A Fickle Fortune

Something’s not right. Why is there a camera crew here?

I slow my approach and narrow my eyes. A quick scan of the area reveals that everything else seems to be in place. The cashiers are scanning and bagging items like they do day in, day out. There’s a soda can pyramid advertising discount cola next to a complex, ten-foot toilet paper structure that, while impressive, makes me wonder how anyone could grab a pack without causing the entire tower to collapse, Jenga-style.

So why has my unremarkable local supermarket attracted the attention of a suited, microphone-wielding man whose strained smile suggests he might need that cheap toilet paper before I even make it through the turnstiles?

Then it hits me with the caffeine level force of a discount cola pyramid.

Somebody’s about to win a prize.

And that somebody could be me.

The suited man is watching me walk slowly to the store entrance when his attention is suddenly diverted to another man who cuts in along the sidewalk. He’s walking quickly and, from the look on his face - something between utter desperation and murderous hostility - I can see that he has also realized what’s going on.

My mind races with calculations. If this is one of those prizes that requires you to buy an item, we’ve got an even shot. And surely it’s the cola or the toilet paper given their prominence. I didn’t come here to buy either - just need deodorant, actually - but they’re both items that will see eventual use so I’m willing to take the hit if it means scoring the jackpot.

But the suited man has moved away from the display area and is watching us like a tennis spectator; short, sharp head movements between me and my adversary. I eye off the competition. He’s older than me - probably around forty - has the broad shoulders of a former footballer and the five o’clock shadow of a guy whose body clock thinks it’s midnight. Despite his hirsuteness and apparent athleticism, he’s clearly panicking. First, he speeds up toward the supermarket turnstiles, then he backs off when the suited man turns to me.

It’s a race, but we don’t know if coming first or second makes you the winner.

There’s nothing else for it. My dad’s advice sounds clearly in my head. “Only losers wait for their opponent to make the first move.” Probably not the most appropriate direction to give a ten-year-old entering his first elementary school chess tournament, but my old man is a wildly competitive beast. He once tried to break the world record for eating the most hazelnut chocolate balls in one minute and ended up writhing on the floor, choking to death until mom dragged in the garden hose and blasted the delicious treats down his throat.

My dad’s dance with death firms up my resolve. I charge ahead, duck in front of my adversary and burst through the turnstile so hard, I may need a hip replacement.

A confetti cannon hidden behind the toilet paper skyscraper blasts a billion pieces of brilliantly colored environmental hazards into the air, and music blares through the tinny supermarket speakers. It’s the company jingle, which sounds suspiciously like a Meghan Trainor song: It’s all about the deals, ‘bout the deals, no rip-offs. We’re bringing discounts back, go tell all them pricey big stores that.

If Megs turns up, these guys are in for a serious lawsuit.

The anxious suited man greets me as though he’s my BFF. “Congratulations, sir!” he says, half to me, half to the camera that’s now trained on me like a prison guard’s eyes. “You’re Food Frenzy’s one millionth customer.”

The cashiers give a pathetic cheer, clearly briefed to feign excitement at my arrival despite it having zero impact on their pay checks.

Suited man puts his arm around my shoulder and angles me toward the camera. “Tell us, sir, what’s your name?”

“Damien.”

“Damien, this is your lucky day. To celebrate Food Frenzy serving one million happy customers, you’ve just won a cash prize of twenty thousand dollars!”

It strikes me that a million bucks would have been more consistent with the theme of a million customers, but I don’t want to sound ungrateful. “That’s amazing,” I say. “Thank you so much, Food Frenzy!”

More uninspired cheering from the staff.

We go through some obligatory questioning and the presentation of a giant, novelty check by the store manager, and then they whisk me away to sign some paperwork. Apparently, they’ll use the footage for marketing purposes and in-house corporate training.

Thirty minutes later, I don’t have my deodorant - it seemed like an anticlimactic purchase after the confetti cannon - but I am striding down the street twenty large richer than when I rolled out of bed this morning. Even the absurdity of carrying the novelty check home- they insisted I take it; wouldn’t fit in the store’s recycling bin - can’t dampen my mood.

I’m thinking about what I’ll do with the money, but not a single sensible suggestion has yet presented itself. So far it’s all pinball machines, indoor Jacuzzis, and a pet sloth. Maybe the forty-year old guy would have used it on his mortgage or something but I’m twenty-six and, despite my crippling student debt, I can’t help imagining how awesome it would be to have a pet sloth that wears a waistcoat.

“Would you like to buy some cookies, sir?”

The voice rips me out of my sloth-filled daydream and I check my step so I don’t bowl over the little pigtailed Girl Scout standing right in the middle of the sidewalk. Despite her tiny frame - she must be about eight years old - she has her feet planted wide apart to create maximum blockage.

I can’t get past.

Smart kid.

My dad would like her.

She opens a small, black notebook and places a pen on the page. “We’re selling cookies to raise money for the Girl Scouts. How many would you like to buy?”

She smiles up at me but there’s a cold calculation in her eyes that sends my amygdala into overdrive. I can’t fight - she’s a Girl Scout - but flight isn’t an option either given her strategic positioning.

Man, she’s good.

I go for United Nations. “I’m sorry but I don’t have any money.”

She points to the giant check under my arm. “What’s that?”

I chuckle at her youthful naivety. “It’s a novelty check. It’s not legal tender.”

She doesn’t even blink. “Give it to me, then.”

“What? No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a twenty thousand dollar check. I’m not giving it to a Girl Scout, no matter how many badges you’ve sewn onto that uniform.”

“Thereby proving you’re a liar.”

“What are you in Mensa or something? How do you know the word ‘thereby’?”

She grabs at the check.

Her skinny arms are surprisingly strong and I have to tighten my grip to white knuckle strength to maintain possession. “Stop it!” I say. “This is ridiculous!”

“You’re ridiculous!” she yells. “Stop lying and buy some cookies!”

Her sweet yet menacing cries attract the attention of passers-by. A crowd surrounds us like a middle school ring of death. I expect to hear a “fight, fight” chant break out.

Instead, a gruff voice blasts into my eardrums. “What are you doing, man? She’s just a kid.”

It’s the dude I beat out for the prize, which is extremely bad news because this fight just went from being totally fair to dangerously stacked in the Girl Scout’s favor. He joins in the yanking of the check and nearly rips my shoulders out of their sockets.

I hold strong for a few seconds, but the burning pain is too much and I lose my grip. The man and girl tumble backward. He throws himself sideways to avoid crushing her and lands on the Girl Scout display table. Cookie boxes fly through the air. One zips past my ear and another cracks right into my forehead with its hazardously sharp edge. I feel a warm trickle of blood run down my cheek.

“What’s going on here?!” It’s a woman in a Girl Scout leader’s uniform. She crouches down to help her young charge off the ground.

The Warren Buffet protégé screws up her nose and points at me like I’m some sort of extremist anti-cookie advocate. “He lied and said he had no money to support us. Then he pushed me over.”

There’s a collective intake of breath from the “fight, fight” crowd.

“You pushed over a Girl Scout?” the woman says, utterly incredulous, as though her mini clone is incapable of heinous fiscal entrapment.

“She fell over trying to rip the check out of my hand,” I explain with the voice of reason.

The woman shakes her head slowly. “She’s eight years old.”

“Yeah, but she’s also a financial mastermind.”

A middle-aged man bustles his way through the salivating throng, clearing a path with his elbows. It’s the Food Frenzy store manager. His face is flushed and there’s sweat pouring down his face. “What’s the meaning of this?” he roars.

“Just a misunderstanding,” I say, suddenly concerned that my sloth is skating on thin ice, which would otherwise be a hilarious sight but is now a harbinger of doom.

My vanquished supermarket foe has picked himself up and taken on the role of self-appointed judge, jury and executioner. “Damien was fighting with this poor girl when I came to her aid.”

I scoff. “So you remember my name but you can’t remember what actually happened thirty seconds ago.”

The store manager gets right up in my grill. “Mr Withers, your actions have brought Food Frenzy into disrepute.”

“What?! You’re the guys ripping off Meghan Trainor!”

“Under the terms of the brand ambassador contract you signed, you have forfeited your right to the twenty thousand dollar prize.”

“Are you kidding me?”

I look around the crowd for support, but all I get is aggressively judgmental nodding interspersed with justice is served grunts.

The store manager picks up the now-scuffed and slightly torn check and hands it to the guy I beat to the prize, and he puts his arm around the little cookie seller. The woman in the Girl Scout uniform holds his hand. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he says to the girl. “You’re safe now.”

I study them closely. The girl looks like a suspicious mix of the man and woman.

Realization dawns. “You’re a family,” I whisper, now knowing exactly how Luke Skywalker felt.

I can’t prove it, but I’m convinced they set the whole thing up.

“You should have just bought some cookies,” the daughter says, as sweet as chocolate chip with a hint of rat poison.

There’s nothing else for it. I hear my dad’s voice again. “Never give an inch, never give up, and never let them see you bleed.” (He really is an inappropriately competitive man.)

It’s too late to do anything about the bleeding, but I’m not willing to give up. I duck and weave in a blinding flash, grab hold of a packet of raspberry swirls from the pile on the ground, and take off like an Olympic sprinter. I leave the crowd behind and bust out onto the open path to freedom. My lungs are burning. My heart is racing. My mind is dizzy with triumph.

I tear open the box.

It’s empty.

I flip it over and there’s a sticker on the side that reads: Display only.

Why couldn’t I have been hit with display box instead of the full, head-splitting pack?

I know the answer. It’s because, as I’ve just learned, fortune is fickle.

And you don’t mess with Girl Scouts.