The Target store is a strange place. It does its very best to pretend it isn’t a corporation. There are no clerks perched at desk  saying “please hold” every few minutes as if they are auditioning to be an extra in a movie or sour-faced showgirls stacking shelves with garish products, hurrying along pretending they’re too busy to help you, no groaning rails or stacks of boxes that clutter the isles like an unkempt warehouse. Instead, it’s a store for the confused. Shoppers, usually pushing a stroller pass by wondering idly if they should get this kind of shampoo because their love interest saw the checkbook last month.

It is a Monday when I arrive at the Target store. I have a goal in mind, as every shopper has before they get sidetracked by the deals Target displays like a new kind of cure for cancer. I am here to get some clothes and some electronics, and I will not be distracted by anyone or anything in this store. I want to get back in my warm apartment and continue bonding with my email client before I bond with my Microsoft Word document and then my Netflix account. I make my way to a place that I have to go to before anywhere else; the customer service desk so I can have an employee guide me around the store.

See what happens next….