Big Brother in Aisle One
The balloons should've been a dead giveaway. If you go in a building with balloons out front, you know someone inside is a little too excited about something. But as I brushed the balloons out of my way, that didn't occur to me. I was tired. I just wanted to get some beer and bread before heading home.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, stepping into my path, "may I tell you about our new discount cards?" He spoke with a heavy Jamaican accent.
Before I could make an excuse, he was off on his spiel, something he'd been practicing all night and was now quite proud of.
"?using this card, you'll be able to receive fantastic discounts on various products and items?"
I stood there, trapped, unable to get around him, waiting for him to pause for a breath. Once he did that, I'd jump in. Yes, jump right in there and tell him what I thought of his "discount cards."
Finally he did take that breath, and I told him straight out, "No, thank you."
He moved slightly to the left to let me pass, not seeming unduly hurt in any way by my rejection. Then he started right back in with the woman who'd entered the store behind me.
I grabbed my beer and bread and headed for the checkout. Once it was my turn, the clerk asked, "Did you get a new discount card?"
"No, I-I'm afraid I didn't," I told her as pleasantly as possible.
"Why not?" she asked, a little more sharply than I thought necessary.
"Didn't want one," I replied.
"Why not?"
My years of training in philosophy informed me that this discussion could very easily go on all afternoon if I let it, and we would doubtless come to some very profound conclusions about the nature of God. But I didn't have time for that.
I had an answer for her. A good, well-reasoned and solid answer as to why, exactly, I didn't want to save money on my grocery bill. But instead of giving her my answer I told her, "Dunno. Just didn't want one."
And that seemed to do the trick, even if she wasn't very happy about it.
What I didn't want to have to get into, what I didn't want to explain in detail to her, involved some research I'd been buried in over a year ago. At the time, I was working on a novel that never quite panned out. The story involved a paranoid who becomes obsessed with surveillance technology.
Whenever I get a notion for a book in my head, I will often spend months in research mode before I even write up any sort of proposal. This is not always a wise thing. I've spent months and hundreds of dollars on preliminary research, only to have my proposal rejected in a matter of minutes. All that time wasted.
That's not what happened here, exactly.
I began learning everything I could about modern surveillance, tracing its history back to Pinkerton, then forward again to that morning's newswires. I studied the technology, the methodology and the psychology of surveillance. Surveillance of all kinds, from simple video cameras to GPS tracking to computer snooping. I was defining it broadly enough to include not only those people who watch us, but also those who gather personal information about us. I collected news stories, looked at public policy, pored over reams of material.
In and amongst all this research, I came across a surprisingly large amount of material concerning these grocery store "discount cards." None of it was very comforting.
The idea behind the cards seems simple and nice: If you go to the trouble of signing up and continue patronizing the store, you'll receive discounts on things other non-card-carrying schlubs will still be paying full price for. For the most part, that's achieved by the old trick of artificially raising prices a few weeks before the store plans to "discount" them. By the time the "discounts" are announced, everyone's used to the higher prices, and so the ruse goes undetected.
Apart from that basic Sales 101 sleight-of-hand, something more sinister was going on. When you sign up for these cards-give them your name, address, phone number and whatever else they ask for-you are essentially allowing the store to open a file on you in the company's database. Every time you use that card, the things you buy are registered in this file. And when your personal information is sold off to various other companies, they can look at what you've purchased over the past months in order to target you with more junk mail. Are you a health nut? Gay? Have kids? On your way to an early grave? They can probably tell by looking at your grocery lists, and can send you crap specifically aimed at your demographic.
In the end, the sinister aspect of these discount cards amounts to little more than getting more junk mail, but I still didn't like the idea of anyone keeping track of what I was buying.
That, in a nutshell, is what I didn't want to have to explain to the checkout clerk: "I don't want your damn card because I'm a paranoid." I get enough looks in there as it is.
After that encounter, I avoided the store for a couple of days, thinking I'd give this whole "card" promotion time to cool off and go away. And sure enough, that weekend when I stopped in again, the balloons and the guy with the clipboard were gone. I grabbed a basket and set about my shopping.
Five minutes later, I had just about everything I needed, except for more bread. Unfortunately, the store manager was talking to some guy right in front of the bread section.
"Excuse me," I said, "could I just get in there a second? I just need to-"
Both men stepped back, and as I was reaching, the manager asked, "Have you signed up for one of our discount cards yet?"
Something in my head began to tighten up, and I didn't look at him. "No," I said.
His eyes drifted toward my half-filled basket. "I see you have some juice there."
Yeah, I thought, and you know what? It's none of your goddamn business. They were already trying to keep track of what I was buying.
"Wouldn't you rather be paying $2 for that juice instead of $4.69? With a new card, it would only cost you $2."
"No, I'm okay, really. I don't mind."
He looked at me as if I were insane. "I can assure you," he said then, confirming the fact that this demon grocer was reading my mind, "that your personal information will not go any farther than this store."
No, you mean This Store, I thought, as in your corporate headquarters and all your affiliate companies and subsidiaries and?
"You're sure we can't talk you into this? It's a very good deal."
NO I don't WANT to I'm OKAY. I was tempted to run from the store sobbing, but instead merely declined the offer, thanked him again and backed away before they could send me to see Number Two about my uncooperative nature.
I circled around to the checkout and emptied the basket, my head still screaming.
"Do you have one of our new discount cards?" the clerk asked. It wasn't the one who'd been there earlier that week. This woman had been working the registers at that store for at least 10 years.
"No," I told her.
Instead of pressing me on the issue, this older clerk merely nodded, and smirked.
I paid for the groceries, as always, in cash, and left.