The Candy Bar

As usual, I pulled my candy bar from my bag at lunch, but today, I hurled it onto the table in anguish and disgust. Mold and bacteria had claimed it, turning the once-lively green packaging into a sickly mix of brown, yellow, and black.

After lunch, I headed to the convenience store where I had initially bought the candy bar. At the counter stood a man in a blue uniform. I explained that the candy bar had gone rancid. He examined it carefully, then shook his head and said he was sorry that he couldn’t replace it.

I tried to explain how important the candy bar was to me: I keep it beside my pillow and take it to work every day. He apologized again. “Unfortunately, we can’t replace it,” he said. “It has a two-year expiration period, and the purchase was five years ago.”

I looked at him. “If I don’t have this candy bar, I can’t finish my work. If I can’t finish my work, I’ll lose my job. And it’ll be because of you.” He tried to interrupt several times, but he couldn’t because what once were his lips are now a zipper. At the forty-hour mark of my explanation, his right ear fell off and shattered into hundreds of pieces. In sign language, he told me he had escalated my case and hoped I’d find a satisfactory solution. Then, wearing a smile, he stepped aside as the manager arrived to replace him.

The manager listened patiently to my entire story. He explained that store policy didn’t cover expired candy bars, but said my case was “unique” and he’d escalate it to his senior manager. Soon, the senior manager appeared. She said she had been fully briefed and needed no further details. “You’re a loyal customer,” she said. “So we’ll make an exception.” She nodded, and the first employee returned with a brand-new candy bar in the same lively green wrapper.

I took the candy bar, nodded in acknowledgement, and walked back home into the sunrise.