“The Customer is always right,” booms this week’s stand-in Martin Boorman, repeating the klaxon litany of every damned slave auction since antiquity.
The attention of any mark is desireable but when the High Dollar Mark asks for a jumper every fifth column middle management sweat pony in a thirty foot radius will yodel in gospel call-and-answer form, “how high?”
The High Dollar Mark is, after all, the one who greases the wheels of progress; the strength of his patronage is known far and wide and he’s always willing to pay those high import prices.
“Most people in the area don’t appreciate pure, unbleached honey almond flour,” he tells a rabbity-looking fourteen year old stock girl. “Not many people in the U.S. will pay for it, but it would be in their interests to do so.” He chews and licks his lips for a moment. The High Dollar Mark’s skin is pale and soft, almost translucent. “Write that down, would you? Pure, unbleached honey almond flour. With orphan tears. They have to be Bolivian Orphans….not those cheap, gamey Messicans.” He says this last part in a fast, breathy voice, knowing he is relaying information in the stock girl’s dialect. He claps his hand on his left buttock for emphasis and he throws his head back letting out an overly loud, effeminate laugh. The stock girl says nothing, fails to write any of the above down and tries vainly to blink away a tear.
The parade of fresh-faced young grunts in and out of the market is ceaseless, and supply and demand creates a hearty turnover. The light in their eyes is extinguished on a daily basis----they slave away in silent despair over donuts and juice spills, being harped on by Mama Lupo and her hot firebrand of clitoral mutilation; They weep over discrepancies at the cash register and they pick gingerly through maggot-infested vegetables. Now and again one of them gains a semblance of dignity and it’s over---out to the butcher’s for the “Special Treatment”.
No one over eighteen is ever used for hamburger meat---they’re no good to eat by then but it’s never necessary. You push them and push them and it’s only a matter of time before they snap. You tenderize them and then you go in for the finale. The meat is best virginal.
“Much better than that chuck beef the white trash dole out for, “titters the High Dollar Mark.
The minds of the Market are very industrious and they have a deal with all the food co-ops in the region. There’s always plenty of virgin meat to go around and it can easily garner an “Organic” Classification. Everybody wins and a sense of Community is fostered.
The Pillar of the Community nods sagely as the newest shipment of virgin meat comes in. “It’s an Wholistic Approach,” she says. She fingers herself lightly through her skirt and tries to imagine their final moments.
From DOO-DAH Days in Mammon, a work in progress