The Pattern

by Tom Ligon

Chasing wild geese is sweaty, frustrating work for a mid-July steam-bath. I waited my turn at the counter of the bookstore, not hopeful that the ordeal would pay off.

“Problem?” the clerk asked at last.

“I can’t find any science fiction magazines. I’m starting to wonder if you still carry them.”

“Yeah,” the clerk said, heading for the magazine racks. “Think we carry one called Science Fiction… uh… something.”

He started looking, but I had already guessed which one: Science Fiction for Short Attention Spans. Submissions of one to three thousand words, for which it paid a penny a word.

“I was really hoping you had Amazing or Fantasy and Science Fiction,” I said. “I think you carried them last year.”

He paused in his search of the disorganized rack. “Uh, I think I’ve heard of them. Don’t remember ever carrying either one.”

I looked him over. At his age, he probably hadn’t been in the workforce over six months. “How about Asimov’s? I’m sure you were carrying that one as recently as a couple of months ago.”

He shrugged. Suddenly he smiled, and pulled a copy of SFSAS from the back of a stack of Super Mario Death Turtle Exterminator Video Game Hints Magazine.

I looked over the rag. Couple of names had work in it. Times must be rough. “Won’t really help me,” I said sadly. “I’m a writer. Usually publish in Analog, which you stopped carrying a couple of years back. They turned down one of my novellas, so now I’m doing a little market research to find another prospective buyer. A novella is way too long for this format. Criminy, I’m not sure why I bother writing, if nobody is going to carry SF any more. Do you realize none of the four magazines I just mentioned ranks below fifteenth in the Writer’s Digest Fiction 50 list? Three are in the top six. One of them ranks number two. That’s for fiction as a whole, not just science fiction.”

“Well, don’t bitch at me,” he replied, glaring at me. “Somebody at corporate headquarters picks what we sell.”

I left the store quickly, before I could turn ugly. I’d gotten the same story at four stores already. Every last one carried exactly the same inventory, and none had what I wanted.

I stared down Sudley Road. It was the same way all over. Within one mile, we had three mega-lumber stores. Each one must have covered eight acres, and if one didn’t have what I needed, the other two wouldn’t either. Most frequently, they’ve dropped the good stuff in favor of whatever was cheaper. Ask someone at the “customer assistance” desk how to convey your displeasure at the discontinuance of your favorite item, and they’ll shrug and cite corporate headquarters. Indicate that you’d like to let corporate headquarters know you disapproved, and they’ll tell you that there is basically no channel for that information. I’d make for the door briskly, before I got ugly.

Still contemplating the building-supply behemoths and their nearly empty parking lots, I wondered once again why they built two additional mega-centers simultaneously in an area that just supported one comfortably. Now, all three were suffering, and virtually every small hardware store in the area had been forced under. You remember those little stores. They carried everything. If they didn’t, you could just talk to the owner/manager, and he’d be sure they ordered one.

Across the road, in the shopping mall, were seventeen outlets of men’s clothing. I knew, from recent experience, that not one had a single set of pants in my size, in a color I would be willing to even be cremated in. I wear a waist and inseam of around 34 inches, and I don’t think that makes me a freak. “Well, sir, I guess we don’t sell too many of your size, so corporate’s computer doesn’t send them,” is the predictable response. Whereupon I pull a pair of Barney-purple 46 waist 28 inseam pants from the rack, and hand them to the clerk.

“I’m sure you don’t sell many of what you don’t stock. Betcha sell tons of these.” And I’d leave, before I had a chance to get really ugly.

Standing there outside the bookstore, my brain bubbling softly in the mid-day sun, it all finally came together. The pattern was too pervasive. There had to be some underlying common cause.

That started my investigation. Since this is a short-short, and the details involve mostly digging around in trash cans to figure out who “corporate” was, then digging around in their trash cans, I’ll just skip to my findings. There is an outfit called Dan’s Discount Demographics operating out of New Jersey that sells computer services to major marketing firms so cheaply, they’ve virtually run everyone else out of the business.

Want to find a really great spot to put a store? Ask Dan’s. They’ll recommend a prime location, evidenced by the success of an existing store. They’ll also recommend it to a competitor. That way, they don’t waste money on a duplicate study.

Want to know what to stock in your store? Ask Dan’s. They’ll do an inventory analysis. Anything that doesn’t sell briskly, you drop. You don’t have to worry about losing customers to your competition, because you can rest assured Dan’s will sell them the very same analysis.

Notice, I didn’t say Dan’s was any good at what they do, just really cheap.

Now, I’m handy with computers, but I’m no hacker. What I want to know is, would one of you budding PC geniuses out there please break into Dan’s computer and put it out of our misery? Or at least tell it to recommend 34-34 navy, grey, and brown slacks, inch-and-a-quarter galvanized deck screws, and good reading material.

Content

The Pattern
by Tom Ligon