THE FRIENDSHOP


“They Say Money Can’t Buy Friendship—But In The Friendshop, It Can.”

The tall speakers blare that same male voice, loud and proud like a brass instrument. When the man says “Can,” all the employees in their green uniforms raise their right hands and wave them at the customers, smiling to the point of having wrinkles develop beneath the eyes. It is an hourly rite. When it ends, we go back to our work, scanning bar codes and answering the stupid questions of our clients.

I am Marie Greenwood, and I work at The Friendshop, nine to five during weekdays and eight to six during the weekend. The shop that I work for is a division of the House of Everything. It’s a huge department store that has been famous for selling all sorts of items—ranging from toothpaste and butter to luxury cars and swimming pools. About three years ago, celebrating the company’s hundredth anniversary, a new series of products was launched; it was called the Satisfaction Project, where customers could “purchase” fulfillment of abstract desires. The House of Everything started to sell items such as Knowledge, Health, Longevity, Fame, Power. They came in blue packages. A customer could just grab one from the shelves, take it to one of the labs in the store, and activate the program.

One of the items was Friendship, sold at The Friendshop. It has been the most popular division of the Satisfaction Project since its very first day. All the rich parents are buying their children friends, and ostracism is no longer a social issue. Lonely celebrities and businessmen visit the shop and purchase their companions. On average, there are three hundred visitors in the shop per day.

I work in the section where we deal with refunds. Out of the three hundred people, about ninety come to complain about their product and get an exchange. I am an employee whose job is to listen to those complaints, advise clients during exchanges, and categorize the papers.

Every day, I go through a parade of crazy clients. I have met a lady who wanted a refund because her product was prettier than her; I have even met a kid who came to exchange her curly-haired African girl with a straight-haired blonde Barbie. People come and moan like vuvuzelas: “Ugh, my product smells like carrots so badly that I can’t stay in the same room with it.” “I can’t stand the Irish accent of my product.” “My product is unable to solve math problems and I cannot tolerate that.”

Yes, sir. You can get a refund right away. Just sign these papers; your signature here, here, here, and there. I’m sorry, but the Chinese boy cannot be exchanged with a Malay girl. What are the inconveniences? Bad table manners, that’s a common problem. Ma’am, we can fix that problem at the repairs center. Oh, do you still prefer getting a new product? Then please sign these papers, your signature here, here, here, and there.

The golden revolving doors continue to spin, swallowing dozens and dozens of visitors with each rotation. Through thirteen months of experience, I have attained the ability to sort out the customers into different categories, just by looking at their expression when they enter the shop. The eye-shoppers are the ones who look like they’re on a picnic at the zoo; they’re merely amused at how people can buy such bizarre products. The buyers are the depressed people and the excited people. The rest, the ones who have frustration on their foreheads, are the ones who come for refunds.

Another pack of Friendshoppers are coming through the doors. A family of five. No, wait, it’s a man stuck in between with a family of four?behind four redheads is a single brown head. The man’s hair is pomaded carefully to resemble a piece of expensive chocolate; I can see before my eyes all the maids involved in that exacting job of sculpting his hair. Because of his pallid white face, he looks like an angry Greek god. And that purple velvet suit—very unique. His polished black shoes make that echoing “tick, tack” sound whenever he takes a step. He must be rich.

I know that he’s come for a refund. I can exactly predict what he is going to say: “Excuse me, I have come for a refund. My product is too lazy and wakes up at nine in the morning. I find this very disturbing, and I would like to return it.” He is definitely going to say something like that.

The man approaches my desk. Tick Tack. Tick Tack. Squeak, and he sits on the chair, pompously like a sculpture. “Ahem”, he clears his throat, smelling heavily of expensive cigars and perfume. His cough reveals a British accent.

“How may I help you?”

“I would like to get a refund.” Yes, he is an Englishman.

“Does your product have a problem?”

“My product is awfully lazy,” he grunts, grimacing. “I am a busy man. Even ten minutes later, I have a schedule with one of my coworkers.”

“Could you please...elaborate on that, sir? There are papers that I have to write. I’m sorry, but could you...”

“Well,” he snapped, “My product wakes up at eight o’ clock. Eight o’ clock! I usually wake up at four in the morning. I want my product to respect my schedule.”

“Okay, sir, I see.” I reply awkwardly, typing up a report. “Sir, please sign your papers, here, here, here and...” Before I finish my sentence, the man pulls out a fountain pen from his pocket and hastily signs his name. Bill McFarland.
*

It is four in the morning. The Friendshop will be closed in an hour. Until five o’clock, I have to sort out the documents, check for errors, save the files, send them to my boss, clean my desk, sweep the floor, take out the trash, lock my cabinet, turn off the computer, turn off the fax machine, turn off the printer, and turn off the light. In four hours I have to come back and go through another day of work.

My eyelids are fluttering, like butterflies. But I do not feel like a butterfly at all. Each tendon in my body is aching, and it feels as if the entire department store were sitting on top of my head. Every time I swallow the saliva in my mouth, I taste lead.

I see someone coming from behind those revolving doors.

“Good morning!” Bill McFarland cries. “Your opening hours are from nine o’clock to five o’clock, am I correct?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Then, I would like to get a refund right now. Ten minutes later, I have a schedule with one of my coworkers.”

“I see...Take a seat please.”

“To explain my situation, umm, the product I have received has very, very bad table manners. He does not know how to slice his steak properly, and he makes bizarre slurping noises when he drinks his beverages. He is incapable of rolling his spaghetti noodles in a neat way. Oh, and he spilled his broccoli soup on my shirt yesterday. How disturbing! I need a refund immediately.”

I hastily nod, with my fingers frenetically typing all the information. Steak, beverages, spaghetti, soup. Bad table manners. Slice, slurp, roll, spill. Refund. Immediately.

“Are you listening to me? You must include the part about curry. That barbarian eats curry. With his dirty fingers! Oh, goodness.”

“Okay, sir...The errors were successfully reported. Your signature please,” and I sigh.

He pulls out that fountain pen, that silver blade, and stabs the paper with its tip. Here, here, here and there. His name is tattooed on the blanks, and another friend is shipped back to the storehouse.
*

During a span of three weeks, Bill McFarland visited The Friendshop for exactly twelve times. Four refunds a week; I bet he set a record.

“So this time, your problem is?” Problem number thirteen.

“My product does not share any interests or hobbies with me,” says Bill. “Everyone knows that in order to become friends, there should be a bond or, some similarities, that unite the two people. Presently my product and I do not have that.” So you’ve discovered the meaning of true friendship. Congratulations.

“The artists of my admiration are Handel, Constable, and Poe. I am also a fan of croquet, and I read editorials every morning. Editorials are fascinating, aren’t they? But my product does not seem to have any interest in them. He listens to rock music, and all that contemporary rubbish. He does not read any books at all. Hilarious.”

I try not to lose my composure. “Sir, I’m telling this to you, finally. The reasons why you want to get refunds...Every time, they are so absurd.”

He looks startled. And disturbed. “You do not have a say in this, Miss...Greenwood. I will get a refund. I will get a new product, Miss Greenwood. Right now.”

I lose my composure at last. I get up from my seat, the veins on my cheeks thumping violently.

“Why do you want a new product? You don’t deserve one. You get angry with every single one you take home. It would be way more efficient for you to go home this time without a new product, mister busy businessman. You said you had a tight schedule. And you’re coming to this shop four times a week. Use your time wisely, Mr, McFarland. Use your time wisely!”

“Greenwood!” The boss yells from his office. “Back to your seat!”

That instant, McFarland picks up his coat and storms out of the shop, the ticks and tacks echoing behind him.
*

Bill McFarland hasn’t been coming for nearly a fortnight. The nine to five and eight to six routines at The Friendshop are fairly bearable without him. Many demented customers visit the shop and complain about weird things, but the same customer does not appear four times in a week, at least.

It is midnight, and unlike other days, the shop is calm and quiet. There is no “My sister’s birthday party is this morning?” or anything. I sit back on my seat, stretch my legs forward like a yoga instructor, and close my eyes. I feel a blanket of sweet fatigue on my eyelids. I succumb to the sleepiness.
*

I am awakened by the sound of something heavy swinging open. It’s the revolving doors. A dark figure is sitting in front of me.

I rub my sticky eyes, bemused.

“Mr. McFarland?”

He is there, sitting on the chair where he used to ask for refunds and babble on about his tight schedule. Now, he is not the hectic businessman that he used to be; nor is he that Englishman.

“I don’t know what to do...I just don’t know who to talk to...”

His British accent is gone.

“Mr. McFarland, are you all right? Sir!”

Hunching over on the desk, McFarland is wiping his tears with his already wet sleeve, his hair messed up and his shoes muddy. He is wailing like a broken motorcycle. His tears, no matter how he tries to wipe them off, continue to drench his black macintosh.

“Mr. McFarland! Are you drunk? Mr. McFarland?”

He does not answer. He keeps wiping his tears. The tears don’t stop.

Then suddenly he looks up. His pupils meet mine.

In his pupils, I see a well. A well full of water. Each molecule of water contains fame, prosperity, success, popularity, profit, and luxury. The velvet suits, the pomade, the maids, the polished shoes, the coworkers, the fountain pen. At the bottom of the well, at the very bottom, at the black and solid floor, there is nothing—no one—but Bill McFarland himself. There is solitude. And nothing else.

He continues to cry. He does not need that water overflowing in his well. He needs someone to be with him, someone to accompany him at the lonesome floor. To him, friendship is no longer an infinitesimal drop of water. It is no longer a product.

I decide to hold his hand.

“You are lonely, Mr, McFarland.”

He continues to cry.

“You are lonely, Bill. You need a friend.”

Together, we exit The Friendshop. And we enter the star-studded night.