The House Always Wins: Part Four
An Absurdist Exposé on The Supermarket Conspiracy that Will Change the Way You Shop Forever! - Are Consumers Bagging Bargains or Just Rolling the Dice? The Supermarket's Casinoesque Secrets Revealed!"
👋Thanks for visiting! Whether you made it here by reading attentively or scrolling furiously, it’s nice to have you along for the ride. I want to avoid paywalls, but keeping the lights on isn’t always easy. Subscribing via 💸Patreon for just $2.50 a month💸 unlocks early access to upcoming releases, plus a few other sweet treats. Alternatively, please tickle your 🧠dopamine receptors here🧠 if impulse generosity is more your vibe. In any case, simply 📧subscribing for free📧 remains the best way to support my writing. See you again soon!✍️
The Supermarket's illuminated turnstiles swish open to welcome me inside. My first steps immediately heighten the baseline anxiety unique to this whacky century. I'm overstimulated, overcautious, overly suspicious, selfish and mildly self-conscious. There's music, lights, crowds, corporate chauvinism, looming financial distress and the sense that technological advancements are only making everything worse.
Summing it all up, while The Supermarket's flashy propaganda hangs from every surface as if this is 1930s Nuremberg, I note a comparatively tame poster pinned to a fridge just visible from the entrance. It advises (though warns seems more fitting) that The Supermarket is currently trialling new facial recognition software. I glance around as casually as possible in search of a security camera. I see one staring down at me and quickly avert my gaze. We'll come back to this… For now, though, I need… uh? What was it again? Groceries! Yes, groceries. Okay. Let's go. No more distractions. I can do this. Only I can't because no one can. The Supermarket shifts around me like a camera gravitating a gimbal. I stand motionless as the tiles rush beneath me in a smear of scenery. I stumble, dizzy and dazed and realise I have, somehow, drifted into the produce section, though it's possible the produce section may have drifted into me.
I catch myself examining a dragon fruit like my life depends on unravelling its secrets. I don't think this was an entirely conscious decision. I don't even know if I like dragon fruit and can't imagine a scenario that would make me suddenly need one.
Apparently, The Supermarket exclusively sells dragon fruits that have been sliced in half and plastic-wrapped into a styrofoam tray. And despite its protective skin, I can see why. This otherworldly fruit's interior looks like a contemporary art piece, its neon pink skin neatly contrasted by its white flesh and black seeds. Everything about it (aside from the taste) sets my appetite on edge. But who's buying them? I never really see these things anywhere but right here. I certainly never see them in people's (AKA: consumer's) homes. And why would anyone need a pre-sliced dragon fruit anyway?
Perhaps these easy-to-cultivate and relatively inexpensive fruits are like the loss leaders we met in the previous section. Is The Supermarket pouring finite resources into producing future landfill that looks nice simply to lure consumers deeper into its depths?
Thankfully, unlike the plants and flowers, the dragon fruit doesn't speak. It just sits in its plastic prison and stares at me with hundreds of seedy eyes. I blink around and try to trace the unconscious path I took to get here.
But when my gaze returns to the dragon fruit, I see its seeds moving like bacteria under a microscope, forming shapes and pictures that match the dragon fruit's telepathic thoughts.
'Remember what the flowers told you?' The dragon fruit's seeds form a caricature of the grouchy pothos. 'There's a reason for everything within these walls. You're standing here in the produce section because, like all humans, seeing fresh food encourages an appetite. The Supermarket then directs this energy towards its more profitable impulse purchases. Welcome to what's known as the decompression zone. This is, more or less, the airlock that separates you from your senses and kicks your lizard brain into overdrive. The Supermarket's fruits and vegetables-'
'Hey!' The flowers from the previous section shout from the entrance. 'Don't forget us!' they holler in unison.
'Yes, and flowers,' the dragon fruit concedes. 'All of this freshness by the entrance… How about we let Louise Grimmer, one of Australia's leading retail researchers, explain.' The dragon fruit's seeds show a woman standing by a chalkboard, pointing to the words as they appear:
"When we see fresh things, like flowers and fruit and vegetables, it puts us in a good mood, we might be more relaxed, and we're going to spend more money if we're relaxed and feeling good."
I look up just as a handful of consumers stumble through the turnstile. Each wanders directly into the produce section and begins examining random fruits and vegetables in a trance. One picks up a leek, smiles, puts it back down and then looks around as if they have forgotten where they are.
But this all seems a little more complicated than the floral loss-leaders. After all, marketplaces essentially sprung up to sell fresh produce, and The Supermarket is no exception. This is, and has been, a huge part of its business for a long time. Surely, positioning fresh produce near the exits rather than right by the entrance makes more sense from a consumer's perspective. If fruits and vegetables were the last things consumers purchased, they would stay fresh rather than wind up juiced beneath their stacked trolleys.
'Yes, but you're forgetting something very simple,' the dragon fruit says. 'The house always wins!' Its seeds rearrange into a jingling slot machine that hits a three-shopping trolley jackpot. 'Just look around. You're still making conscious choices, but The Supermarket's bright lights, steady tempo music and colourful signage are editing your subconscious desires. Nothing about The Supermarket's design places the consumers' convenience above their exploitation. Just as casinos are not designed to help gamblers win money or leave, The Supermarket is deliberately structured to waste as much of your time and money as possible. Both institutions pour endless resources into micromanaging the walking wallets who step through their doors. They do this with subtle psychological suggestions that maximise profitability by inducing confusion. Like casinos, The Supermarket suspends the flow of time by incorporating no windows or clocks into its architecture. It also tweaks the internal radio to manipulate the underlying tone. Likewise, just as casinos herd gamblers on their way to the card tables via the slot machines and force them to tangle through the card tables to reach the bathrooms, The Supermarket trots consumers seeking paper towels via its chocolate and energy drink promotions.
'But, unlike The Supermarket - and thanks largely to the architectural insights of Roger Thomas - casinos have undergone something of a renaissance in recent years. Casinos have shifted from bleak backrooms to elaborate sensory dreamscapes that stupify gamblers into submission rather than relying on deliberately confusing, dingy and oppressive spaces to cage them in. Comparatively, and despite evidence showing how severely these tactics crush mental and physical health, The Supermarket is happily sticking with its claustrophobic rat maze nightmares. Not surprising, really. What are consumers to The Supermarket if not gamblers and addicts in waiting? Just look at the produce section.'
I look out at the stacked melons and neatly arranged shallots.
'Sure, its primary purpose is to sell, you know, produce. But there's no denying that The Supermarket has repackaged the allure of a healthy lifestyle into a combination of misleading marketing and social engineering. It's done this by…'
'Uh, can I help you?'
I jump back as an employee materialises by my side. I began to tell him that I was definitely not talking to a dragon fruit that was likewise talking to me. But he gives me a conspiratorial smile and says: 'Forgive the intrusion, but I couldn't help overhearing my colleague here.'
'Hi, Frank,' The dragon fruit says to the employee. 'You wanna take it from here?'
'Sure thing, thanks, Hank,' replies the employee.
I place the dragon fruit named Hank back down as if it were about to explode. My eyes drop to the employee named Frank's name badge, which actually reads Rakesh.
'Um…' I point to Frank-and-or-Rakesh's badge, but he charges on.
'Getting back on track,' he whispers, hand beside his mouth. 'I'm sure you've noticed that The Supermarket deliberately displays heavily discounted junk food at the end of each aisle, essentially bookmarking your necessities with frivolous temptations. In the business, we call these end-of-aisle displays purchase points. These are among the most effective weapons in The Supermarket's psychological arsenal.
'See, once consumers have mentally exhausted themselves wandering up and down the endless aisles looking for things they actually need, these purchase points ambush them with signage and products explicitly designed to elicit an impulse reaction. Of course, The Supermarket could use this tactic for good by gearing its purchase points towards healthy eating or optimising efficiency. Perhaps these purchase points could contain healthy staples rather than random Japanese sodas and discounted cup noodles.
'However, encouraging nutrition or facilitating convenience would necessitate a drop in profits, as natural foods are markedly more complicated (even impossible) to mass-produce, let alone brand and market in a way that encourages addiction. So The Supermarket places the detergent you stopped in for at the end of the furthest aisle from the entrance so that it can punctuate your shop with impulse purchases.'
I open my mouth to ask a question, but Frank-and-or-Rakesh answers it preemptively.
'Why doesn't The Supermarket switch these purchase points up in a way that benefits consumers, you ask? Well, The Supermarket draws a supplementary income by auctioning its purchase points to multinational suppliers, and the products that end up there typically sell at high markups anyway. (Remember Coke is paying 39c per can).' Frank-and-or-Rakesh shakes his head. 'And according to Associate Professor Adrian Cameron of Deakin University:
"We already know from previous research that [The Supermarket] disproportionately promotes less healthy food in their catalogues, at checkouts and end of aisle displays. What we're showing here is that price promotions are yet another element of our food environment that drives us toward poor diets and obesity."
Here, Professor Adrian Cameron is commenting on an American Journal of Public Health study, which explored how The Supermarket's ecosystem exacerbates obesity and poor nutrition by discounting unhealthy products more frequently than heathy ones. Backing this up, Australia's Food Environment Dashboard found that 66% of heavily promoted products are low-nutrition and high-energy. This is a nice way of saying that 66% of The Supermarket's promotions are barely food.'
I nod as if I totally understand the ramifications of this slightly terrifying research.
'And,' Frank-and-or-Rakesh continues, 'given the global economy, is it any wonder that money is the deciding factor for dietary concerns? While most consumers are relatively well-meaning, The Supermarket knows they are often obliged to feed their families scrupulously rather than nutritionally. The Supermarket also knows where these struggling families live and how to make itself rich while driving them deeper into financial and nutritional hardship. The Global Centre for Preventive Health and Nutrition found that The Supermarket allocates shelf space to genuine health foods 9.7% more frequently than junk foods in relatively posh suburbs. And even when healthy foods do go on sale, they remain roughly 10% more expensive than unhealthy promotions.
'Surely, if The Supermarket were as dedicated to fresh, healthy lifestyles as it claims, it would flip some promotional switches and change tactics. It could prioritise essentials at purchase points while emphasising junk foods as luxuries, thus encouraging manufacturers to follow suit by producing products that match healthy lifestyles. Evidence has even shown that dividing shopping trolleys into specific sections aids consumer choice when the designated vegetable space is larger than that for snacks. Scaling things up, between 2012 and 2020, Norway's largest chain, Kiwi, even trailed upscaling its fresh food section, giving produce discounts as loyalty rewards and stocking its purchase points with fruit cups. The aim here was to promote healthy dietary decisions and offer low socioeconomic groups increased affordability. During the trial period, Kiwi reported an impressive 34.1% uptick in overall produce sales, with a 41.8% rise in veggies alone. Sadly, in this country, The Supermarket's target market for its fresh produce seems to be the garbage dump, as it is (allegedly) ordering surplus from farmers simply to drive up wholesale prices. (You’ll stumble on more regarding this later, I’m sure). The Australia Institute found that food wastage costs Aussie households $19.3 billion per year, which equates to a $1.2 billion profit for food retailers, according to industry averages. That's pretty crazy, considering The Supermarket posted a $1.62 billion profit last financial year. And this is only the food consumers are wasting, never mind what The Supermarket forces farmers to outright reject! I could go on, but maybe you should let someone in there explain.' Frank-and-or-Rakesh points to the fresh produce section. 'Good luck.'
I follow his finger to the overhanging sprinklers, which give the produce a luscious sheen but also hasten decay. I furrow my brow and suggest repurposing unsold produce as free snacks for shoppers, thus sparing them from the confusion between fructose and glucose cravings. Surely, this would alleviate some of those craving-induced impulse purchases.
'Yeah, good one.' Frank-and-or-Rakesh smirks as if I have suggested printing money to fix the economy. 'They've covered that base.' Frank-and-or-Rakesh indicates a sad-looking whicker basket-thing that holds three even sadder-looking bananas, steadily rotting away. The sign above them reads: Free Fruit for Kids!
Slack-jawed yet furious, I glare at Frank-and-or-Rakesh until he edges away with his hands slightly raised. I realise I am brandishing the now mute dragon fruit beneath his nose while demanding satisfaction.
'Hey man, take it easy! This isn't even my section!' Frank-and-or-Rakesh retreats down a nearby aisle.
I look at the dragon fruit and then up at my deranged reflection, repeated kaleidoscopically across a row of security mirrors.
I slam the dragon fruit named Hank down like I am Adam, refusing temptation, and storm into the produce section, completely unaware that things are about to get much worse.
To be continued…