Dog Bites and Bee Stings

Today, while at work, I decided to donate my microwave. At 3:33 PM, I arrived home and immediately Googled “donating a microwave.” I had to get stuck in right away if I wanted to actually get the microwave out of my apartment. I learned that Savers accepted electronics, and I could see the microwave plugged into an electric outlet, therefore it was an electronic.

I unplugged the machine and took it from the small table it had been on to my kitchen counter to soap it up and wash it down. It hadn’t gotten very dirty over the years but infrequent washing (its a dang microwave for crying out loud) meant some things had gotten stuck on it or inside of it. I didn’t want grime and crumbs to be the reason they rejected my donation and I, after some cleaning, shrugged and said “Good enough.” Whoever ends up owning it will probably wash it themselves to get the second-hand store stink off. I loaded the microwave into the trunk of my car and drove to Savers.

Once near Savers, I pulled into an abandoned parking by accident and saw an old guy and what looked like a younger man wearing jeans and a jean coat getting out of a car. It looked like they were going to Savers too, but wanted to avoid the congestion of the actual lot. The old man was looking at me as if I was in the wrong while I looked at him and wondered how he was going to hurt that young boy. I minded my own business and executed a three-point turn. I pulled out of that lot and into the correct lot and as I drove, I voiced my desires out loud. “I do not want to deal with small talk and stupid workers. This better not take forever.” I assumed this would be easy but my thirty-four years of living told me it would be more difficult than necessary.

I saw a “Donation Center Entrance” sign to the left of the main entrance and drove there. I thought maybe I’d have to walk the microwave in myself, which I didn’t mind as long as it went smoothly once inside. As I drove, I saw the old man from earlier walking into the store with, who I had thought was, a young boy. The young boy in denim turned out to be an older lady, probably the dude’s wife. Sorry for judging, sir. 

At the Donation Center, I saw a line with two cars. I went to join the line. The front car quickly drove away, leaving only one car in front of me. I watched how that car was dealt with and rolled my passenger window down so I could speak when spoken to. The car ahead of me got taken care of in no time, and I pulled into the batters box with fingers crossed. The worker in a Bills hoodie came out to my car. I told him I had a microwave in the trunk. He said “Alright,” as he handed me a little voucher sized piece of paper, twenty percent off such and such. I put the car in park and unlocked the doors and hoped he would be able to figure out the trunk door. It felt like I was picking someone up at the airport, but without the overzealous airport security guards hovering. The worker got the trunk open, grabbed the microwave, closed the trunk, and walked away saying “Alright man, have a good one. Go Bills.” I wondered if I was wearing a Bills hat when I knew I had a Dodgers hat on. I said “You too, brother. Go Bills!” It was probably the license plate holder and bumper sticker that gave my football allegiance away. The whole thing took about 45 seconds and I couldn’t have been happier.