I’d Like My Tuesday Back

Case 17

“I’d like my Tuesday back,” the man said.

Lida slid a form towards him.

“Reason for return?”

“Spent it trying to return my Tuesday.”

She took the form back. This sort of customer needed two copies from the start.

The man was holding a phone to his ear. A cheerful flute played down the line. Every forty seconds it pretended to finish, then began again with greater confidence.

“I called your service at nine yesterday,” he said. “I wanted to return a free Tuesday. You sent me a working one. It already had three things in it that couldn’t wait.”

“Did you check the packaging?”

He put a thin cardboard box on the counter. The lid said A DAY FOR YOURSELF. Underneath, in much smaller print: YOURSELF TO BE DETERMINED BY THE SUPPLIER.

Lida turned the box upside down over the paper-clip tray. A note fell out: FINALLY SORT OUT THE TOP CUPBOARD.

“An unauthorised inclusion,” she admitted.

“That’s what I said. They put me through to Inclusions. Then to Free Time. They asked if I was free at that moment. I said yes. They said the service was being provided.”

The flute stopped.

“Your call is very important to us.”

“This is yesterday’s call,” the man explained. “I haven’t hung up. They’ve congratulated me on my patience twice.”

Lida looked at her screen. The Return Day button was grey. Beside it sat a little ‘i’ that nobody in the department clicked: it began spinning whenever you moved the pointer over it.

She clicked.

RETURNS NOT PERMITTED WHILE A CASE IS OPEN.

“You’ll need to finish your call.”

“I’m waiting for someone to answer.”

“Then hang up.”

He showed her a message he had received that morning: DO NOT DISCONNECT. IF THE CONNECTION IS LOST, YOUR PLACE IN THE QUEUE WILL NOT BE SAVED.

The flute started again. Lida could hear the spot where the player ran out of breath.

“Give me your case number.”

“Seventeen.”

She entered it. Her own desk number appeared on the screen.

The internal phone rang.

The man straightened up.

“I think I’m next.”

Lida picked up.

“Time Returns. My name is Lida.”

“Hello, Lida. I’d like my Tuesday back.”

He was standing half a metre away. His voice arrived through the receiver just after it left his mouth.

“I’ll close the case now,” she said.

“Wait. Give me the day first.”

“I can’t while the case is open.”

“And I can’t confirm it’s resolved until you resolve it.”

On Lida’s desk stood a sign: THERE IS ALWAYS A WAY OUT. She turned it towards the wall.

Lida called the shift supervisor. He read the error, asked the man to explain everything from the beginning, and five minutes later suggested calling Time Returns.

The man handed him the phone.

The supervisor heard his own breathing through Lida’s receiver. He carefully handed the phone back.

“A difficult case. We need to escalate.”

“That means going up?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“Do they have a different flute up there?”

The supervisor went to find out.

Lida clicked the ‘i’ again. There was a second line beneath the first. To see it, you had to scroll down inside a two-line window.

A RETURN MAY BE PROCESSED AFTER THE APPLICANT VOLUNTARILY WAIVES THE RETURN.

“I can waive it,” the man said. “But I came for my Tuesday.”

Lida read the condition again. Then she opened her schedule. A long bar beside yesterday’s date said CASE PROCESSING. Inside it was a single entry: seventeen. From nine until the end of her shift, the system had been looking for someone to assign it to. All day she had watched an empty queue and a red warning: DO NOT LEAVE YOUR WORKSTATION. ALLOCATION IN PROGRESS.

She took a fresh form.

“I’m closing your case as unresolved. You don’t have to confirm anything.”

“And my Tuesday?”

“Let’s try another one.”

Lida wrote: “I request the return of the Tuesday spent waiting for case number seventeen.” Under Applicant, she put her own name.

Her screen immediately instructed her to submit the form through the customer window. Lida printed it, got up, walked around the counter and stood beside the man.

“Who’s going to take it?” he asked.

“The shift supervisor. When he comes back down from the escalation.”

She removed a box of questionnaires from a visitor’s chair and sat down. The man took the next chair.

The flute finally stopped. His phone displayed: PLEASE RATE HOW QUICKLY WE RESOLVED YOUR QUERY.

“What should I give them?” he asked.

Lida looked at the empty chair behind her window.

“Take your time.”