Linda Rodriguez, the store manager, and her assistant loaded three propane tanks into my truck. While I was inside paying for fuel, they decided to lift the tailgate instead of properly securing the ratchet strap into the truck bed. Then, for reasons only they could explain, they closed the tailgate onto the strap, crushing it between the truck bed body and the tailgate. This careless move caused significant damage to both the truck bed and the tailgate.
When I came outside and went to close the tailgate, I was greeted with the sight of the strap wedged tightly in the gap, the tailgate hanging loosely by the safety cables, and clear signs of damage. My first reaction was, "Wait, they did this and just... walked away?" It was like watching someone knock over a glass of milk and then casually stroll out of the room, pretending nothing happened.
I walked back into the store and told the girl at the register what I had discovered. I wasn't asking for the manager or making a scene, just letting her know. I walked out to my truck and a moment later, Linda appeared, apparently summoned to handle the situation. That is when things took a turn for the absurd.
Now, to be clear, my truck is a beater. I wasn't looking for a remedy or trying to establish legal liability as it was clearly self evident. I only brought the issue up to spare other customers from a similar hassle. However, when I approached Linda about it, her response was nothing short of gaslighting. She flatly denied any involvement, repeatedly insisting, "It wasn't us," as though those words alone could rewrite reality. The strap had been lying loose on the tailgate when I left it, and basic physics makes it obvious it couldn't have wedged itself between the bed and bumper without someone lifting the tailgate. Yet Linda clung to her denial with the stubbornness of a child caught red-handed, turning a straightforward conversation into a showcase of immaturity.
Her denial left me more baffled than anything else, so I asked, "Who is your supervisor?" With the misplaced overconfidence of a kid showing off a macaroni necklace, Linda puffed up and proudly declared, "I am!" Then I asked her again, "No, who is your supervisor?" After three go-arounds, she finally muttered, "I'll write it down for you," then disappeared into the back of the store. Unsurprisingly, she never came back. Standing there, I couldn't help but feel like I was waiting for a kid who promises to clean their room but is actually hiding under the bed.
Sensing the conversation was getting tense, In an attempt to diffuse the situation with a polite "hun." In the South, where I am from, it is a warm, disarming term. It is how we soften conversations, not escalate them. But Linda wasn't having it. She immediately snapped, "Don't call me hun," with a tone so defensive it felt like I had just struck a nerve. It was as if the word triggered some unresolved paternal issues, and instead of addressing the problem, she latched onto it as an excuse to attack me with feigned indignation. The whole thing felt like one of those help desk encounters where the person behind the counter is just waiting for you to say the wrong thing so they can use it as a reason to stop helping.
While I waited, I chatted with her staff, who were refreshingly candid and subtly hinted that dealing with Linda's antics wasn't unusual. One employee's perfectly timed eye-roll spoke volumes.
The entire ordeal was just absurd. Linda's gaslighting, her refusal to acknowledge basic physics, and her laughable attempt to cover up her mistake turned a minor issue into a comedy of errors. One thing is for sure. I wouldn't trust her near my truck or anyone else's again.
Four gold stars for the team. Zero stars for Linda. read more