paid."
5. Go back to the first line.
6. When you get to the front of that line again give the clerk your stamped receipt. Then you get back the item you bought and leave.
I don't know if they still do that in Russia now that it's gone capitalist.
You can add "sweet talking security guards" to your lengthening list of Middle Eastern survival skills!
It's because you are white.
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