Dyscountopia (4 page)

Officer Travis drained the oily remains of the coffee from his mug, then leaned slowly back in his chair, studying the foam tiles of the ceiling.
 

“In-
vij
-uh-layt,” he said again, with just a hint of self-satisfaction.
 

****

Albert glanced at his watch.
 
5:58.
 
The symposium was about to start.
 
People were already settling down in their randomly assigned seats, nodding at one another and shaking hands -- Omega-Mart symposiums always required random seat assignments, to encourage family members to meet new family members.
 
Albert looked for Victor, but didn’t see him anywhere.

He flipped his program over and looked at the number on the back.
 
1147.
 
All the way on the other side of the auditorium.
 
He quickened his pace, rushing along the curved horseshoe of the top tier of seats, doing his best not to tread upon the already comfortably seated masses.
 
They glanced up at Albert as he struggled through the sea of purple vests, regarding him with smiling faces and distasteful eyes, as if he was a bothersome second cousin they’d never met before but heard talked about somewhere.
 
Of course it was absurd for Albert to assume that any of these people knew who he was, or had ever paid him more than a passing glance.
 
He’d been coming to these symposiums for ten years now, ever since he was promoted to floor manager.
 
But the vast multitudes in attendance and the regular random seat assignments made it impossible to really know any of the family members.
 
Attendance wasn’t officially required, only “strongly urged”, but Albert had never heard of a floor manager who didn’t come.

Albert finally reached his seat, warmly shaking the hand of the elderly man seated next to him as if he was a dear, dear uncle.

“So good to see you, Roger.”

“Great to be with you, Albert.”

Albert had never met the old man before, but the tag on his vest that said, “Hello, my name is Roger”, made Albert feel instantly like he knew him.
 
The tag on Albert’s vest that said, “Hello, my name is Albert”, provided Roger with the same immediate familiarity.
 
Before Albert could unfurl the mental laundry list of conversation topics that he’d memorized for just this occasion, a sudden hush fell over the crowd and the Guest Speaker ascended the stage.
 
Every month the Guest Speaker was different, but his message was always the same – motivation.
 
Albert never got tired of it.
 
Albert loved to be motivated.

The Guest Speaker stared down at the crowd, grave faced.
 
He was a good-looking man; all Guest Speakers were, as if motivating people was somehow a cure for baldness and wrinkles.
 
He wore an expensive, shiny purple suit with a wide yellow tie, with a tag on his pocket that said, “Hello my name is Ron.”
 
Albert waited to see if Ron would start with a joke.
 
Guest speakers always seemed very serious when they ascended the stage, very professional, but then sometimes they would tell a joke.
 
Albert liked that.
 
It put him at ease.

Ron cleared his throat and spoke into a long slender microphone.
 
“Omega-Mart.”
 
He released that single hyphenated word across the amphitheater like a majestic hawk being freed into the wild.
 
“What can
you
do for Omega-Mart?”
 
He briefly allowed the gravity of the question to sink in.
 
“I’m sure, right now, you’re already going over a list in your head of all the things you did for Omega-Mart
today
, but let me ask you something.
 
What
else
can you do for Omega-Mart?”

No.
 
Not a joke.
 
But Ron spoke compellingly, as if he believed very strongly in whatever he said.
 
It made Albert’s skin tingle.
 
This was going to be a good one.

“Already staying five-minutes after quitting time?
 
Why not stay ten?
 
Already greeting your customer with a ‘welcome’ and a smile?
 
Give them a hug, too, while you’re at it – everyone needs a hug!
 
Already eating your lunch on the go?
 
Skip a meal, now and then – we can all afford to drop a few pounds!”

Ron patted his, truthfully, rather slim stomach.
 
Still the humor was appreciated, and the auditorium was filled with the whispers of low appropriate laughter.
 
Albert liked the joke.
 
It put him at ease.

Ron produced a carefully measured chuckle.
 
“Listen, folks.
 
We don’t want to see each other dropping dead in the aisles.
 
We all know we’re only human, but here’s the point.
 
All of us give a hundred percent everyday, because that’s the Omega-Mart way, but we can all do a little better.
 
We can all
improve
.
 
Why not give a hundred and one percent, give a hundred and five percent – heck, give a hundred and
ten
percent if you can?
 
Because we have the privilege of belonging to the greatest family in God’s universe – the Omega-Mart family – and, as floor managers, you guys are the glue that holds that family together.
 
Your employees look up to you, like younger brothers and sisters.
 
That gives you a lot of power, and you should feel good about that – but with a lot of power comes a lot of responsibility.
 
Because those brothers and sisters follow
your
example.
 
Sure, the boss says you get a fifteen minute coffee break in the morning, but ya know what?
 
If you take a ten minute coffee break, or a five minute coffee break, or heck, just skip the coffee break, that’s sending a strong message to your troops that what you’re doing is too important to stop for coffee.
 
You don’t break for coffee, because the price of your little break is just a little more cost for the customer, and the customer is too important for you to treat him or her like that!”

Albert squirmed in his seat.
 
Wow
.
 
This guy was good.

“Remember, folks.
 
Low prices mean a better tomorrow.
 
Together, you and I are saving the world, one low price at a time.
 
We’re low price warriors.
 
We’re lean, mean, price-slashing machines!”
 
Ron thrust a fist over his head, letting them know that now was the time to stand up and cheer.

Albert stood and shouted along with the rest of the frenzied, purple-vested zealots, feeling suddenly re-energized.
 
Something about shouting made him feel good.
 
He so rarely got to shout.
 

After showing the right amount of enthusiasm, the crowd took their seats again and Ron continued on.
 
He talked about teamwork, and about having a positive attitude, and about treating customers like they were number one.
 
And he talked a lot about low prices.
 
Then he started taking questions.

He called first on a hefty, blue-haired woman wearing a leopard printed scarf, her arm held stiffly above her head.
 
Her name tag said, “Hello, my name is Marcie”. Someone passed her a microphone.

“Mr. Ron”, she said to the Guest Speaker.
 
“You said today that we could give more than a hundred percent.
 
That we could give a hundred and one percent or even a hundred and ten percent.
 
But I want to go even further than that and encourage us to do
better
for our customers.
 
I
think we can give one hundred and
eleven
percent.
 
Or even one hundred and
twelve
percent.
 
Because
I
think the customer is
that
important.
 
Don’t you agree?”

Ron smiled and nodded.
 
“I
do
agree, Marcie.
 
I agree
wholeheartedly
.
 
And it looks to me like you’re
already
giving that one hundred and twelve percent.
 
Maybe you could even go for a hundred and
thirteen
.
 
What do you say?
 
Thanks a lot for your question Marcie – we could use a lot more like you.
 
Next question?”

Marcie blushed and sat down, handing the microphone to the next interrogator.
 
Albert had always admired those in the audience with enough nerve to ask a question.
 
He’d never asked a question before.
 
He’d never been able to think of a question good enough to ask.

The next man to take the microphone was tall and gaunt, with a shiny bald head that sparkled under the fluorescent lights.
 
“I urge all of my troops to spend at least a little of the money they earn that day before going home in the evening,” he said gruffly.
 
“After all, by giving back to Omega-Mart, they’re giving back to
themselves
.”

“I dock my troops five points anytime I see them talking to one another in the aisles,” said the next person to take the microphone.
 
“And for every point they lose, they lose a minute of break time.
 
After all, why should the customer have to pay for
their
free time?”

“I wrote a poem about Omega-Mart,” said the next person, unfolding a small slip of paper from his vest pocket.
 
“It goes like this…. Ode to Omega-Mart.
 
Omega-Mart, Omega-Mart – lowest prices under the sun.
 
Omega-Mart, Omega-Mart – our customers are always number one.
 
We cut prices in the Spring.
 
We cut prices in the Fall.
 
Low prices on everything.
 
Low prices for one and all… that’s all I got so far.”

Everyone clapped and nodded emphatically, and Albert clapped too.
 
He’d tried writing poetry once in school, but it hadn’t been very good.

Ron held up his hands to halt the flow of questions.
 
“You should all be very proud of yourselves,” he said.
 
“You’re a great bunch of people, and you’ve given us
all
a
lot
to think about.
 
Now, if there aren’t anymore questions, we’ll just finish with the Omega-Mart anthem and… oh, yes… you, sir.”

Ron was pointing directly at Albert Zim, much to Albert’s surprise.
 
Roger, who had already begun to mouth the first syllables of the Omega-Mart anthem, gazed impatiently at his befuddled neighbor, letting his hand drop from his heart with an irritable sigh.

That’s when it occurred to Albert that somehow, without his knowledge or consent, his hand had made the slow, treacherous journey above his head, exposing him to the world.
 
A stark realization gripped him that he was about to do something terrible – the worst thing that anyone can ever do in a room full of people.
 
He was about to ask a question.
 
He desperately searched the recesses of his mind for another one, any other question than the one he was about to ask.
 
But he couldn’t find a single one.

“Since our customers are what’s most important, and our customers are also our employees, and our employees are part of our family, couldn’t we help them out every once in awhile?
 
Like with emergencies or whatever?
 
Couldn’t we pay to have someone’s teeth fixed?”

The question slid out of his mouth and crashed to the floor like a cannonball with a lit fuse.
 
Albert was certain that, for just a short moment, time had frozen and all of the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

Ron’s eyes darted around the amphitheater, falling everywhere but on the humiliated image of Albert Zim.
 
Albert had stupidly squandered his right to exist.
 
“No more questions, then?
 
Alright.
 
Good-night everybody, and remember –
low prices at all costs
.”
 
Ron exited the stage.