It Was A Burner Phone
I’m working alone at a mobile phone repair shop in a small town. We’re in a poorer part of the country, and it’s a long way to the city by public transport, so we’re pretty much the only reliable shop for phone repair in the area.
A man barges in holding what looks like the charred corpse of a Samsung Galaxy.
Customer: “I need this fixed.”
I gently take the phone. The screen is shattered, the back is warped, and it smells vaguely of barbecue.
Me: “What happened to it?”
Customer: “It fell in a fire.”
I blink.
Me: “That’s unfortunate.”
Customer: “Yeah, I was drunk.”
Me: “Okay then. Right. Well, the motherboard is probably destroyed. This isn’t repairable.”
Customer: “You’re the expert. Fix it.”
Me: “Sir, it was on fire. There’s nothing left to fix. The battery’s gone. The screen’s melted.”
Customer: “That’s illegal.”
Me: “What’s illegal?”
Customer: “Denying me service!”
Me: “It’s not denying you service to tell you that your phone is beyond repair.”
Customer: “I’ll report you.”
Me: “To whom?”
He pulls out a second phone, a pristine iPhone, and starts loudly pretending to call the police.
Customer: “Hello? Yes, I’d like to report a tech shop for denying me service.”
He pauses, realizes no one is going to call his bluff, then pockets the phone and glares at me.
Customer: “You know what? You’ve just lost a customer.”
Me: “I think we’ll recover, unlike your phone.”
He huffs, grabs his ashen Samsung carcass, and storms out. Five minutes later, he comes back in, sheepish.
Customer: “Do you at least sell screen wipes?”
Me: “Yes. But not ones that remove fire damage.”
He left again, this time for good.
