Perseverance has yet to deliver the hoped-for result. Concentrated efforts appear to have been too direct. The brightness of the supermarket shelves, rather than illuminate their mysteries, belie their complex nature, and—with a computerized search or personal query of a shop assistant out of the question—we are forced to think laterally at all times. The bean certainly resides here somewhere. But there is a potentially infinite number of steps connecting any two distinct points in space no matter how close to each other they are. And in an enclosed space, such as the supermarket, it’s very much a question of direction and memory.
I remember scanning this aisle before, for example—an obvious move as the baked beans are here—and though returning without having an alternative product on the list to search for may be considered less than optimal, a general strategy of quick browsing followed by forensic examination seems well-founded.
Take this bean: The Adzuki. I’d never heard of it until today, and, while looking for it in the same aisle as the baked beans seems logical, it may not be a canned bean, but one of several alternatives: it may be fresh and in the fresh vegetables section; or dried and in the dried foods section; of special international origin and in the international foods section; or frozen and in with the frozen foods; or even, and this is the joker in the pack, among a recently discontinued line and in one of the special value bins. And there are other layers of complexity to consider: When strategizing movements, for example, you ideally want to plan a path that leads you to more than one product in one area and you want to be able to locate that product in that area with a minimum amount of searching. And your overall path should include the location of all and only the products you need over a minimal distance, and be traversed only once.
Of course, the ideal is not something any one of us is going to achieve; only, all things being equal, whoever gets closest to it, will win, and whoever is farthest away will get the booby prize. And with all of us rushing about here together, things are further complicated by the possibility of procuring advantages from others’ movements and product choices. You can choose, for example, to employ the tactic of poaching, which involves rushing, in the hope of an effortless find, to the same location a rival has just found a product. And because of this possibility—which is not against the rules—it is also not against the rules to grab superfluous products with the intention of fooling your rivals into wasting time chasing you to your position in order to poach. And as grabbing a superfluous product takes much less time than finding a listed product and can be done at any time during the competition and at any frequency and has the potential to inflict a significant time loss on a competitor, following this anti-poaching tactic appears to be an attractive strategy. But this makes poaching concomitantly less so, leading to a kind of oscillating feedback dynamic, a strange attractor, which ultimately determines the relative frequency of each behaviour (superfluous product grabbing can cost a potentially significant amount of time when multiplied over repeated instances, the aggregation of which has the potential to make a crucial difference—last year’s competition, for example, was won by only 0.7 seconds!).
There are seven of us in this competition and the competition area is 2927m2, which is divided into 12 roughly equidistant and numbered supermarket aisles and three additional open spaces: one containing bakery products; one, fruit and vegetables; and one, beer, wine, and other alcoholic beverages. The seven of us were chosen randomly from over 9,000 potential entrants nationwide (and there would have far more were it not for the booby prize). The competition is filmed live and the expected audience is up to 50 million, which, though it may seem large for this type of show, is primarily a result of the voyeuristic opportunities provided by the aforementioned booby prize and other penalties.
My fellow competitors this year are Anne Marie Hersch, Cindy Simpkins, Frank Marrello, Nuttatich Salawapran, Hendon F. Smith, and Noreen Murphy. Competitors’ names are announced two weeks in advance of the competition date, and all competitors are required to confirm participation within a maximum of six days after notification. There are backup competitors in case any of those originally called don’t confirm on time. Each year an average of six out of seven of those chosen confirm, and only one of the backups gets called. This year all confirmed, and no backups were called. Of my competitors, four I was able to find potentially relevant information on: Hendon F. Smith, I discovered, for example, recently visited his local hospital due to an injury to his left wrist; Cindy Simpkins was once a moderately successful junior pro tennis player (12–15 age bracket); Frank Marrello was arrested three months ago on a misdemeanor battery charge (the victim, his wife); and Anne Marie Hersch is a leading member of a regional chapter of the Church of Empiricology, which has been designated a cult in several countries—though not this one in which it has controversially attained the status of a religion.
I was not able to visually identify any more than two of my competitors in advance of today’s competition, but we were introduced briefly before we began, and I employed mnemonics as a means to memorize their names. Nuttatich Salawapran, for example, I imagined as being in a pram and having a large nut for a head. Frank Marrello, I imagined being made of Marshmallow and singing a Frank Sinatra song (“My Way”). And so on.
It is not forbidden to talk to your competitors during the competition, only to share relevant information. The rules are quite clear on that point. I could, for example, greet Noreen Murphy (who has just whizzed past me with a trolley—that if I’m not mistaken contains a packet of what looks like dried beans!) by her first, or surname, or both, and it would be entirely up to her whether to respond. Generally, no one does though. Politeness is a dominated strategy. And there are ways of addressing a fellow competitor that do not rely on politeness to be effective.
Tangentially, my observation of the dried beans in Noreen’s cart justifies my general plan of leaving the most categorically ambiguous products until last, and although it is unfortunate that I had apparently set too much weight on these beans being canned, considering the spread of potential locations involved, my calculations were not completely unjustified. It’s not unlikely, for example, that a product with fewer potential locations inhere greater ambiguity of search choice than one with more (as with my beans) if the former is split such that the minimum probability is less than that of the most likely choice in the latter case. So, for example, a five-way split in Adzuki-bean-location possibilities could be less ambiguous than a two way split in Granny Smith correlates if the probability of finding the bean in one of those five locations is higher than finding the Granny Smith in either of its two.
But errors in estimations are to be expected given the inevitable speculative component of the calculations (even while backed up by rigorous statistical research carried out beforehand on a wide range of potential products) and are not necessarily fatal, being potentially offset by the systematic observation of rival trolleys (as with my spotting just now of dried beans in Noreen Murphy’s cart), which can narrow location possibilities and determine future paths.
I orient myself towards the dried goods section where I take the Adzuki beans to be (and which they will be excepting either a very clever attempt at misdirection on Noreen’s part or a very elementary mistake in product identification —both of which range outside my estimate of her IQ). All that is left for me to discern is whether I should make an intermediary stop covering a location possibility of another of the listed products that is not so out of the way of the most direct path to the beans as to be a significantly suboptimal diversion.
Returning to the issue of personal interactions (as is about to become relevant with Frank Marrello appearing on my designated path now, roughly 10 yards away, and, judging by our relative velocities, set to pass me in no more than 10 seconds), it’s worth mentioning emotive tactics. Competitors often insult each other, for example, as, providing you do not respond negatively to retaliation, it is relatively cost-free to do so (and retaliation cannot be physical—any attempt to so obstruct or harm a competitor results in a potentially competition-ending penalty for the offender and time compensation for the victim of the offence). Of course, the likelihood of your insult being of positive benefit to you is relative to how distracting it is, and, as competitors are aware of this strategy and impervious to most insults, invective selectiveness is key.
So, as Frank passes, I ask at a volume loud enough to guarantee he will hear—though not so loud as to alert other competitors in such a way as would impart knowledge of my tactic and elicit from them defensive maneuvers against it: ‘Have you stopped beating your wife?’ (the classic loaded question, while usually rhetorically employed as a rebuke to an actual loaded question, becoming much more salient here given Frank’s record.)
Frank’s reaction consists of a startled and then angry look and a pause in movement and then a further angry look that a pause in movement was caused and even more anger at my deliberate mocking smile (evinced by Frank’s emission of a retaliatory expletive) and, as a bonus, an apparent effort to restrain himself from reversing course in my direction to presumably physically confront and possibly assault me (which would unequivocally result in his removal from the competition), all signaling that my minor investment of vocal energy has yielded a worthwhile reward.
Hah!
I rush on towards the beans.
Having arrived at the dried food section and, as expected, found the Adzuki beans there, I procure a packet and am left to ponder my next move.
Remaining on the list are:
• Marcona Almonds, 100g (cooking, snack, or dried foods section).
• Mizumi beef, 220g (cold, dried, or fresh meat section).
• Sticklettes, 135g (pet food or snack food section).
I am acutely aware that any extended delay caused by my cogitations is likely to cause concern amongst my public support, some of whom have a financial interest in my winning the competition or at least my high placement among the finishers, and most of whom are likely to be watching my every move—the show gives viewers the option to follow any of the 50 or so cameras positioned strategically around the store, including, in some cases, hidden in and amongst (especially, though not exclusively) listed produce. We are also viewed from a variety of positions and at all times by the competition referees, of which at least five are on duty at any moment, leaving no room for infraction, large or small. So when, for example, six years ago, a competitor took a rival’s product from her trolley and put it in his, he was immediately identified and disqualified. The fact that he had then to be physically removed from the competition area with no small degree of force is testament to the disturbed mental state that prompted such a theft in the first place. The incident happily resulted in a significant increase in ratings the next year (and a concomitant amelioration of prize money), which our protagonist did not get to witness due to his death from injuries he suffered in an apparently unprovoked street attack soon after the original incident, an attack which the authorities did not definitively link to the show (though multiple media outlets speculated along such lines). The attacker was never identified, the case remains unsolved, and no-one since has attempted such blatant trolley thievery.
It has taken no more than a few seconds for me to ascertain that there are two potentially optimal routes to consider next: one takes me forward towards the value bins and the side exit of the main store area and then around in a line that runs parallel to, and directly in front of, the checkout counters before a sharp left at aisle six to where the cooking products are located. The other takes me towards the back of the store, where the cold meats are, and then, after a right turn, to the front of the fresh meat counter where the competitors must choose and weigh their own meats in accordance with the specifications of the list.
What makes my decision on which route to take trivially easy is spotting Anne Marie Hersch coming around the cold meats corner. I swing my trolley around and head in her direction.
An important issue now arises: When moving directly towards another trolley, who has precedence? The answer is that it has been arbitrarily designated that those moving towards the main entrance either forward or laterally, from whatever position in the store, have right of way, and any obstruction of them will incur a penalty.
So, in this case, Anne Marie has precedence and has apparently accelerated in my direction in the hope I won’t evade her in time, that we will collide, and in accordance with the rules, I will receive a time penalty and her, a bonus. She barrels towards me. I am, however, acutely aware of the situation and ready to move. And that’s not all. As she bears down on my position, I use one arm to turn my trolley in a quick evasive maneuver, and the other I raise in a salute and exhort sharply, ‘All hail, HRL!’ (HRL, Hubert Reginald Long, is the now deceased, but still much revered, spiritual leader of the Empiricologists). Anne Marie instinctively stops, raises an arm in return, and begins the mantra, ‘All hai…’ before realizing sickly what’s happening as her trolley, due to the sudden deceleration and swiveling of her body, veers inexorably in the opposite direction to which she’s turned and into the shelves, knocking several items to the floor (which, according to the rules, she is now obliged to recover and replace). I flow onward unable to visually apprehend the full extent of the derailment behind me, but gratefully absorb the flustered rush of expletives and plaintive wails from Anne-Marie in response to the at least 10–15 second time loss she’s certainly incurred (and which could very well be fatal to her chances).
As I round the corner, I notice an altercation in front of the fresh meat section, but don’t allow it to immediately distract my attention from scanning for the Mizumi beef in the dried and then the cold meats sections (with fresh meats the next port-of-call and the international foods and value bins as usual in the back of my mind). Having given those areas a relatively slow and deliberate scan, I conclude absence on a roughly 95% confidence level, and this has to be enough considering time constraints, which now mitigate against the possibility of a full forensic search.
The altercation I just spoke of involves Cindy Simpkins and Frank Marrello, who I see now have each tried to place a portion of meat (the Mizumi beef!) on the same weighing machine. This is unnecessary as there is more than one weighing machine available; in fact, several are placed strategically along the fresh meat counter, making this act of mutual stubbornness highly counterproductive and indicative of emotional excess. I don’t see who got to the weighing machine first, but Cindy is screaming, ‘Get off it! Get off it!’, and Frank is shouting, ‘Fuck you! Fuck off!’, both just about restraining from interfering physically with each other’s produce—an action which could result in disqualification. On the machine’s display screen, red electronic numerals are flickering chaotically and both contestants are on the verge of losing what must be a critical amount of time when Frank suddenly pulls away and charges for the next machine in the row, positioned between where Cindy is now and where I am moving towards him. As he has right of way, I must evade, and as I do, he rasps at me “Fucking kill you, I will” and then, as I briefly turn to grin at him, “Swear on my fucking life”.
It’s very likely Frank’s threat is a hollow one, despite its apparent sincerity (only one case of post show competitor-on-competitor murder has been confirmed since the competition’s inception over ten years ago) and that, combined with Frank’s likely eventual elimination due to his obvious inability to control his emotional state, makes him not worth responding to, so I don’t, but deftly navigate around his trolley to where Cindy is, grab some Mizumi beef, and, with near perfect timing, place it on the weighing machine from which she has just removed hers.
As I suspect Cindy to also be in a state of emotional excess and I am aware of suggestive techniques for taking advantage of this, I say to her as she deposits the meat in her trolley (and just as I balletically remove my own meat from the machine, bag it, grab the weight sticker, adhere it, and throw the lot in my trolley) ‘Fuck him’ (establishment of rapport), then ‘Your weight is wrong’ (cloaked suggestion). Pulling away, I watch with satisfaction as, in a momentary panic, Cindy picks her meat from her trolley, rechecks the weight, gives me the blackest look I’ve had yet, screams ‘Fucker!’ at me, and pushes frantically off at a 180 degree angle to my already initiated sharp right turn into the cooking section.
—- EKM PORTAL TO TROLLEY TROUBLE —-
It is here I am hoping to locate the (very possibly powdered) Marcona almonds, but before I have the opportunity to search for them, I meet an unexpected scene. In front of me, and rushing away, is Nuttatich, her bare back sweaty in the harsh light. She is naked from the waist up, and so, it seems, is employing one of the more extreme distraction techniques I know of—one that has not been used for three years in fact. (And on that occasion, though resulting in enough benefit for the woman in question to gain second in the competition, ultimately came with significant downsides. First, she was pilloried by the religious right, from whom there were unofficial calls for her to be publicly beaten—though formal pronouncements restricted themselves to labelling her a ‘slut’ and a ‘whore’ who ‘God’ would take care of. Subsequently, she was stripped, groped, and physically assaulted by a group of men in a city nightclub. Then, worst of all, she had major difficulty finding ad sponsors and procuring any meaningful work in the mainstream entertainment industry (as would be expected of any top-three prize-winner) due in part to her infamy and in part to her unhealed physical (particularly facial) injuries (the time window tending to be fairly narrow on these opportunities). In the end, she managed only to get hired on the fringe for a fairly low-grade porn company specializing in the rape-snuff genre. All this is only to say that this strategy is very high risk and suggests no small amount of desperation on Nuttatich’s part.)
Having come upon Nuttatich from behind, I am prepared, of course, and will not be adversely affected by the sight of her naked bust. Less fortunate is Frank Marello, who swings around the opposite end of the aisle just as Nuttatich reaches it, and, as she has right of way, immediately swerves, but as he does so (and here I can just make out the surreal, almost dreamlike, expression on his face), he extends a grasping hand out and across her breasts. His movements are no accident that’s clear (I’d wager not one referee didn’t buzz for a penalty), and as soon as contact is made, the sirens sound and Nuttatich stops with a look of pure glee on her face. Now, with the game paused, everyone must stop (or suffer the same fate Frank is about to). A look of adolescent innocence continues momentarily to grace the man’s flaccid features before he regains a horrified adult composure and jerks his arms down to his side, exploding in a rush of despairing wails as from next to a two-way mirror positioned near the main exit, a door flies open and several guards with batons cannon out towards him. He doesn’t even try to run.
Nuttatich turns her head away, but otherwise doesn’t move. She must stay still until it’s over. Which it soon will be. Frank’s beating is as swift as it is brutal. The penalty for deliberate bodily contact is 30 seconds of physical punishment, and the guards make the most of it. Everybody else will get the time back except Frank, who, even if he is able to continue, will almost certainly come in last now and receive the booby prize, which takes a huge amount of pressure off the rest of us, and I expect that lifts the spirits of the other competitors as much as it does mine.
The buzzer sounds again and the guards disperse. Frank lies unmoving on the tiled ground, blood puddling around his face. Muffled moans slither from his lips and he judders repeatedly, making no attempt to rise. This is an issue because he and his trolley, neither of which any of us are allowed to touch, is causing an obstruction, and though Nuttatich has managed to slip around him, his present position will cause some path adjustment on my part. I collect the (yes, powdered!) Marcona almonds, which I find on a bottom shelf between the baking powder and the dried starch, and I spin my trolley around to exit the aisle in the only direction now left available to me.
The last item left on my list is Sticklettes, and I know it’s all left to play for, as when any competitor finds the last item on their list—providing all items are present and correct as confirmed in advance by the referees—and passes through any of the checkouts, a loud bell will sound signalling the end of the competition and the rest of us will be sorted in accordance with how many of the remaining items we have (and if we have the same number of items, the exact time —down to the hundredths of seconds—we procured our last item will determine our order). With no bell as yet and Frank out, I feel confident of a place in the top three and I dare hope I may still even win, but Sticklettes, Sticklettes! I’m shooting in the dark. I really have no idea what they are—my best guesses, snacks and pet food.
The supermarket lights suddenly flash blue and orange—the sponsor’s colours—and a storm of pop music jangles through the air. This is the signal that it’s time for the sponsor dance. Now we must stop and perform a series of choreographed moves (any deviation from which will result in a penalty, and refusal to participate, disqualification). Singing is optional, but we are required to at least lip sync to the tune. This year our patron is OLEA, the plastic furniture manufacturers, and the song goes:
OLEA, OLEA
Lay it out for you
Nothing left to do
OLEA, OLEA
Always serving you
Nothing left to do
OLEA, OLEA…
The only competitors within my field of view as we dance are Hendon and Anne Marie, and neither are close enough for me to see clearly what’s in their trolleys, so I’m unable to avail of a view of a Sticklettes pack to orient me further as to what type of product it is. I do observe though that Hendon is having some difficulty maintaining choreographic fidelity with the OLEA jingle, particularly on his left side, and especially when required to raise his arms above his head and wave them, which suggests his wrist has yet to fully heal, and considering the physical demands of dealing with the trolley, this makes him an unlikely remaining impediment. Anne Marie seems to be suffering no such problems and is actually smiling as she moves, though barring some amazing compensative efforts on her part, her earlier crash should also have ruled her out, leaving Nuttatich, Noreen and, possibly, Cindy, as my major remaining threats.
The sponsor song lasts 30 seconds, and, on its completion, I proceed quickly towards the pet food section. There are no other competitors there, which is a positive in terms of lack of obstructions, but a negative in terms of lack of clues. I come upon the pet treats: Puperoni, Beneful, MilkBone, Scooby snacks, and Jerky-Boys whizz past my searching eyes, but no Sticklettes; Twistix, Schmackos, Friskies, Treatos… the end. Next is the canned food, which I’ve ruled out. I begin to think I may have made a decisive error in not choosing the snack food section first, and the fear of missing out, of everything being an absolute waste, looms over me.
First and I’m Supermarket King for a year, unlimited free produce for personal use, guaranteed sponsorship and TV deals, and the opportunity to come and laud it over Frank, who, as the booby prize recipient, will have to work as an unpaid cleaner for the same period and have his humiliating travails followed on the associated reality TV show (an experience that is likely to be severely depressing—though statistically unlikely to result in a suicide (there has only been one, the verified cause of which was coming in with the booby prize. That was five years ago, a month into the reality show, and happened live on air, making it a sensation). Second or third place and I get a substantial amount of free produce and possible TV or sponsorship opportunities—though less lucrative than the winner. Fourth, fifth, or sixth, and, with rare exception, I may as well have never come here and never existed.
We are in a maze of our own making and every false move increases its complexity. Infinite steps. The brightness, rather than illuminate the supermarket’s mysteries, belies its complex nature. A blaze of lights and cameras and colours and rows and aisles. I’ve staked my chances on a final resting place. A consecutive location error on the last item will likely be fatal to my chances of victory. There is no room for manoeuvre. There is only straight to the end of the pet food aisle, a left in front of the checkout counters, and two aisles later another left to the snack foods and candy.
Follow me past the sacks of dried dog food, spin with me round the catnip, and watch the sparkling supermarket world whirl by. Push on with me in hope to my destination. Pray for me as I turn the final corner.