text: About a month ago, I was in a national health food and fitness store. Among shelves of vitamins, ‘miracle pill’ supplements, exercise equipment and weight training tools, were some self-improvement items. One of these ‘too-good-to-be-true’ things caught my eye. It promised ‘rapid results or your money back’. Now I’m no ordinary fool. I realize most marketing in these situations is just hype, but I did expect the chain store to honor their advertised promise. If the product turned out to be ‘smoke and mirrors’, they said I could bring it back for a full refund. Honestly, I gave it more than the requisite time required and then some. I was also pretty diligent in following all of the instructions. Zip. Nada. If there was any difference, it was negligible. I’d kept my receipt so they couldn’t refuse to honor the stated guarantee; and returned it in ‘like new’ condition. I even took it back to the same store during the return period. I honestly expected no flack from them but was met with CWA. (cashier with attitude). After a few minutes of pointless arguing with her, I gave up and asked to speak to the manager. The CWA just rolled her eyes and yelled to the back of the store. “Rhonda!” When the manager did appear, the experience didn’t really get any more satisfactory. Rhonda held on to the same official policy that the disrespectful cashier had. Pointing to the guarantee on the sign or my receipt made no difference. They were determined to refuse the return; listed policy be damned. It was as if the store profits came directly out of their paychecks. “This just isn’t your year, Rodrigo Velasquez.”; Rhonda deadpanned while noisily smacking her gum. The cashier looked at me with renewed contempt and a satisfied sneer. Obviously she took great pleasure in being backed by her manager. The whole thing was made even more bizarre by the fact that my name is neither ‘Rodrigo’, nor ‘Velasquez’. It was delivered like some well-known sitcom one-liner I was unfamiliar with. I seized my merchandise off the counter and left in a huff but I was far from ‘done’, or defeated. I intended to take it to ‘the next level’. Finding their website was easy enough but locating the complaint number to call was not. Corporate culture does all it can to discourage person-to-person dialogue. They’d much rather you send an email and wait for a response (when they get around to it), or for you to ‘talk’ to a ‘virtual assistant’. Obfuscation is the order of the day. The more difficult they can make it, the less problems they have to deal with in real time. They aren’t counting on anyone being determined or taking their patronage elsewhere (but in this case), they picked ‘the wrong guy’. Finally I found a customer service number and called. Not surprisingly, there was a labyrinth of automated menu prompts to wade through. “We’ll be with you very shortly, Mr. Velasquez.”; It soothed. As you might imagine, hearing that did the opposite of soothing me. It baffled and magnified my anger. Why would their corporate headquarters think I was someone else (from my phone number); and why would the local store employees say what they did? It was completely bonkers. To be misidentified twice was bad enough but for the store manager to be dismissively rude on top of it all, was too much. I was prepared to give the first human who answered, a piece of my mind. Adding insult to injury, an automated message came on after a dozen recorded loops and said: “I’m sorry Mr. Velasquez, this just isn’t your year. Our call volume is too high. Please try again later.” In past years when telephones had a separate cradle to hang the receiver on, I might have slammed it down in disgust. Instead, I had to curb my fury and vent in other ways. I’d just wasted 30 minutes of my life to no end. Instead of getting satisfaction, I walked away angrier. Admittedly, it was a huge setback. I set aside my failed return until I had the energy to try again. Instead I decided to leave the house and get something to eat. With any luck a nice meal would help me forget my frustration. At the restaurant, I stood at the maître d’ podium to be seated. The host approached me with an odd expression. “Good evening Mr. Velasquez.... unfortunately this isn’t your...” I could scarcely believe my ears! My heart raced. The world was turning upside down. “Year?”; I responded in bewilderment. Although his demeanor was both professional and apologetic, he didn’t have to finish. I’d heard the nonsensical refrain enough to know what came next. I didn’t try to argue or prove who I was. I simply turned and left. ‘Henri’ tried to make some gesture of conciliation but what was the point? He wasn’t even trying to accommodate me. He was trying to accommodate ‘Rodrigo Velasquez’; whoever the hell that was. Disillusioned, I drove around for hours trying to make sense of the madness. It was as if there was some insidious form of mass psychosis infecting the air. Every person I encountered thought I was someone else and they all took a certain level of pleasure that things were not going my way. It occurred to me that it might be a simple case of mistaken identity. I did an internet search. Page after page of haunting personal images starred back at me. ‘Rodrigo’ certainly could have been my twin. Finally I understood the confusion! It would seem that this guy wasn’t liked at all. I vowed to clear up the confusion with the next person who mistook me for him. It wasn’t long before I had the opportunity to set matters straight. “My Velasquez. I need you to put your car in park and exit the vehicle. I have a warrant for your arrest.” I complied with the officer’s request and got out of the car immediately but didn’t want to verbally correct him. Instead I started to reach for my wallet and pull out my ID. That was a huge mistake! Unfortunately he took it as an aggressive move to go for a weapon. Before I knew what hit me, a 9mm slug ripped through my body and I collapsed down to the asphalt. My wallet fell from my hand and flew open beside me. As I lay there bleeding profusely from an deadly gunshot wound, my eyes fixated on the nearest thing to my body. My driver’s license. I read the perplexing words on my ID several times, trying to make sense of things before the end came. ‘Rodrigo Velasquez’ 1412 Aspen Circle Port Richie, Florida “This just isn’t your year, is it Rodrigo?”; The cop shouted in adrenalized indignation. I had no choice but to agree. It was definitely not my year.