“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
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