A Brief Investigation Into Why Everything Costs Exactly What They Said It Wouldn’t...

Did you ever notice that the price of something is increasingly becoming the one amount of money you can be absolutely certain you will not pay?

There was apparently a time when prices served a useful purpose. An item cost $10; you handed somebody $10, and, with the minor intervention of sales tax, you went home with the item.

Simple... Convenient... Civilized. We have moved beyond such primitive commerce. Today, $10 is less of a price and more of an opening statement, or appetizer if you will. It's the financial equivalent of somebody saying, “Have a seat. We have several other matters to discuss.”

Take movie theaters. You can still occasionally find a perfectly reasonable ticket price. Ten bucks, perhaps. Maybe twelve. That seems fair. You're about to sit in an enormous, climate-controlled room and watch a movie that cost more to produce than several Caribbean nations combined.

Then you approach the concession stand.

“Medium popcorn, please.”

“Certainly. That'll be $13.75.”

Excuse me? Did you personally grow the corn? Was there a crop failure? Were these kernels individually harvested by union laborers from a remote mountain province? It's popcorn guys... Somebody poured approximately 38 cents' worth of agricultural material into a machine and exploded it.

Then you order a soda. Eight dollars. At eight dollars, I should not merely receive Coke; I should also receive Coca-Cola stock. Yet people pay it. That's the fascinating part. Nobody looks at the menu anymore and screams, “SEVEN DOLLARS FOR JUNIOR MINTS?! WHAT THE HELL?” We've simply accepted that entering a movie theater temporarily suspends normal economic law.

Which explains why otherwise respectable suburban families are now conducting covert snack ops, like it's the national pastime. It's 97 degrees outside. Dad pulls into the theater parking lot and turns around.

“All right, everybody. Suit up.”

The children begin putting on winter coats and ski suits.

“Dad, I'm hot.”

“Do you want your Junior Mints or NOT?”

“Yes...”

“Then move! Your body heat will melt them into an end table; get to your seat!”

Mom is stuffing two bottles of water into her sleeves and into her oversized purse. Little Timmy has a family-size bag of Doritos strapped beneath his sweatshirt, like SEAL Team Six. Emily is waddling toward the entrance with three Capri Suns hidden in her sweats.

“Dad, the Doritos are poking me.”

“Freedom has a price, son.”

They approach the ticket taker dressed for the Iditarod in August. The employee stares at them menacingly. Dad stares back, wildly blinking. Nobody speaks. crinkle... crinkle... crinkle...

“Enjoy the movie.”

“Thank you... Ouch!”

'Operation Junior Mint' was a success.

Then there's the printer. Printers are perhaps the most beautifully refined version of this entire business model because they're practically giving away the hostage taker.

You walk into a store and see:

WIRELESS COLOR PRINTER — $49.99

Scanner!

Copier!

Wi-Fi!

Probably capable of communicating with satellites! Forty-nine dollars! You take it home feeling like you just robbed Hewlett-Packard at gunpoint. Three weeks later:

LOW CYAN.

Fine. You need ink; what's the big deal? Seventy-six dollars... WHOA... Hold on! The ink costs more than the printer? Yes, of course it does. You immediately understand why the printer was $49. The printer wasn't the product. You were... Welcome to the land of bait-and-switch! We hope you have a wonderful stay, and don't forget to fill out the comment card before you leave.

What's worse... you need to print one black-and-white shipping label. You click Print. Nothing. An error message appears in the little digital window:

CANNOT PRINT: MAGENTA DEPLETED.

"Why do I need magenta?"

There isn't any magenta in the document. There isn't even happiness in the document. It's a return label. But the printer has spoken. Apparently, somewhere deep inside this $49 machine is a tiny hostage negotiator saying:

“Nobody prints anything until we get magenta. No magenta, no printy!”

Airlines have perfected another version of the technique. You see the advertisement:

FLY TO ORLANDO - $79!

"Seventy-nine dollars?! Are you kidding me? Fantastic!"

You begin your booking process. Would you like to select your seat? "Of course."

*Fee*

Will you be bringing luggage? "Naturally."

*Fee*

Would you like that luggage to accompany you on the same airplane?

"Uhhh... Presumably."

*Fee*

Would you prefer a seat where your knees aren't physically pressed against the passenger in front of you? "Sigh... meh..."

*Premium upgrade*

By the time you reach checkout, your $79 flight costs $286.47. You stare at the screen, hoping the math will stop mathing. Where did $79 go? Oh, it's still there. It's simply buried beneath seventeen other charges like an archaeological artifact. Good luck on your destination!

Hotels are equally creative.

ROOMS FROM $129!

"Great." You stay one night. Perfectly ordinary hotel. Bed, television, blankets, a pillow, one micro bar of soap that will dissolve the instant it encounters water. One small bottle of shampoo apparently designed for a hamster. Then checkout arrives.

Room: $129.

Taxes.

Tourism assessment.

Facility charge.

Destination fee.

And then:

RESORT FEE - $38

Resort? Sir, this hotel is beside an interstate in Ohio. The swimming pool is still covered with a blue tarp. The ice machine on the third floor sounds like it's attempting to digest a socket wrench. What exactly constitutes the resort? Is it the waffle maker downstairs that looks like it should have a teardrop tattoo and be confined to its cell?

Concert tickets might be the reigning champions of creative mathematics.

TICKETS: $40

Sounds satisfactory upon first inspection. You click it:

Ticket: $40.

Service fee: $12.

Processing fee: $8.

Venue fee: $6.

Electronic delivery fee: $4.

Electronic delivery fee? You emailed me a barcode. What did you deliver it with, mounted cavalry? Then there's always some beautifully named charge like: Convenience Fee.

This term requires further investigation... If I'm the person paying the convenience fee, shouldn't I determine whether I was convenienced?

“Sir, there's a $14 convenience fee. I have been inconvenienced by this information.”

Nevertheless, it's convenient. As they could have send your printed barcode by carrier pigeon. "How can this be a convenience? I paid for it... Who exactly is benefiting the most from this transaction?? Huh!?"

Nobody answers. You simply watch your $40 ticket become $78.63 and wonder whether the band will be so far away that you will be watching them on the TRINITRON.

We can forget about rental cars.

$31 PER DAY! Three days equal $93 dollars. Got it. Easy. You return the car.

Total:

$217.46.

What happened?! Apparently the vehicle spent the weekend collecting taxes and running Uber Eats. It must have just slipped your mind:

1. Airport concession recovery fee.

2. Facility fee.

3. Vehicle licensing recovery charge.

4. Tourism assessment.

5. Customer facility charge.

6. Transportation surcharge.

There are so many unexplained items that somewhere near the bottom you half expect to find:

STEVE - $4.17

Who is Steve? Nobody knows and nobody cares. Perhaps he works behind the counter. Maybe that was the tip total from his Uber excursion? At this point, we're not even angry about the money. We just want someone to explain when we collectively changed the definition of price??

Price used to mean:

The amount of money required to purchase something.

Today it apparently means:

The smallest number the marketing department could legally place in the advertisement, without the federal authorities flagging it.

And we've all accepted it. That's the strangest part. We've become so accustomed to discovering that the price isn't actually the price that an honest transaction would probably frighten us. Just imagine walking into a convenience store. There's a banana lying before you.
Sign says: BANANA - 79¢ You bring it to the counter.

“How much is this?”

“Seventy-nine cents.”

You narrow your eyes, preparing for the shoe to drop.

“Including what?”

“The banana.”

“No produce-access fee?”

“Nope.”

“Peel licensing?”

“No.”

“Agricultural convenience assessment?”

“No.”

The cashier looks concerned.

"Sir... it's just a banana."

You hand over a dollar. They give you change. You walk outside, so stunned you have to lean against the ice machine for a moment. For the first time in years, something actually cost what somebody said it cost. Perhaps there's hope for civilization after all. Then, you look down at your receipt.

CARD PROCESSING FEE - $0.12

You close your eyes and start to shake your head. "Of course." And somewhere across town, a father wearing a North Face parka in 97-degree heat quietly enters Theater Seven with six pounds of contraband strapped to his torso. His daughter whispers:

“Dad, my Junior Mints are melting.”

He doesn't break stride. He has trained for this.

“Keep moving, Emily, we're almost home free!”