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.
