Wednesday, October 13, 2021 // The Statement — 2

Fever dreams and corporate schemes

The store was cold and dark with figures 

appearing out of the minimal light offered by 
the piercing fluorescent bulbs — a less than 
ideal situation for someone with no recollec-
tion of where they were. Or what they were 
doing there. Or how they got there in the 
first place. 

I frantically searched for signs of any-

thing that might answer any, if not all, of 
my questions. All I saw was a long, narrow 
hallway that seemed never-ending. The only 
image protruding out of the ongoing horizon 
was a faint neon sign that read “GROCERY.”

Figures. A minuscule supermarket. 
I looked to my left and then to my right. 

Five rows of metal shelves lined the edges of 
both sides. There appeared to be indistinct 
products organized in a tight, tidy fashion. 
Nothing was out of place, and each product 
was in perfect alignment with the next. The 
arrangement was ultra-functional, yet the 
sense of order felt militaristic.

I needed to know more. 
I began to walk down the aisle, one foot 

apprehensively placed in front of the next, 
directing my eyes to any image that caught 
my attention. As I began treading forward, 
the visuals surrounding me became pro-
gressively clearer. The once indistinguish-
able objects that sat on chilling, lifeless 
counters began morphing into unfamiliar 
products — ones that would not be in a stan-
dard grocery store.

The first thing I could identify was a 

seemingly endless supply of machinery, 
including a plethora of interchangeable 
parts. Each item resembled one another, 
with identical ridges and nooks. As I peered 
my head in closer to read the item descrip-
tion, the advertisement’s words jumped out 
at me: “Why buy multiple parts when you 
could have one that does it all? SAVE TIME 
AND MONEY! MAXIMIZE EFFICIEN-
CY!” 

Though I had seen similar marketing 

techniques before, this product’s plea for 
productivity and cost-effective shopping felt 
strangely out of the ordinary. Why did inter-
changeable parts — a staple invention of the 
industrial revolution — need to manipulate 
consumers into purchasing? 

I felt an unstoppable urge to continue 

moving forward. I didn’t see anyone behind 
me, yet I couldn’t ignore the feeling that peo-
ple were waiting for me to continue. I felt I 
had no choice but to proceed. 

As I kept moving forward, the light in 

the store grew marginally brighter, yet all 
the more piercing. Its power illuminated 
the advertised items, making it significantly 
easier for me to distinguish what they were. 
Yet as these products became clearer, they 
simultaneously grew more foreign and 
bizarre. 

The department began with a section 

of over-the-counter “study drugs,” phar-
maceuticals like Adderall, Vyvanse and 

Ritalin — medicine I was almost positive 
you needed a prescription for. Study drugs 
contorted into the store’s book department, 
filled it with “must-read” literature such as 
“Productivity for Dummies,” “The Grass 
Is Always Greener: How to Compete With 
Your Neighbor” and an unnecessary amount 
of text dedicated to the “pull yourselves up 
by the bootstraps” theory. The sales section 
offered “UNBEATABLE DEALS!” — dis-
counted prices of “The Communist Mani-
festo” and “Das Kapital,” both published 
and distributed by Amazon. Though these 
products were on sale, the inventory seemed 
virtually untouched, with dust collecting on 
the crevices of every copy. 

As I moved past the publication depart-

ment, I stumbled into a segment titled 
“Games and Gimmicks.” Right off the bat, 
the region was dominated by an inordinate 
amount of Monopoly boxes, offering all 
themes and variations imaginable. Strangely 
enough, it appeared that Monopoly was the 
only board game the store sold, besides a 
one-off row of Hungry Hungry Hippos. Go 
figure. 

Unlike the game section’s lack of diverse 

offerings, the gimmicks this mysterious 
store offered felt right out of a fever dream. 
Suddenly, I was surrounded by products I 
couldn’t have dreamt up on even the most 
outlandish of nights. 

Adam Smith’s Invisible Hand. A brand 

of lollipops known as Boot Lickers. Krys-
ten Sinema and Joe Manchin bobbleheads. 
Globalization Globes, levied by an export 
tax. Tortoiseshells with Mitch McConnell’s 
head. X Æ A-12 baby dolls. Apple products 
with expiration dates. A life-sized idol of Jor-
dan Belfort, with a voice box that declares 
“Sell me this pen” upon the pull of a string.

Where did these items come from? Who 

could’ve manufactured them? And bet-
ter yet, who’s actually purchasing them? I 
looked around with an eerie sense of amaze-
ment, racking my brain for answers. 

Suddenly, a ubiquitous female voice pro-

truded through the walls: “Please proceed 

forward to maximize customer experience.” 
I recognized the robotic, yet comforting 
feminine rhythm from somewhere, but I 
couldn’t put my finger on it. I looked to the 
top of the walls for speakers, evidence of 
familiarity, and realized the store’s sound 
system consisted of rows of Echo Dots — the 
all-encompassing voice was none other than 
Alexa. I listened dutifully, motivated by an 
unshakable sense of fear, and continued on 
through the shop floor.

Next came the health and food depart-

ments, kicked off by an abundance of Mark 
Zuckerberg-sponsored sunscreen, babyface 
anti-aging cream and Kardashian-endorsed 
diet pills. “LOSE WEIGHT FAST!” the 
bottles screamed out, leading me to question 
my body shape in a store devoid of critical 
onlookers. The supplements dwindled into 
top-shelf meats and produce. I marveled 
at the beauty of the shining kale, spinach 
and arugula, all supplied by Monsanto. The 
greens were regularly upkept by a mist-
ing sprinkler, set off every five minutes on 
the dot. The gorgeous array of vegetables 
was halted by the magnificence of wagyu 
beef and wild-caught salmon, all leading 
up to dry-aged ribeye garnished with gold 
flakes. I had never seen such stunning and 
nutritious food in one congregate area. 
Yet my amazement quickly dwindled as I 
read a small sign conveniently placed at the 
end of the section, preaching “PRODUCE 
AND MEATS RESERVED FOR THE 1% 
INCOME BRACKET. VIOLATORS WILL 
BE PROSECUTED.”

I let out a large sigh, characterized both 

by disgust and exhaustion, yet continued 
down the aisle hoping only to avoid trouble. 
Thank god I didn’t touch anything. The 
coldness of the store almost instantaneously 
morphed into a hot, desert-like climate, leav-
ing me begging for sustenance. Unfortu-
nately, the only products this area sold were 
White Castle’s cheeseburger sliders and 
Arby’s Roast Beef. 

I had to get out of here. I was uneasy, 

uncertain, uncomfortable and unwelcome. 

I no longer wanted to explore my surround-
ings — I needed to locate an exit. The only 
way through is through. I picked up my pace, 
catalyzing an unprovocative yet steady jog, 
desperate to find the end of the perpetual 
grocery store. 

As I ran without an end in sight, I shuffled 

by the “exclusive items” department. 

Stock options. Financial loopholes. Con-

gressional votes. Government access codes. 
Buy one, get one free TV networks. Jeff 
Bezos’ business blueprints. Donald Trump’s 
tax returns. 

All items were available only to those in 

.1% income bracket.

And even with these high-profile, ever-

desired options, the most concerning was yet 
to come. The sign described them as exploit-
ed Workers. “LOW STOCK — ACT FAST! 
CAPABLE HUMAN LABOR! AVAILABLE 
FOR MAXIMUM HOURS NEEDED AND 
MINIMUM PAY.” 

My jaw dropped and my lower lip quiv-

ered with fear. How was this possible? How 
was this allowed? My body was shaking, 
eyes widened with terror. 

“Need any help?” I heard as a man 

touched my shoulder, and I was startled by 
the fact that someone else had been here 
the entire time. I turned around. It was the 
University of Michigan’s President, Mark 
Schlissel. 

I shook my head softly, attempting to dis-

guise my frantic state of mind. I didn’t want 
to cause a scene. I didn’t want to be noticed. 
I had to escape. 

“Find what you’re looking for?” he asked 

with an off-putting cheeriness in his tone. 
He appeared to be a store employee, one that 
was particularly unbothered by the apoca-
lyptic surroundings. I worked up the cour-
age not only to speak, but lie my way out. 

“Actually, I’d love to be directed toward 

the exit. I have an emergency at home I have 
to tend to,” I explained weakly. 

“You’re in the right place then! The cash 

register is right ahead,” he gestured forward.

I proceeded onward and was astounded 

by the sight of three identical, late-aged 
white men, each wearing black jackets, 
white shirts and red ties. Their wrinkles all 
tattooed the same areas of their faces and 
hands. The men appeared to be copy-and-
pasted, with robotic body languages similar 
to that of the Agents in “The Matrix.”

“How can we help you today?” they said 

with a monotone, yet somehow condescend-
ing voice. 

“Can you please point me in the direction 

of the exit?” I asked politely, fronting a care-
fully constructed smile to hide my panic. 

“You have to purchase your items before 

you can leave,” the men explained in unison. 

I was perplexed. I had no items in hand to 

purchase.

BY ANDIE HOROWITZ , STATEMENT MANAGING EDITOR

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