Representatives of five major retail outlets are sitting around a conference table, contemplating a dismal report on North American spending habits. A sixth man, who calls himself Smith despite the fact that nobody believes that it’s his real name, sits there as well. Smith represents MultiNatCorp, a major contributor of products to the retailers and the organization which conducted the study that is depressing them so.
“Gentlemen,” Bubba Wilmuth, a ruddy, middle-aged man who always seems on the verge of apoplexy, states, “We have a very serious crisis brewing, here. A very serious crisis!”
Indeed. OpinionInc, the research branch of MultiNatCorp, had conducted thousands of interviews across the continent, and everywhere the situation was the same: people intended to spend as little of their disposable income as possible on holiday giving. The profits of the retailers, to come quickly to the bottom line, had already hit a peak years ago, and would continue to decline.
Arnold faltemeyer, a nondescript little man, nervously wipes his face with a handkerchief. “Are you…absolutely certain?” he asks.
“Come on, Arnie!” Jethro Bowden, an imposing block of a man, blurts. “We all know the figures! Why…how else do you think sworn competitors would agree to a secret meeting? There is definitely a bad trend at work…”
“But, what can we do?” Mike Rutherford, a young, but clever, no-nonsense sort of person, asks.
“Gentlemen,” Smith, expressionless, monotonal, states, bringing his briefcase up to the table, “We believe there is a solution…”
The five men give Smith all their attention as he opens his briefcase. If he enjoys the power he holds over them, he doesn’t show it. “We believe that an additional holiday will increase your retail sales substantially…”
Enoch Woodman, the oldest executive in attendance, but no less to be feared for it, snorts. “Another holiday?” he inquires, rudely. “There’s nothing left to celebrate!”
“Oh, but there is,” Smith, fearless, corrects him, taking five copies of the proposal out of his briefcase. “Consumers’ Day.”
Smith distributes the proposal. Rutherford and Bowden look through it eagerly; the others are skeptical. “Consider it,” Smith says. “A day devoted to spending money. Spend it on a friend! Spend it on a lover! Spend it on yourself! Be extravagant and don’t feel the least bit of guilty over it – after all, spending money is what Consumers’ Day is all about!”
“But…there is more to it than that, right?” Faltemeyer hopefully suggests.
Smith spreads his arms expansively. “Of course,” he assures them. “Consuming is patriotic. Consuming is the cornerstone of our economy. Consumption puts clothes on the backs of your friends and helps your neighbour put food in the mouths of his children. With a good advertising campaign – think of the possibilities, gentlemen! – Consumers’ Day could be the greatest thing since the creation of Christmas! Better! It appeals to people of all faiths and most beliefs!”
Wilmuth, disbelieving: “The government would never agree to such a thing!”
Smith holds up a hand. “We have already started feeling out some senior politicians in Washington. Reaction has been…guardedly favourable. If necessary, we have an excellent lobby group there. But, I get ahead of myself. We…we don’t like to throw our weight around unless it is absolutely necessary and – trust me, gentlemen – another six months of economic decline, and Washington will be begging us to do something.”
“It’ll never work,” Woodman mutters. “By the time your Consumers’ Day has established itself, we’ll all be out of business!”
“We have considered that possibility,” Smith states. “If you’ll turn to page 38…” All do, anxiously. “We offer two slightly different scenarios, both of which would bring Consumers’ Day to the immediate attention of the money-spending, gift-buying public. Your customers. I prefer the second, mysel -“
“This is ghastly!” Wilmuth interrupts.
“Sick!” Faltemeyer agrees.
“Business,” Smith says with a shrug. “The first scenario involves getting a bum, somebody whose origins cannot possibly be traced, dressing him up like a wealthy man and having him die in one of your stores. We have chemicals for the purpose…”
“What would this accomplish?” Rutherford harshly asks.
“Television coverage,” Smith tells him. “This man will give the holiday a raison d’etre. He will become a universal Everyman – or, at least, Everyconsumer. With a monument to his memory…”
“The Tomb of the Unknown Consumer?” Rutherford reads.
“Exactly. Annual pilgrimages to the Tomb could be part of the Consumers’ Day festivities. What we must do is create an instant mythology that will make Consumers’ Day more than a mere civic holiday. For this to work, we must have broad appeals to the public’s emotions.”
“This second scenario,” Faltemeyer hesitatingly says, “you can’t be serious…”
“Ah, but we are,” Smith responds. “Deadly serious. We can, for a ridiculously small fee, set up a terrorist attack on one of your establishments. Hostages will be taken. Merchandise will be destroyed. The manager will, sadly, be killed…”
“You mean,” Bowden interjects, “one of us has to die?”
“That is what we are suggesting, yes,” Smith replies. The men contemplate this possibility in silence. “What would make this holiday different from Groundhog Day? We need a martyr, somebody the surviving retailers could point to and say: ‘He died, that you may buy!’ It has to be an emotional wallop that would keep you in customers for an eternity!”
“But,” Wilmuth protests, “one of us will have to die!”
“Oh,” Smith responds, “what are three or four lives when compared with billions of dollars of profit?”
“If it’s such a great thing,” Bowden angrily asks, “why don’t you die for this cause?”
“I wish I could,” Smith answers, almost wistfully, “but, for this sacrifice to mean anything, it must be made by somebody who actually controls some of the stores involved…”
The men read for several more minutes, after which Smith collects the reports. With a shrug, he explains: “It wouldn’t do for this information to get into the wrong hands – some people just don’t know what’s best for them…”
Nobody responds. As he gets up to leave, Smith smiles thinly, a smile that reveals nothing. “I trust you’ll let us know what your decision is,” he says, and walks out.
The room is still for an awfully long time.