Dyscountopia

  Dyscountopia

  by

  Niccolo Grovinci

  The young doctor stood slack-armed before the long wire rack. Waxy, shiny little packages of chewing gum stretched beyond human sight in both directions, in a million colors that nature never intended, offering up an orgy of base, seductive flavors. Tangerine Watermelon Blast. Purple Pineapple Passion. Huckleberry Hedonism. Cranberry-Grape Ape Rape.

  The doctor sucked the sterile air into his lungs and let it go slowly. He arched his neck back as far as he could manage, blinked into the fluorescent lights above, and searched the heavens for the eyes that he knew were watching him. Solemnly, he lifted a small orange-pink package from the rack, as if removing a tiny brick from the foundation of civilization, and placed it in his pocket. He walked on.

  “YOU HAVE ACTIVATED OMEGA-MART’S INTERNAL SECURITY ALARM,” the scanners warned him politely. “PLEASE STEP BACK AND WAIT FOR THE NEXT AVAILABLE ASSOCIATE.” He ignored them.

  Lights flashed and sirens blared. An armored golem of rubber and plastic blocked his path, extending its gloved hand.

  “I’ll need to see your receipt, sir.”

  “My receipt?” The doctor squinted deep into the Guardian’s glossy black visor, staring stupidly at his own reflection. He let his hand drop to the crotch of his trousers. “Yes, of course. I have it right here -- in my pants.” He sneered. “But you’ll have to get it yourself, you fucking pig.”

  Seconds later he was on the floor, crumpled into a tight ball of flesh, struggling in vain to defend himself from a savage and unhurried beating. His act of defiance seemed to have lost all its poetry as he felt the warm fluids flow from his body, pooling onto the floor around him in stark crimson and pale yellow.

  But the past was gone to him, like the future now. With a sigh of relief he faded from consciousness, into the comforting certainty of a life with no more choices….

  ****

  Dyscountopia [dis-kount-toh-pee-uh] noun

  an imaginary place where people lead dehumanized and often fearful lives, but the deals are out of this world

  -- Webster’s New New Dictionary

  It was the year 2047. Retail ruled the world.

  In 2011, Captain Choculo, the manufacturer of the world’s premier breakfast cereal, merged with Inteletron, Inc., the world’s largest provider of silicon computer chips, forming The Chocutron Corporation. In 2013, Chocutron merged with Dynomation, owners of the then popular Crazy Mona’s fast food and car wash chain. By 2015, Chocutron was the largest corporation on the planet, having newly acquired Grabbinger’s Mini-marts and fully absorbed the Yummy-Yum Candy Corporation.

  ChocuDyno-Yumminger, as it was now known, assaulted the market like a mad, googly eyed farmer, reaping the ripe wheat of capitalism. Whoosh, there went Tribisco, and all of their three-cornered cracker factories. Whoosh, down with American Rocketry and all of their gizmos and hoosamawhatsits. Whoosh, again, and there went Dunderdorf, the planet’s leading supplier of German cars, microwaves, toothpaste, calculators, fitted baseball caps, prophylactics, helicopters, candy canes, tennis balls, radial tires, and rubber bands. The rest fell like dominoes.

  Stocks soared. TriChocuDyno-Yumderdorfetry was king. Its name was stamped on everything you could imagine, from your refrigerator to your panty hose to your favorite tasty chocolate treat. TriChocuDyno-Yumderdorfetry seemed to own everything. That’s because it did.

  By 2021, TriChocuDyno-Yumderdorfetry had swelled to such a size that even large retailers like Happy-Mart and Zippy-Drug couldn’t keep up. That’s when TriChocuDyno-Yumderdorfetry decided to cut out the middle man, gobbling retailers up like a college student with the munchies, converting their assets to a fine powder. Now TriChocuDyno-Yumderdorfetry had some elbow-room, and they started to build. By 2022, every major city had at least three TriChocu-Marts. By 2023, every minor city had at least eight TriChocu-Marts. By 2024, every TriChocu-Mart in the world had expanded to twice the size, and by six months time, three times the size. TriChocu-Marts grew so vast that they were expanding into one another, forming giant MegaTriChocu-Marts that covered thousands of square miles.

  And then it happened. On September 3, 2030, the entire planet Earth was officially covered in a single, massive TriChocu-Sphere. Structural supports were removed to make space for more sunglasses kiosks – the immutable laws of physics now holding the ceiling in place. The sunglasses retailed for $3.99. It was a bargain and everyone knew it. TriChocu-Mart’s sales for that year increased by a margin of 15.2 percent.

  Only they didn’t call it TriChocu-Mart anymore. Now they had another name for it. They called it Omega-Mart.

  And that’s how we got here – to 2047. Like I said.

  In 2047, Albert Zim was still just another 40 year old floor manager of Grid Square 717, Produce, Alpha Quadrant. But fate demands that every world and every time have a hero, and Earth, ca. 2047 was no exception. There was a vacuum to be filled and somebody had to fill it.

  Why not Albert Zim?, thought Earth, ca. 2047, then fate will stop bothering me and I can go back to watching my stories.

  Why not Albert Zim? He was just as good as anybody. And so the vacuum was filled, and fate was happy again. Incidentally, vacuums were on sale for $29.99. It was a bargain, and everyone knew it.

  On April 4, 2047, Albert was already on the path to hero-dom. He just didn’t realize it yet. If you paid very close attention, you could hear the wheels of fate turning that morning when he shuffled around the corner into Grid Square 717. But Albert never paid very close attention.

  “Ooooof, s’cuse me. Sorry ‘bout that, Javier. I should pay more attention to where I’m going.”

  “No problema, Seenyor!” Javier replied in a sing-song tone, brushing off the front of Albert’s purple vest. “I deedn’t see you neither, boss. Buenos-días-good-morning!”

  Albert liked Javier. Albert liked everybody, even the people he didn’t really like. But he liked Javier especially, because he really liked him. Javier was sometimes hard to understand because he mostly only spoke Spanish. He’d never really learned to speak the official language of Omega-Mart, which was of course Chinese.

  “Good Morning To You, Sir!”Albert replied, speaking very slow, deliberate Chinese so that Javier would understand. “How Are You Today?”

  “Not so gooood, Jefe. My tooths is hurting bery, bery bad.” Javier smiled. His teeth were small and shriveled and brown.

  Albert sucked in his breath, then smiled stupidly in a lame attempt to recover. Then he closed his mouth, mindful of his own teeth, which were shiny and white, if just a little crooked.

  “Ummmmm,” Albert struggled. “Ummmmmm. Maybe, er……dentist.”

  Javier nodded rapidly. “Sí, Meester Zeem. I like dat bery much. But I don’t have the dental insurance. Not like the big bosses. Not like you.”

  Albert looked away. He hated being reminded that he was better off than other people, and suddenly resented Javier for not being better off than he was. Then Albert remembered his training.

  “Javier, it’s important to remember that by saving money on the services we provide to you, the employee, we are able to offer fine goods at rock-bottom prices to you, the consumer.” Albert smiled, unabashedly showing off his gleaming teeth now, and swept his arm in a semi-circular motion. “Like this fine produce you see before you. Red Delicious apples, just eleven cents a pound. You can’t beat that deal!”

  “Sí, Boss”, said Javier. “But what good ees apples, eef you got no teeth to eat them with?”

  Albert was stumped. But once again his training guided him through. “That’s a wonderful question, Javier. And I’ll bring it up with Management just as soon as I can.” But what he really meant was, “That’s a wonderful question, Javier. And I’m going to
pretend like you never asked it.”

  Albert smiled stupidly again and hurried away, as fast as he could, from his friend Javier and his horrible, disgusting teeth. He went to his office, shut off the lights, and hid under his desk until lunch.

  ****

  To: All floor managers, Alpha Quadrant

  * ATTENTION *

  This month is safety month, just like every other month. Safety is paramount in everything we do here at Omega-Mart, so please remind your troops to remain vigilant in their work environment. Foster an attitude of safety in your grid squares. Make it a part of your team’s culture. Any combination of liquid spills, electrical cords stretched across aisles, swinging doors, untied shoelaces, inappropriate eyewear, open-toed shoes, unnecessarily loose clothing, head-phones, loose handrails, improper lifting procedure, failure to inspect equipment before use, improper disposal of refuse (i.e., banana peels), failure to wear proper head gear, or lack of attention can be a recipe for disaster. Keep your working area clean and tidy. This cannot be emphasized enough. A clean work space will enable you to identify problems and tackle them more effectively. Remember, safety is everyone’s responsibility – there are NO unavoidable accidents. A safety plaque will be awarded this year to the quadrant with the fewest work-related injuries. Together, we can make it Alpha Quadrant.

  NOTE: As a part of our ongoing effort to reduce work-related injuries in Alpha Quadrant, no accident report should be filed for any of the below items:

  1) Injuries that occur during lunch and coffee breaks

  2) Minor injuries not involving internal bleeding or broken bones

  3) Injuries not witnessed by a second party

  4) Injuries attributed to avoidable accidents

  These items will no longer be treated as work-related. This change will be retro-active to the beginning of the year. All accident reports currently on file from the beginning of the year should be adjusted to reflect this change.

  REMINDER: Don’t forget that next Friday is Fun Friday. Remember to jazz up your wardrobe with a little extra purple.

  Thought for the Day: There is no ‘I’ in Team. Or in Safety.

  “Wow.” Victor folded up the memo and stuck it back into his vest pocket. “That means Square 711 hasn’t had a single accident all year. Tom Beaumont will be thrilled to hear that.”

  Albert took a thoughtful bite of his sandwich. “Where is Tom?”

  “The hospital. He fell off a ladder, remember? Stocking those new Happy Huggy Bears. Completely avoidable.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure,” said Victor, sucking soup out of a plastic spoon. “He didn’t have to be on that ladder. I mean, nobody put a gun to his head or anything.”

  Albert really admired Victor. At only 27 years of age, he was on the fast track to success, already a floor manager and moving up quickly. His purple vest was always immaculately pressed, he always had something positive to say, and he always wore a bright purple tie with a picture of Ollie the Omega-Mart Otter on it. He was a real team player, ready to do whatever he was told without question, embracing a splendidly simple model of the universe in which Omega-Mart was firmly at the center.

  “Is he okay?” Albert asked.

  Victor shrugged. “Guess so. It wasn’t a work-related accident, so … hey, did you catch Bowling for the White House last night? It was a new episode.”

  Albert shrugged. “No, I guess I missed it.”

  “You sure did!” Victor scolded. “Alfonse Wang bowled a perfect game – again! And he was real humble about it, too. Said it was really all up to God and that he felt lucky just to be there and everything. Very presidential. That guy’s got my vote, for sure.”

  Bowling for the White House was the hot new thing on FOX this season, following up last year’s stunning success of Presidential Pizzeria. It involved twelve men and women who lived in a house together and bowled competitively against one another. Each episode, viewers would vote their least favorite bowler out of the house until there was only one person left; and that guy (or gal) got to be President of the Entire Planet for a year. Being President was a great honor; you got to toss out the first baseball at the World Series, and pardon a turkey at Thanksgiving, and dress up like Santa Claus at the Winter Day parade and hand out presents with the CEO of Omega-Mart herself. It was an important job, too, because the President was responsible for instilling the appropriate values in today’s youth; things like ‘don’t huff paint’, and ‘listen to your parents’, and ‘do what Jesus would do’, and ‘don’t be gay’. Being President was a lot of responsibility.

  Albert exhaled noisily. “Who in their right mind would want to be President?”

  “Somethin’ bothering you, Al?” Victor sometimes called him Al. Albert didn’t know why; nobody else called him that.

  “Not really.”

  “What is it, pal?”

  Albert put his sandwich down. “Have you seen Javier’s teeth, lately?”

  Victor gave him a blank stare. “Who?”

  “You know – Javier. Short guy, bad teeth.”

  Victor’s eyes lit up. “Ohhhh, the Mexican guy?”

  “I don’t think he’s Mexican,” said Albert.

  “Really? Anyway, what’s his problem?”

  Albert sighed. “All his teeth are brown and shriveled. They look really bad. It must really hurt.”

  “So?”

  “Well, he’s been working for me for eight years,” said Albert. “Working hard, not like a lot of the kids we get now. Seems like we could do something for him.”

  “We?” Victor wrinkled his forehead. “You mean the company?”

  “I don’t know,” Albert mumbled.

  “Sure!” Victor laughed. “Why don’t you go on up to Mr. Edd’s office and ask him to fix Javier’s teeth? In fact, why don’t you ask him to fix everyone’s teeth in the whole quad, while you’re at it? Then everyone will be walking around here with big, shiny smiles while they’re paying twenty bucks a pop for cantaloupe.”

  “Sssshhhhhhh!” Albert’s eyes darted around the cafeteria. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought, you know, this one time. It couldn’t be that expensive.”

  “Come on, Al, it’s like you’re speaking English and I’m speaking Chinese.” By this, of course, Victor meant that Albert wasn’t making any sense. “You can’t go giving things away to people without making everyone else pay for it in the long run; plus, it makes people lazy. If Omega-Mart gives them everything they want, then what will they have to work for?”

  “I know, but I don’t see why….”

  Victor smirked. “Poor Al. Always asking why. You’ll burn out quick with that attitude.”

  Albert flinched. Burnouts were common among middle management types in Albert’s age bracket, and Victor knew it. One day, for no reason, a grid supervisor or floor manager would come to work and just flip out, start throwing eggs at customers or strip naked and splash around in a kiddy pool. Albert had seen it happen to some of his friends, and it wasn’t pretty.

  “What’s wrong with asking ‘why’?” Albert asked, a little defensively.

  “We don’t need to ask why, Al. We’re only Level 77 floor managers; it isn’t our job. Only Level One’s need to ask why, and they don’t really need to ask because they already know. Anyway, I gotta run. Maybe I’ll catch you at the symposium.” He gave Albert a wink. “Whatever you do, don’t mention the Albert Zim Free Dental Plan there. They’ll lynch you.”

  Albert chewed thoughtfully, watching Victor as he walked away. Victor was right. Everyone had a job to do, and it wasn’t any good worrying about things that weren’t your job. He abandoned the half-eaten sandwich on his tray and made his way back to Produce, whistling half-heartedly as he went, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his eyes fixed on the floor. He ran his tongue absently over his smooth, polished teeth.

  “Not your job, Albert,” he muttered to himself. “Not your job.”

  There was a large rectangular bulletin board ha
nging on the wall as he rounded the corner into Produce. He came to a stop in front of it, studying the battered green sign posted there.

  THIS DEPARTMENT HAS HAD 3 WORK-RELATED

  INJURIES THIS YEAR

  The number “3” was handwritten in purple marker. Albert picked up the foam eraser that hung from the corner of the sign, erased the 3, and drew in a zero, perfectly round like a donut. He nodded his head.

  “Perfect.”

  He continued on, strolling beneath the light drizzling rain of the automatic misters. To his right, tiny airborne teardrops gathered like morning dew on the deep purple skins of the swollen eggplants; gently kissed the warty, waxy surfaces of the carefully stacked cucumbers. To his left, a pomiferous pantheon of flawless, genetically enhanced titans – the fierce and mighty Fuji, the tart and sassy Granny Smith, the sweet, exotic Pink Lady, the bold Imperial Gala – exulted in the rainbow haze. The familiar boop-boop-booping of the registers sounded from ahead, sending happy customers on their way. Somewhere in the back, the muffled thump-thump-thumping of crates filled the air as they dropped from never-ending conveyor belts, filled with bananas and kiwis and radishes waiting to be carried to the floor; to be unloaded, stacked, and priced by the many associates that worked there, the hard-working men and women of Produce.

  “Hello, Mike.”

  “Hello, John.”

  “Hello, Marsha.”

  Albert recited their names from a mental laundry list, nodding to each one of them as he passed, possessed by the peculiar, unsteady confidence of a man who, through no great ability or distinction, finds himself responsible for the direction of others. The associates returned Albert’s greetings with quick, distracted glances and warm, disinterested smiles.

  “Hey Mr. Z.”

  The high-pitched salutation caught Albert unaware, shattering his confidence like safety-glass. He spun to face his assailant.

  “Howya doin’ today, Mr. Z?” A tall, gawky young man peered down at him, his long, cratered face rimmed by the scorching white lights above. It was that new kid, the new assistant manager – what’s-his-name.