Yesterday I had what might be considered a meltdown. For years I bit my tongue. I stood in line with a basket-full of what can only be described as crap, went along with the game, a game that is fixed for corporate profits, answered all questions designed to gather information, and overpaid.
I know these things because I study marketing, and worked in the business for years, when the oilfield hit the fan in ’83.
Wearing the red coat of a manager, I did the exact same thing to the line of people waiting to pay. I knew why there was a line, why there was only one part time cashier, and it was more than not being able to find anyone willing to work . . . it was to cut costs, to not pay insurance, or retirement, or overtime… to insure a black bottom line.
I looked around for deals and found a rack of dog chews for 30 to 50 percent off. One wrapped in a colorful Christmas design seemed to have the best value, from $19.99 to $9.99, but I also put in my basket a box of fish food for $5.99, and puppy shampoo for $29.99, their regular price - and with my dog in tow, stood in line with all of the other nice people..
“Would you like to donate $3.00 to the animal Rescue?” she said in a monotone voice.
“No, thank you.” I said, but the force of this lady thanking the last customer loudly still rang, and stuck in my craw with guilt, the sign of a true Catholic boy. She had said to her in a loud voice: “Thank you for donating to such a worthy cause!” for all to hear.
Then she said, “What is your phone number, sir.”
‘No mam,” I said, “I don’t want to give you that.”
“You don’t belong to our Pet Club?” She said.
“No, I don’t.” I said. The line was now 9 people deep.
“If you get our Pet credit card . . . ”
“No mam, I don’t want a credit card - I’ll be paying cash” and handed her a 100 dollar bill. She took it, looked at it in the light, and made a mark on it with some kind of validating pen while saying: “You know you could save if you joined. We would send you coupons on your email . . . ”
“No. Don’t want to join, but thanks.” I said. The line was now twelve deep. She gave me my change and I left with her saying loudly: “Thank you sir, and have a blessed day.”
I walked out like I was dizzy, as my Brittany pulled me into the parking lot hoping for another whiff of the thousands of doggy odors that permeated from everywhere for a thousand feet.
And there, next to a Santa ringing a bell, the same one who I gave to when entering, did not recognize me, and again asked for a donation using the exact words . . . to read the rest of the story, click HERE.
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