One time, I watched a middle-aged white woman pull a beat-up pair of hiking boots out of a paper grocery bag. The shoes were so battered she probably saw no point in fudging the truth and readily offered that they’d been purchased a year earlier. Apparently, she’d recently gained twenty pounds (due to new medication), which had caused her feet to spread, and now the blasted things gave her blisters.
The sales associate’s smile never dimmed as he gingerly turned over one boot and said, Oh, wow, we haven’t carried this brand in a while.
The woman shrugged. Okay, well, what can you do for me?
Her sense of entitlement floored me. Would it have killed her to look sorry?
The associate said, How about you pick out another pair of hiking boots and we do a straight swap? He added, If you don’t like what we have in store, we can order a pair online and have them delivered to your home?
Instead of falling over herself in gratitude, the woman said, I don’t really need hiking boots. What I need is a sturdy pair of sandals. Can I get some of those?
The associate’s forehead creased. I edged closer and pretended to study a pair of rubber flip-flops dangling from a rack. Was history about to be made? Had the Nordstrom return policy finally met its match?
The associate called over a manager, and they conferred for a few minutes before he announced, Good news! We can make that work!
Later, I’d recount the story to Winnie, who’d offer that she’d once seen someone return a faded plaid work shirt so old a hole had formed in one armpit seam.
Did he even give a reason?
Yes, the reason was the hole.
Winnie told me that ridiculously generous return policies had been one of the things that amazed her about America. Right up there with portion size, four-way stops, and water wastage. One hundred percent customer satisfaction, she said. That’s the American way.
I guess what I’m saying, Detective, is that Winnie convinced me that ours was a benign and victimless crime. For didn’t everyone in the equation go home happy? The online customer got to purchase a coveted designer handbag for a fair price from our eBay shop, the sales associate made a good commission from unwittingly selling a counterfeit, and even the customer to whom said counterfeit was sold very likely left satisfied. (And, if not, could easily make a return.) As long as this was the case, what did it matter that only one of those bags was the real thing?
Armed with this questionable pseudosubjectivist logic, Winnie pushed me to take on ever more consequential responsibilities. When I balked at inventory arriving at my door—what if Maria mistakenly opened a box?—Winnie told me to rent a unit in a nondescript South San Francisco office park. When I complained about being assigned too many returns, she had me hire and train more shoppers. Before I knew it, I’d turned into a one-woman HR department—and Winnie’s right hand. As she well knew, my entire career as an unhappy lawyer had primed me for this job. For the first time in my working life, I was managing an entire process from start to finish, seeing the immediate, tangible results of my labor, and that, after years of paperwork for the sake of paperwork, was groundbreaking.
By this point, our annual revenue was clearing two million, fifteen percent of which Winnie sent to Boss Mak per the terms of their original agreement. She paid me a sizable salary, too—as much as I’d made at the firm (in half the hours), a portion of which I gladly spent on Maria’s overtime.
No, I don’t think Maria has any idea what we were doing. In fact, I’m sure of it. All I’d told her was that I was helping my friend Winnie, reviewing contracts, advising on tariffs and tax issues, you know, boring stuff. I assume you gathered as much from her deposition? Once or twice, she might have opened the trunk of my car to find it packed with handbags, but I said it was for a charity fundraiser. Yes, of course I still consider her family. Why, does your family know each and every detail of your life?
I didn’t mean to snap. I guess I still regret the way she and I grew apart, and, more broadly, the way the constant lying took its toll on all my friendships. What Maria and I shared was real—we weren’t close in that fake treacly way that rich neoliberals are with their household help. I truly valued our relationship. Over tea and lemon cookies during Henri’s naptime, she’d vent about the men her sister kept trying to set her up with and her dad’s conservative political views, and I confided in her, too. She was the first person to whom I admitted that I hated being a lawyer, months before I even told my husband.
I have only myself to blame for what happened. One afternoon in April, about three months into working for Winnie, I was driving back from South San Francisco and got stuck on the freeway—a horrific car crash involving an overturned big rig. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper. I literally didn’t move for half an hour. Amid this gridlock, Oli texted to say he’d left work early and was on his way home. I knew there was a chance he’d beat me there and find Maria with Henri.
He, too, had no clue how much time I devoted to this work. I’d told him the same things I’d told Maria—that I was just keeping busy helping Winnie while I explored job options, and that yes, of course, she was paying me. I arranged for five thousand dollars to be deposited into the joint account each month. He didn’t probe, especially since the work appeared to distract me from complaining about his Palo Alto apartment.
I texted back to tell him I was stuck in traffic, and not to worry, Maria was staying late. When he asked where I’d gone, I lied that I’d driven to Menlo Park to have coffee with an old colleague.
Next, I called Maria to tell her she could leave once Oli got home. I paused then, reluctant to say what had to be said.
Anything else? she asked.
Actually, yes. Would you mind not mentioning South San Francisco? Say you don’t know where I went.
It was her turn to pause. Okay, she said, drawing out the last syllable.
What?
She hesitated. You always tell me where you’re going and how long you’ll be.
She was absolutely right. Okay, then will you tell him I drove to Menlo Park to meet a friend for coffee?
All right.
I felt like I owed her an explanation. I said, He knows I’m working part-time, but he doesn’t think I get paid enough, so I don’t want him to know how many hours I’m putting in.
Sure, all right. She never had questions.
I should have left it at that, but, silly me, the next morning, still feeling guilty about asking Maria to lie for me, I slipped an envelope with a fifty-dollar bill into her purse. Immediately, I felt better.
What’s this for? she asked later, waving the envelope by her chin like a paper fan. She looked genuinely confused.
Just . . . thank you for telling Oli, you know, where I was.
Her face clouded. You don’t have to pay me for that.
I know, I said quickly. It’s a thank-you for everything. You’ve helped so much these past weeks by staying late with Henri.
You pay me overtime. She set the envelope on the kitchen island between us.
I slid it back to her. It’s a small gesture of appreciation.
She cocked an eyebrow and muttered, Okay. Thanks.
After that Maria kept her distance. When I set out tea and cookies at the usual hour, she declined, saying she’d better run a load of laundry while she had the chance. Soon, we talked only about Henri and in a perfectly perfunctory manner. How much did he eat? What time did he poop? How long did he cry?
I fretted that she was growing dissatisfied with our family, and so, dipping into all that disposable income, I preemptively offered her a raise, which she accepted with the same suspicion, and which probably caused the further decline of our friendship.