The Art of the Return

A steak, a linen suit, and the private shame of admitting the expensive thing did not deliver.

The box cuts medium rare.

I knew it was wrong from the first cut. Medium-rare steak does not cut like this.

The borderline-gray fibers of a $140 Japanese ribeye hung on for dear life in front of me as one question raced through my head:

Do I send it back?

The best day for an expensive package to arrive is when you’re home alone.

Mood lighting. Full free roam to walk around in your new treasure. AC blasting, because no matter the weather, trying on clothes is sweaty work.

Where is our waitress? Am I still allowed to call her my waitress? If I say waiter, is this woman going to know who the hell I’m talking about?

This must be a sick, cruel joke.

Why am I eating outside? It’s 93 degrees out.

I dip my fork back into the mac and cheese. Have to be careful not to fill up on sides.

I look at my wife, who made this reservation two months ago.

I know what I have to do.

Why can I never find my packages?

Man, I miss having a doorman.

Shit. There it is.

Why did she turn off the AC when she left this morning? It gets too hot in this apartment.

Fuck, I’m hungry.

I’ll eat after I try this on. Don’t want to be bloated.

“Excuse me.”

My voice cracks. What’s wrong with me?

“Do you know where our waitress is?”

Her face turns careful as she walks over to the table.

“We ordered the steak medium-rare. I’m sorry—fuck, should I not have said I’m sorry?—but this is well done.”

She apologizes too much, takes the steak back, and I eat a few fries.

Still no sign of our waitress.

I should probably shower before I put this thing on.

It’s brutal in here. I miss having central air.

I’m too hungry to shower.

I shower.

These boxes never open nicely.

The box cuts medium rare.

Why does the box smell like that?

Jacket. Pants. Tissue paper. Sealed.

Is this the color I ordered?

A new steak comes out quickly.

Too quickly.

Brought over by someone I do not recognize.

My wife moves on to her third carrot.

“You should really try one,” she says.

We both know I won’t.

I’m too anxious to feign appreciation for $23 carrots.

I make eye contact with our waitress. She walks over. She knows before I do.

She has me make a show of cutting into the new steak.

It is raw.

She takes it back before we can protest.

I’ve made a grave miscalculation.

This is not the same linen suit I set an alarm for.

Why does it feel like burlap?

And this is sludge green, not beige.

It has to be the lighting.

The bedroom mirror has never reflected me.

Something is off with the proportions.

This was made for a different man.

Let’s go downstairs.

We hear the bell.

One of us says third time’s the charm as our waitress brings out the third steak.

Why did I eat all that mac and cheese?

It had Ritz crackers in it.

So good.

The restaurant stands still.

I cut.

I am full. She is full. The pan must be bent.

Half the steak is rare. Half is medium-well.

Nobody wanted steak anymore.

This will have to do.

The steak is taken off the bill.

I look like handsome Shrek.

Handsome Shrek could be a look for summer weddings, but why do I look like this?

Fuck. This is no good.

It’s the lighting.

Turn off the overhead light. Set the mood.

Remember, you’re going to be outside. It’s a summer wedding.

Take a selfie.

It’s not the suit. You need a haircut.

Delete it.

Take another one.

Delete that one.

Open your email.

Find the shipping email.

Scroll down.

Hit return.

-SP