(Dr.) Spendlove

“Ladies and gentlemen…may I have your attention, please…in just two minutes, we will be handing out free promotional advertising gifts not regularly available in this store.”

A price appears on the television screen along with a 1-800 number, but more importantly, an item; not of futility, but utility. This item, suddenly, is the one item I’ve been waiting for all my life. It makes that one seemingly simple task not so simple, and necessitates its own purchase by a mere 30 second display of its endless features. I’m mind-blown. In fact, daily, I am forced to pluck cat hairs from my coat before prancing out the door. Such a terribly complex and time consuming task. But now, Mr. Sticky, an unconditionally lifetime guaranteed cleaning device which serves as a combination lint roller, broom, vacuum, mop, and duster, makes all the aforementioned “tools” absolutely useless. And for only $24.99, plus S&H, but wait! A free Junior Mr. Sticky, and Giant Mr. Sticky, too. I pick up the phone at 1:03 am and place an order. If I purchase five the sixth is free and 6 free juniors and giants too. Can I really afford not to? A toothy white smile on the screen convinces me they make great gifts. I hate goddamned cell phone manufacturers for making me available at nearly any given time or place in the known universe; I may be on the toilet and God can call to check on me (a particularly disturbing thought) but, because I own this cell phone, this plastic piece of technology produced by the Apple Corporation, I can call and order Mr. Sticky at 1:03 am and wait wait wait till the package arrives, for life to get easier.

I push the red metal cart full of Christmas toys; remote controlled helicopters, handheld videogames, stuffed animals. I don a red polo and a name tag that says “Daniel” and above that “Target.” But, the director of HR tells me, this name tag is not mine. It may say my name, but this name tag belongs to the Target Corporation. At the end of the day, and especially if I quit, or worse, am terminated, I must return this name tag back to a box of Davids, Dougs, and Daniels. I loathe the way the cart clunks and will purposefully stock one of these items on the wrong shelf with a hearty, “Fuck you, Target Corporation.” “Daniel?” My manager call from behind. “Could you come here for a moment?” God, apparently, does not approve of my internal sentiments towards the Target Corporation and has sent one of his prophets dutifully to reprimand my self-righteousness, but fortunately has not called me, because I’m not supposed to have my cell phone on at work. He echoes in my head with that ridiculous booming voice, “Daniel, you’ve bitten the hand that feeds.” And I have, but the flesh of the hand is so much more pleasing, now at least, than the stale paycheck the hand feeds at the end of the week. I hate the tile floors and the goddamned red branding of the Target Corporation, but they make me able to afford food and gas, and to satisfy that impulsive spirit in me to purchase my way out of those small issues I’m not presently aware exist in my life. Fortunately I can depend on the television to inform me of them.

“…in less than one minute now, you will receive your free promotional advertising gifts not regularly available in this store. A representative will be rushing there shortly.” With my tower of department store items in hand, I look around to see if anyone suspects my curiosity of the loudspeaker’s offer. I feel naughty. But really, how often does such a prospect occur? I walk with an air of indirection towards where the loudspeaker directs, looking every once in a while over my shoulder. I hop on the escalator. I hate people who are susceptible to these types of obviously misguiding promotions, but I am riding the escalator and can see the red and black counter the loudspeaker spoke of, and look, there! The representative rushing towards it! I look down at my shoes to avoid the gaze of a young man walking past.

“Daniel, we’ve been meaning to talk to you. You’ve been here for 90 days and it’s time for your assessment. I’ve met with Susan at HR and we discussed your performance.” This, I know, either means I’m fucked, or that, ironically, I’m fucked. “We want you to stay with us, you’ve been doing a fantastic job. And we’re giving you a dollar raise.” I’m fucked. I despise Target, I don’t particularly like Susan either, she told me I had nice teeth, that I must’ve had braces when I was younger. In retrospect, this was not a compliment. She was telling me that my face would be good branding for the Target Corporation. She thought my teeth would sell Target Visa credit cards, just like the teeth on the television had convinced me to buy not one, not two, but five Mr. Sticky’s; but hell, the sixth was free. The Target Corporation headquarters in Minneapolis just approved a pay raise for me. For my disrespect, hostility, and general loathing of each and every tile in the store, they gave me more money. God, apparently, is cleverer than I thought. He does not reprimand me, he guilts me. But I’m getting more money, which makes the price of guilt easier to swallow.

A man appears from behind the red and black counter. “Hello, I am your representative.” It’s the same man who spoke into the loudspeaker. First, he hands us all, all five of us, a free promotional advertising gift. It’s a towel that expands in water. Usually, they sell for $3.95 in a pack of three. I’m intrigued, what else might we receive for free? He pulls then, from behind his counter, slowly, Mr. Sticky. This man is a representative from the Echo Corporation and is here to sell me Mr. Sticky in person, and he won’t charge me S&H. I curse the cell phone manufacturers for allowing me to place that order. 4-6 weeks in waiting, and here’s Mr. Sticky in the flesh. I curse Target once more for giving me the money to place the order. And I curse the Ford Motor Company for producing my gas-guzzling, ozone-destroying, 1989 Ford Escort hatchback that drove me here, today, to Sears, and drives me five days out of the week to a giant red store where I try to convince customers to sign up for Target Visa credit cards. The man is different from the one on television, but the smile is the same. It’s a smile I posses myself. I walk away, distraught, towards my 1989 Ford Escort. But first I purchase my tower of department store items.

Mr. Sticky doesn’t just pick up kitty litter, dust, lint, and dirt; no, Mr. Sticky will pick up the scattered pieces of my life, and pocket-sized Junior Mr. Sticky will pick up pieces of it when I’m on the run; I can de-lint my red Target polo before walking into work with a white, toothy smile plastered to my face. And Giant Mr. Sticky, maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to solve this God problem. More than anything, I fucking hate waiting 4-6 goddamned weeks for everything to get a little fucking better.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 8th, 2009 at 12:06 am and is filed under meditations, philosophy. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.