One time I worked a gig for Yahoo.
They sent me to a grocery store in East Atlanta where I wore a purple t-shirt and bought peoples’ groceries for a couple hours using a company credit card.
Needless to say the whole thing was a PR stunt to make Yahoo look spontaneous and philanthropic. Of course, being a stiff corporation there was nothing in-the-moment or altruistic about it.
The marketing agency that hired me spent months planning the activation, getting permission from grocery stores and then executing nationwide at the same time, on the same day. Even the money itself was chump change, an otherwise tax write-off.
To serve them right, it also went horribly wrong.
For starters, the East Atlanta grocery crowd isn’t exactly la crèm della crèm. Most of them look like they do drugs, and from my own unscientific empirical evidence I can deduce that all of them play the lottery more often than the average citizen.
Now imagine this: here I am with a corporate credit card, sporting a purple t-shirt, totally surrounded by WIC-bearing grocery shoppers. To top it off, it’s holiday season.
It didn’t take more than a few swipes for the sophisticated dinner audience to demand an encore. Employees and patrons alike started calling cousins and parole officers, insisting they come get “their share” of “free grocery day.”
Beyond telecom, a few cashiers even showed off their outside voices and began calling out to me which particular shoppers’ groceries I should buy. Clearly they didn’t think I was qualified to swipe free money arbitrarily, so they joined with their own brand of impartial decision-making.
As I whittled away over $5,000 in < 90 minutes, I started to realize a new trend among shopping carts – they were getting bigger.
But not bigger in terms of more bread, more milk, or more of those fancy little cheese cubes we all love. Rather, these carts were beginning to resemble frat house wish lists: they were stocked with booze.
I distinctly remember my polite refusal to buy one dude’s groceries, which consisted of a pack of gum and 15 bottles of champagne. I might have considered his proposition if they were Andre, but this guy had to go with booze in a box. Word to the wise: never try to get free booze that comes in a box. Alcohol + cardboard = premium.
Around the 2 hour mark I ran out of money. Like, the company credit card literally stopped working. Not to mention the local news had already hit the scene, conducted interviews, and returned to civilization. So what’s the point, right?
My last customer was a guy allegedly named Storm. He seemed honest since he only had a few groceries and no alcohol. I swiped the card, Storm was amazed, and he shook my hand with gratitude.
He said to me, “Hey man, this was really nice of you. I’d like to hook you up with a pie. I make pies man. You want one?”
Having been raised right, I politely told him that of course I wanted one. So he gave me a business card and said to hit him up in a few days. Naturally I was both creeped out and stoked.
Fast forward 3 days.
I call up Storm, and he instantly remembers who I am. Heck, he even thanks me again for buying his groceries. I brush off my shoulder and remind him it’s no problem. After a short discussion, we decide to go with the rhubarb pie and a 7p meet time at his humble abode in East Atlanta.
A few hours later, I head out to the rendezvous with a few extra bucks in my pocket because I figure it might be nice to tip the guy. After all, any man who makes pies for a living out of his house in East Atlanta has some serious issues. I also just thought I could go the extra mile and hook up Storm a second time.
I find the apartment complex, drive slowly over 13 speed bumps to his building, and patiently wait for him to come outside. Sure enough he walks up to my car with a hot, foil-wrapped pie.
Within seconds of handing me the goods he says “That’ll be $15…”
…
Disclaimer
During this time of my life I was ill-prepared for the evils of society. As I blog this memory in sour retrospect I acknowledge that had this happened today, I would have curb-stomped Storm the Pie Guy. Thank you Georgia State University.
Being that it was Christmas season and I was 20 years old, however, I obliged and paid the fee.
I am forever bitter that I spent $15 on a home-made pie from an illegal cook in shoddy East Atlanta whose ingredients to make the pie had been previously purchased by a combination of Yahoo corporate guilt and my own volition.
So don’t be like Storm the Pie Guy. Pay it forward.