The Man Who Returned Too Much
Or: A Cautionary Tale of Customer Service Abuse and Retail Redemption
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I need to confess something.
Something I'm not proud of.
Something that, in retrospect, reveals a darkness in my character I didn't know existed.
For approximately eighteen months—
between 2016 and 2018—
I returned everything.
Not some things.
Not most things.
Everything.
I became the person that retail workers whisper about.
The customer they recognize on sight.
The name that makes managers sigh.
I became—
The Man Who Returned Too Much.
And I need to tell you how it happened.
THE DISCOVERY
It started innocently.
As all descents into moral ambiguity do.
I bought a shirt at Target.
A blue button-down.
Nothing special.
Wore it once.
Realized it didn't fit quite right.
Returned it.
Easy.
No receipt needed—they looked it up in the system.
No questions asked.
Just: "Would you like store credit or back on your card?"
"Card, please."
Done.
And something in my brain clicked.
Not a good click.
A dangerous click.
The click that says:
Wait. I can just... do this? Anytime?
THE SLIPPERY SLOPE
The next purchase was a coffee maker.
Used it for a week.
Decided I didn't like it.
Returned it.
"Any problems with it?" the customer service person asked.
"Just didn't work for me," I said.
"No problem. Here's your refund."
No problem.
Those two words.
So casual.
So enabling.
Then it was a lamp.
Then a pair of shoes I wore twice.
Then a book I'd already read.
Then a set of towels I'd washed.
Once.
Each time, I told myself:
This is fine. This is what the return policy is for.
If they didn't want people returning things, they wouldn't have a 90-day return policy.
I'm just using the system as intended.
But I wasn't.
I wasn't.
I was abusing it.
And I knew it.
But I couldn't stop.
THE SYSTEM
Here's how it worked:
Target: 90-day return policy. No receipt needed if they can look it up. RedCard holders get an extra 30 days.
Walmart: 90 days for most items. Will take almost anything back. Have seen things.
Costco: Literally forever. No time limit on most items. The return policy that breaks reality.
Amazon: 30 days, but if you complain enough, they'll extend it. Customer service trained to just... give in.
Home Depot: 90 days. 365 days if you're a Pro member. Will accept returns that are clearly used.
I learned them all.
Memorized them.
Became fluent in return policy loopholes.
I knew which stores tracked returns.
Which ones would flag your account after too many.
Which ones didn't care.
I rotated.
Target one week.
Walmart the next.
Never the same store twice in a row.
Never the same cashier.
Strategic.
THE CATEGORIES
I returned everything.
Let me be specific:
Clothing: Bought. Wore once. Returned. Repeat.
My closet became a rental service. Except I wasn't paying. The stores were just... lending me clothes. Temporarily.
Electronics: Bought a Bluetooth speaker for a weekend trip. Returned it Monday. Bought headphones. Used them for two weeks. Returned them. "Sound quality wasn't what I expected." It was exactly what I expected. I just didn't want to pay for it anymore.
Kitchen Items: Bought a blender. Made smoothies for a month. Returned it. "Too loud." It was a blender. They're all loud. Bought a toaster. Returned it. "Didn't toast evenly." It did. I just wanted my money back.
Home Goods: Returned towels after washing them. Returned sheets after sleeping on them for six weeks. Returned a rug. A RUG. That had been on my floor. With vacuum marks. They took it back.
Books: This one haunts me. I'd buy books. Read them. Return them. "I didn't like it." Which was sometimes true. But often wasn't. I just didn't want to pay for knowledge I'd already consumed.
Tools: Bought a drill. Used it for one project. Returned it. "Didn't work as expected." It worked fine. I just didn't need it anymore. Bought a saw. Returned it. Bought a sander. Returned it. I was running a construction project on borrowed tools and calling it "trying things out."
THE JUSTIFICATIONS
I had reasons.
Reason 1: "I'm Poor"
This was true. I was broke. Constantly. The returns helped me survive. If I needed something for a week, I could buy it, use it, return it. Free rental. It felt like... resourcefulness.
Reason 2: "These Companies Can Afford It"
Target makes billions. Walmart makes billions. They budget for returns. They expect it. They're not going to go bankrupt because I returned a coffee maker. This was technically true. But also... not the point.
Reason 3: "The Return Policy Exists"
If they didn't want people returning things, they'd change the policy. I'm just using the system. Playing by their rules. Except I wasn't. I was exploiting them.
Reason 4: "Everyone Does It"
Not everyone. But some people. I'd seen them. The serial returners. The people with bags full of items and receipts. I wasn't alone. Which somehow made it feel... okay. It wasn't.
Reason 5: "It's Not Hurting Anyone"
This was the big one. The lie I told myself every time. Nobody was getting hurt. The stores were fine. The employees didn't care—it wasn't their money. No victims. Except there were. I just wasn't looking.
THE RECOGNITION
Around month nine, something changed.
I walked into Target.
Bag of returns in hand.
Approached customer service.
The woman behind the counter looked up.
Recognized me.
I saw it in her eyes.
Not anger.
Not judgment.
Just... knowing.
Oh. Him again.
She didn't say anything.
Just processed my return.
Professionally.
Efficiently.
But I knew.
I was known.
I was that guy.
THE SHAME
I should have stopped then.
But I didn't.
Because stopping would mean admitting I'd been wrong.
That I'd crossed a line.
That I'd become someone I didn't want to be.
So I kept going.
But the shame was there now.
Growing.
Every return.
Every "this didn't work out."
Every lie about why I was bringing something back.
The shame.
I started avoiding eye contact.
Speaking quietly.
Getting in and out as fast as possible.
Because if I didn't linger—
if I didn't engage—
maybe they wouldn't remember me.
Maybe I could stay anonymous.
But I couldn't.
They knew.
THE BREAKING POINT
It happened at Walmart.
I was returning a vacuum.
I'd had it for two months.
Used it regularly.
It worked fine.
But I decided I didn't want it anymore.
"Reason for return?" the cashier asked.
"It doesn't pick up as well as I thought it would."
She looked at the vacuum.
Then at me.
Then back at the vacuum.
"Sir, this is clearly used."
"I... I used it once. To test it."
"The bag is full."
The bag was full.
Because I'd been using it for TWO MONTHS.
She knew.
I knew she knew.
She knew I knew she knew.
We stood there.
In mutual understanding of what I was.
A liar.
She processed the return anyway.
Because that's what the policy says.
And I walked out.
$89.99 refunded.
And feeling worse than I'd ever felt about money.
THE MATH
I went home.
Pulled up my spreadsheets.
Because yes, I was tracking it.
Of course I was tracking it.
Over eighteen months, I had returned:
47 clothing items
12 electronics
8 kitchen appliances
23 home goods items
9 tools
14 books
6 pieces of furniture (FURNITURE)
Miscellaneous: 31 items
Total: 150 returns.
Total refunded: $8,347.23
Eight thousand dollars.
I had essentially borrowed eight thousand dollars worth of merchandise from retailers.
Used it.
Returned it.
And told myself it was fine.
It was not fine.
THE REALIZATION
I sat with that number.
$8,347.23.
And I thought about the people who made those returns possible.
The customer service workers who processed them.
Who had to smile and say "no problem" while knowing—knowing—I was abusing the system.
The managers who had to approve the returns.
Who saw the patterns.
Who flagged accounts.
Who made notes.
The other customers who paid full price.
Whose honest purchases subsidized my dishonest returns.
Because that's how it works.
Return fraud—and let's call it what it was—fraud—
gets baked into prices.
Everyone pays more because people like me abuse the system.
I wasn't stealing from a corporation.
I was stealing from everyone.
From myself.
THE REFORM
I stopped.
Cold turkey.
No more returns.
Unless something was genuinely defective.
Actually broken.
Not "I changed my mind."
Not "I don't want this anymore."
Not "I used it and now I'm done with it."
Broken.
It was hard.
Harder than I expected.
Because I'd become dependent on it.
On the ability to buy things without commitment.
To live above my means by returning everything.
To have what I wanted—temporarily—without paying the full cost.
Stopping meant:
Actually considering purchases before making them
Living with things I bought, even if they weren't perfect
Accepting that I couldn't afford everything I wanted
Being honest with myself about what I actually needed
It meant growing up.
THE APOLOGY TOUR
I went back.
To the stores.
The ones I'd frequented most.
I didn't apologize directly—that would've been weird.
But I did something else.
At Target: I bought $50 in gift cards. Left them at customer service with a note: "For your next customer who needs help."
At Walmart: I bought supplies for their employee break room. Coffee. Snacks. A card that said "Thank you for your patience."
At Costco: I donated to their charitable fund.
At Home Depot: I bought a gift card and told them to use it for someone who couldn't afford their purchase.
It didn't erase what I'd done.
Didn't make up for the 150 returns.
The $8,347.23 in abuse.
But it was something.
An acknowledgment.
A penance.
A start.
THE CURRENT STATUS
I still shop at those stores.
Sometimes I see the same customer service workers.
The ones who recognized me.
Who processed my ridiculous returns.
They don't say anything.
But sometimes—sometimes—
I catch a look.
A slight nod.
An acknowledgment.
You're different now.
We see it.
And I am.
Different.
I buy things.
I keep them.
Even when they're not perfect.
Even when I regret the purchase.
Because that's part of being an adult.
Making choices.
Living with them.
Paying for them.
THE LESSONS
Lesson 1: Return Policies Are Not Rental Agreements
Just because you can return something doesn't mean you should. The policy exists for defective products and genuine mistakes. Not for your commitment issues.
Lesson 2: Corporations Are Made of People
When you abuse return policies, you're not sticking it to "the man." You're making life harder for the worker at the counter who has to process your clearly-used vacuum and pretend they believe your lie.
Lesson 3: Poverty Doesn't Justify Everything
I was broke. That was real. But being poor doesn't give you license to abuse systems. It just makes you feel like it does.
Lesson 4: The Shame Is the Warning
If you feel ashamed doing something—if you're avoiding eye contact, speaking quietly, trying not to be recognized—your conscience is telling you something. Listen.
Lesson 5: The Math Eventually Catches Up
You can justify individual returns. But when you add them up? When you see the total? That's when you realize what you've become.
Lesson 6: Reform Is Possible
You can change. You can stop. You can be better. It requires honesty. Discomfort. Actually paying for things. But you can do it.
THE CONFESSION
So here it is.
My public confession.
I was The Man Who Returned Too Much.
I abused return policies.
I lied to customer service workers.
I justified bad behavior with poverty and corporate profit margins.
I became someone I'm not proud of.
And I stopped.
Not because I got caught.
Not because I got banned.
But because I finally looked at myself—
really looked—
and didn't like what I saw.
THE MESSAGE
If you're reading this and thinking:
"Oh god, I do this too"—
Stop.
Not tomorrow.
Not after this one last return.
Now.
Because every return you make—
every "it didn't work out"—
every used item you bring back pretending it's new—
You're not beating the system.
You're becoming someone you don't want to be.
And the worst part?
You know it.
That's why you avoid eye contact.
Why you speak quietly.
Why you try to go to different locations.
You know.
And knowing means you can change.
You can stop.
You can be better.
I did.
You can too.
THE REDEMPTION
I still think about those eighteen months.
The 150 returns.
The $8,347.23.
Not with pride.
Not with shame, anymore.
Just... acknowledgment.
I did that.
That was me.
But it's not me now.
Now I'm the guy who:
Keeps things even when they're not perfect
Tips extra at stores with good customer service
Tells retail workers "thank you for your patience" and means it
Actually considers whether I need something before buying it
Lives within my means, even when it's uncomfortable
I'm not perfect.
I still make bad purchases.
Still have buyer's remorse.
Still sometimes look at something and think:
I could return this.
But I don't.
Because I'm not The Man Who Returned Too Much anymore.
I'm just Orson.
Trying to be better.
One purchase at a time.
Kept.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, carrying a shopping bag. Inside: a purchase he's not entirely sure about. A shirt that might not fit perfectly. But he'll keep it. Because that's what you do. You make choices. You live with them. You pay for them. And slowly—transaction by transaction—you become someone you can be proud of. The customer service desk recedes behind him. Quiet. Waiting. For the next customer. But not for him. Not anymore.)