Another conversation with Mom
I called her in tears.
"What's up?" Mom asked, casually, since I had managed to prevent my voice from choking.
"I returned my econ book," I said. "It was damaged. I'd expected to pay a fee, but I didn't expect to pay $151 for it!"
"What!" Mom said. "How much was the book originally?"
"I rented it," I said. "I rented it for about $80 or $90. But my backpack wasn't as waterproof as I thought." I didn't add that it wasn't that damaged. The spine was in perfect condition and the ink hadn't budged. The bottom corners were warped. That was it. It offended my book-loving soul, but my business side saw only the fact that the book was still completely readable.
"And they're charging you $151 for it?"
"Yes," I said, and by the way I was still sobbing, "So they can replace it."
"Couldn't you have just kept it? Cancelled the transaction?"
"No," I said, to make a long story short. I had said something to that effect, but the manager had scared me off with talks of debt collectors. "Since I had completed the transaction they wouldn't do it."
"Could they just take the rental fee off the charge?"
"I asked, but the manager said no," I wailed. This had hurt as much as the $151 had -- wasn't that a perfectly legitimate compromise? But he had said no like that was a stupid suggestion. "I got so mad I left everything behind. Even the receipt."
"Do you still have your contract?"
"It's in my car."
"Well go get your receipt," Mom said. "Bring your contract inside, and we'll figure this out tonight. All that money, and they won't let you keep the book? This is usury."
That made me feel better. I had been worried that I was being an entitled brat. The word usury led dignity to my feelings. I associated it with cruel Romans and shifty-eyed landowners of the Wild West and heartless credit agencies. Not with bookstores. This was ridiculous.
I don't think I'll rent books next semester.
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