The Piggly Wiggly is out of Cinna-Stars cereal. What a stupid way to go broke.
Oh, they have the off-brand. Cinnamon Galaxies, with their smug little astronaut holding a spoon out in the void, like he’s about to open up his face plate to shove some into his mouth hole, only to have his brains sucked out into the vacuum of space. Or whatever happens up there. What would I know about that? I just buy groceries for rich assholes for a living.
I want to pull my own gas mask off, rip open a box of Galaxies and give them a try, see if they’re a suitable replacement. But that’d be pointless. It’s never about the taste for my clients. It’s about the status. I give them a box of the off-brand, and the next time they’re hosting a soiree, some stockbroker opens a cupboard, sees the cheap shit and says, “My my, Nelson, you’ve fallen on hard times!” and then they’re the laughingstock of the neighborhood, jettisoned from society, cast out into the Valley without their top-of-the-line air filters, all because some punk-ass Shopper bought them Cinnamon Galaxies instead of Cinna-Stars.
They probably have Cinna-Stars in Asheville, but that’s a good fifteen miles away and if I got jumped with all the rest of Nelson’s groceries, I may as well take the gas mask off right now and save myself the trouble.
I’ve resigned myself to showing up with only 98% of the groceries on the list and receiving only 25% of my pay as a result, when I see it. The cereal aisle ends right in front of the meat shelves and there’s another Shopper looking for the right cut of steak. He’s comparing thickness, weight, date, probably texture and antibiotic levels too, and his back is turned. His cart is almost full, but halfway up, pressed against the right side, is a pristine Family Size box of Cinna-Stars.
It will be mine.
There’s no time to plan. He won’t be looking at steaks forever.
His cart is positioned broadside to my aisle and I go for it. I grip the handlebar and take off at a sprint. He hears the squeaky wheel and without even turning around to see what I’m about to do, he crouches down with his shoulder against his cart. It’s too late for me to stop. When I make contact, the impact that should knock his cart over and send the Cinna-Stars spilling out is transferred to him. I don’t even knock him all the way down. He grips the edge of the meat shelf and he’s back on his feet in seconds. This is not his first rodeo. Shit.
Now that I get a better look at him, I know I’m outclassed. The guy’s gas mask is a new model, Omni-Seal brand with the slim adhesive face grip, not like my bulky apparatus that makes me look like a ghost from World War 2. Dude’s even got a ShockStick in his belt, and honestly, if he decides to use it, I’m just going to let him. I’ve earned it. He’s clearly got a Patron; he’s not a freelancer like me.
To my surprise, instead of popping me with enough volts to cook a chicken, he puts both his hands up like he’s surrendering.
“What do I have that you need, friend?” he asks. His voice is clear.
I’m completely unprepared for his tone and his accent. He sounds almost posh, with that crisp unaccented diction you only hear out of newscasters. Definitely not from the Carolinas.
Everything about this interaction is confusing. There’s no point in trying to play tricks. Best to be honest.
“The Cinna-Stars,” I say.
He grabs the box from his cart. “This? I’ve heard good things about them. But you probably need them more than I do.” He proffers them to me.
Hesitantly, I take them, expecting him to have a spring-loaded bear trap up his sleeve and snap my forearm in half. But no. He lets go as soon as my hands are on the box.
“Do you have any recommendations for a replacement?” he asks. “I was hoping to try them out.”
I have no answer. It’s a simple question, but there’s so much about it that makes no sense. Nobody actually inside a grocery store ever cares what something tastes like. We only care what our clients think it tastes like. Unless his Patron actually allows him to eat meals with them, there is only one explanation.
“Are you…shopping for yourself?” I ask. I should be sprinting away, straight through the barcode scanners and out to my car, but I’m too fascinated. Nobody shops for themselves. That’s like cleaning the toilets in a public restroom for fun. You let the professionals handle it or you could get killed.
“Figured I’d give it a go,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. Like he isn’t one wrong move away from ending up in the body disposal units behind the Piggly Wiggly.
I suddenly become aware of how vulnerable I am, distracted by this strange man. I’m easy prey. Anybody could sneak up behind me and sever my oxygen tank or steal from my cart. I whip my head around, but it’s just us.
“You haven’t answered my question, friend,” the stranger says.
“Uh, right. Cinnamon Galaxies,” I say. “I hear they taste the same.”
“Very kind of you.” He makes a gesture like he’s tipping his cap at me. His Omni-Seal doesn’t budge, not even a millimeter.
I nod to him and sprint out of the store, past the scanners at the door charging everything to my client’s account. On my way to load up my rusted Honda, I pass a 2051 Jaguar Luna, with solar panels so efficient, they charge in the moonlight. There’s only one person that car could belong to. What the fuck is he doing here?
“Congratulations, Maddox, you’re a star on RichTok,” my roommate, Nance, says when I get back to our apartment.
Nance’s job is combing through privileged people’s posts on social media and calling out problematic behavior to his substantial following. Enough rich people feel guilty enough to send him some cash to his Patreon that he doesn’t need to do anything else. Still, he hasn’t moved into a better neighborhood yet, so he can’t be doing that well.
“Shit, he was filming?” It has to be the guy from the grocery store. I can’t think of another interaction I’ve had that’d be worthy of going viral online.
“Livestreaming.” Nance points me to his computer screen as I watch myself charging down the cereal aisle. The bastard had a rear-facing camera. No wonder he was ready for me.
“Hilarious try with ramming his cart,” Nance says. “You would’ve gotten your ass kicked if he wasn’t trying to make himself look like a hero.”
“Lucky me.”
“I’ll say. I’ve been scrolling through this guy’s posts. He’s been training in jiu jitsu for three months to participate in an ‘Empathy Challenge,’ where they try to see how the less fortunate live.”
I laugh. “Yes, we less fortunate with our personal combat instructors, Omni-Seal masks, ShockSticks, rear-facing cameras with live feed to our eyepieces, Jaguar Lunas, and then driving back to our mansions in Biltmore Forest.”
Nance narrows his eyes. “How’d you know where he lives?”
“Where else could he possibly live?” Biltmore Forest is one of the last places in the Blue Ridge Mountains that still has birds. They built a dome over it to keep the poisoned air out. But if I even get within sight of the Biltmore Dome, I’ll get shot by a sniper. Can’t have the rabble lowering property values.
“Fair point,” Nance says. “If you’re curious, RichTok seems to like you well enough. You didn’t actually try to kill the guy, so they think you’re one of the good ones.”
“That’s me. A noble savage.”
Nance snort laughs. “You want to monetize this?”
“How much?” I would rather die than be on social media regularly, but I’d be willing to open an account for a few weeks to rake in extra some money.
Nance shrugs. “A few thousand, maybe. The guy you ran into has a pretty big following. He might even signal boost you if you make a post asking for money, then we’re talking tens of thousands. At least enough to cover expenses for a few months.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Oh, man, you don’t understand rich people at all, do you? They’ll do anything to make themselves feel like good people as long as they can keep some distance from the rest of us.”
I can feel the genesis of an idea brewing in me. I should just count myself lucky I ran into this rich guy, milk it while I can, and then get on with my life. But if I were the type of person who made good decisions, I probably wouldn’t have ended up as a Shopper.
“Besides going to grocery stores, what other things do they do for these Empathy Challenges?”
“It’s all stupid. Like eating ramen for a week, wiping their asses with the single-ply paper, going a day without air conditioning.”
I shake my head. “I’m not interested in what they do at home. What types of things get them out of the Dome?”
Nance pauses. “Why?”
“Because if a single interaction with a rich guy can pay the bills for a month, just think how much a recurring character could earn.”