The store is almost empty. I hoist the planter up on the customer service desk and tell the clerk I need to return it. She examines it and asks if there’s anything wrong with it. I show her the crack on the bottom and hand her my receipt. My father enters the store and has trouble manipulating the turnstile. “Dad!” I yell. My father looks around but doesn’t see me, and he heads towards the paint department. The clerk hands me back my receipt, which is covered in black marks to remind me I’m going to hell for making a return. After she’s made the refund on my card, I return my Visa to my wallet and head after my dad, who is squatting in an aisle. “Dad,” I say. He turns and I help pull him up to standing. “What are you doing here?” “I’m looking for stain,” he says, “but I forgot to write down the colour.” “Stain for what?” “Oh, I’m refinishing this old chair for a lady I curl with.” “You don’t know how to refinish things.” “Yes, I do,” he says.
