Inside, the manager, a woman named Carla, sat behind a cluttered desk, papers strewn everywhere. Her demeanor was brisk. « We’ve had some issues with your account, » she stated flatly. Confused, I asked what she meant. She slid a sheet of paper across the desk—a document with my name on it, marked with a red ‘BANNED’ stamp. My heart sank. « This must be a mistake, » I stammered. Carla’s expression softened slightly. « It’s better if we discuss this privately, » she suggested, gesturing to the hallway. As we stepped outside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this than a simple misunderstanding.
We moved to a quiet corner of the store, away from the bustling aisles. Carla leaned in, lowering her voice. « There’s been a mix-up with accounts, involving credit issues. We received a notice from our regional office, » she explained. I felt a wave of embarrassment and anger. « But I’ve never even had a credit line with you, » I protested. Carla nodded, as if expecting my response. « I believe you, but protocol requires us to follow up with the office, » she said apologetically.
