Upselling in the Age of Xog

Here is the story Plotnik read last night at TIAPOS.



Upselling in the Age of Xog

What has happened to the surly, obese, job-guaranteed-for-life warlocks from Xog who used to work at the Post Office? Now they're glad to see you. It's all about upselling.

"Would you like any envelopes with that?"

"First Class is $2 but for only $2.35 more we can slice a day off the arrival time."

"How about stamps? Do you have enough stamps at home?"

Across the street at the bank, a branch once filled with jowly men in fat, shiny shoes carrying out high-volume transactions, but now deserted, a young woman in a neat, black pants suit with her hair pinned high calls out: "Hello! Welcome to Bank of America!" She is wearing high heels and everyone else in the bank is Chinese. She looks like the Olympic torch. With an upturned palm on the end of a slender wrist, she motions Plotnik towards the teller windows.

"Good afternoon and how may I zerve you?" says the teller with a suspicious smile. It's Mr. Grumpy, the same dyspeptic Eastern European with the terrible skin who usually just sneers and stamps your deposit slip with a motion so disinterested that the ink smears. It is disconcerting to see Mr. Grumpy has teeth, to realize he is on the front line of B of A's search for the New Age Customer.

Plotnik would like to smile back at Mr. Grumpy, but Mr. Grumpy is not very convincing. The phrases don't exactly leap from his heart, they hiss like steam from a busted radiator cap.

"Vould you like to know about our auto loanz. Zis is terrific time to refinance you boat. Is zere other tranzaction I could help you vit. Vell, den. Sir, have great day."

Something is going on in America. It can't be good. There was a time when the guy at the bank and the woman at the post office had prized, respected jobs. But TV changed that. Now, the only respected job in America is a life of crime. Bank tellers and post office clerks have been forced to spend their careers envious of everyone they see.

And economic conditions have gotten worse. The world is running out of food and fuel. It's harder to survive. Xog is paying attention. If you want to keep your job in America you have to upsell. You have to be nice.

Even at Bell Market. Bell Market was sold last year to Ralph's and Ralph's has now sold it to The Vigilant Vegan, a fancy health food store. So all the employees know their jobs are going to disappear within the year, which makes them as friendly as artillery fire. Asking a Bell Market employee where they keep the olive oil always leads to a dispirited discussion about labor and management. Still, they must try to upsell.

The store manager walks by and sees Plotnik staring at the cookies, the same cookies that are two bucks everywhere else but four bucks here.

"Could you use some help locating an item, Sir?" he asks.

"No thanks, I..."

"Have you tried these, mmm yummy mmm?" he says, pointing to the chocolate covered Hope Diamonds, for $7.75 a box.

"No. Have you?"

"Ha ha ha. That's really funny. Well, please let me know if we can serve you in any way," he says, whistling as he walks along his invisible plank, towards the sea teeming with unemployed sharks.

In truth, all the upselling and customer service makes The Great Plotnik gag. He dreads the moment he will pass through the checkout line and store rules will force the poor checker to try to pronounce Plotnik. Meester Pulotaneek? Meester Pa-la-ta-niki? Meester Pulo-tana-neese? Deed I say heem right?"

But there is one safe spot in Bell Market: the fish counter. There is no upselling at the fish counter at Bell Market, because no one is ever behind the fish counter at Bell Market. There are shrimp in the display case but no one to weigh them. You absolutely cannot get service at the fish counter in Bell Market.

There is a little button that rings a bell, so Plotnik, slave to false expectation, pushes it. He hears the bell ring somewhere in back of the fish counter. No one comes. He rings it again. Still, no one comes.

At the other end of the fish counter stands a thin, Japanese man making sushi. He is wearing striped pants and a starched cap. He has a thin mustache. He is working right next to where the fish man would be, if there were a fish man. Plotnik rings and rings the bell, but the sushi maker refuses to raise his head, though it would be impossible for him not to hear the bell ringing. He pats his little fish, he rolls his little eels, he seasons his little rice. But he will not raise his head. He is the sushi man, not the fish man.

Everywhere else in America, employees are trying to upsell their dwindling customers. If this were the Bank of America, the sushi man would be diving into the fish display counter and pulling shrimp out with his teeth, as many as Plotnik wanted. If this were the Post Office, the sushi man would be convincing Plotnik to buy envelopes to send letters to all his friends inviting them over for sushi. But not at Bell Market.

Plotnik can't stand the upselling, but would love a little service. So he walks down to the sushi man's end of the fish counter and stands in front of the thin, Japanese man in the striped pants and starched cap, with the little mustache, who sees Plotnik coming and purses his lips tightly. He pats, he rolls, he seasons, but he will not look up.

"Where is the fish man?" Plotnik says.

"Ling bell," the sushi man advises.

"I have been ringing bell. I have rung this bell for eleven years. No one has ever answered this bell. You know no one will answer this bell."

The sushi man shrugs. "Ling bell," he says.

Some things never change. Plotnik's day has been made. He feels good, justified. It's hard not to smile.

The Great Plotnik thinks: If I were Christian and not Plotnikkish, I might say: "Thank you, Jesus, for this fish counter, for this one piece of the old neighborhood that has remained the same."

Somewhere in Heaven, a little bell rings. Jesus calls down: "Would you like a little Buddhism with that?"