Prices Are Negotiable
“No refunds. No exceptions.”
My profession is humble. I’m a simple merchant, an ancient and honorable profession. But I do not sell spices, silk, or steel. I trade in time.
You would be surprised just how often I see the same customer twice. A young man swaggers into my shop looking to sell, to make a quick buck and go on a vacation, buy a car, or woo a special girl, or boy—or even both. Makes no difference to me. I’m not here to judge; I’m here to make money. I happily obliged. Young people should live life to the fullest, don’t you think? He walks out with a bank account full and a life-shortening smile on his face. I watch him go and quickly dismiss him from my mind. There is work to be done. A buyer is lined up already. I am a professional, after all.
Time’s relativity eludes youth. The leap from twenty to sixty years old seems monstrous, unimaginable, time that is purely theoretical and thoroughly relative. Yet, by thirty, they taste the reality of aging. At forty, they feel the midpoint of their life pass by. Inevitably, my old customers feel that icy grip on their heart cast by the shadowy specter of the terribly tragic fate of all men. Well, the fate of all men, who aren’t in my line of work.
By this time, their life has settled down and the fruits of what time they once sold are long gone. They have settled down, found someone they care for, started a family, and built a real life for themselves. Settled into the tranquility of domestic life, their frivolous purchases forgotten, they yearn for time. Amid the laughter of their children, or the gentle rustling of a partner’s reading, my memory lingers. They care now, for they have something to care about.
So, they come back. I greet them with a warm smile and by their name. I always remember my customers’ names. It helps with the accounting. They ask for their time back. I point to the sign by the door. Written prominently on a large wooden arrow pointing to the door: “No refunds. No exceptions.” They object, they beg, they plead their case. I don’t care, rules are rules. I’m not here to judge; I’m here to make money.
They wail and gnash their teeth and yell threat after threat, as though they truly believe they could hurt someone like me. They storm out in a rage. But they always come back, sometimes even years later. Often with apologies, or pleading, or a plate of cookies to win my favor. It makes no difference to me. I’m not here to judge; I’m here to make money. I tell them that time’s arrow flies in only one direction, but I am happy to oblige. For a price. I point to the sign.
“No refunds. No exceptions.”
Rules are rules, but prices are negotiable.
