So yesterday I go to a Costco…and it was really a new "low" for me in that I got out for (barely) under a hundred bucks. Usually, I go in to buy just paper towels or just peanut butter and I wind up leaving with eight computers, six snow tires, twelve birdbaths and enough Eucerin to moisturize a rhino into having the skin you love to touch. But this time, I pick up just a few goodies and then head for the rear of the store to get one of the yummy, plump prepared rotisserie chickens to take home. I can live off one of them for a month.
Usually, they have a dozen or so out and in the back, you can see the expert setup where the staff is rotissering (is that a word?) more and it's all timed out so that just as customers have grabbed up the last batch, the next flock comes out. Today however, the procedure hits a snag. Two men, working in tandem and each pushing one of those Hummer-sized Costco shopping carts, come in and denude the display. With the expertise of the Ocean's 11 team cleaning out the Sands, they grab up all the available chickens that are left over from the previous output…and they're there as the latest ones are put forth so they seize all of them, as well.
They have about 23 chickens plus about a half-dozen orders of BBQ ribs in their two carts as they head for the checkout, leaving zero chickens for the rest of us. I am among about a dozen shoppers who are left to stare longingly at empty shelves. One of us inquires how long it might be before there are more available and the answer turns out to be about 40 minutes. This is dangerous, at least for me. If I hang around a Costco for 40 minutes, I will buy thirty crates of A-1 Sauce, nine more computers, enough blouses to clothe Paraguay and at least one Goodyear Blimp, except it will say "Kirkland" on the side.
Others around me are outraged. Most expected to carry home a hot Seasoned Chicken to feed the family that evening and their plans are awry. They begin demanding immediate chickens and the beleaguered rotisserer (that can't be a word) is having trouble explaining that he cannot furnish more cooked hens on demand; that they require a certain amount of prep time. One lady in particular — our Self-Appointed Spokeswoman — proclaims she speaks for us all. We are all good, loyal, longtime Costco patrons and we are incensed that our dinner menus are inoperative. I don't recall voting for her and I don't think she has the proper outlook on the situation. She seems to think that if one is loud enough and angry enough, Costco can make fully-cooked poultry instantly appear.
Over comes a manager or some other official who's heard the shouting and also noticed that customers who couldn't care less about barbecued fowl are crowding around to watch the dinner theater. He tries to placate this woman who will simply not be placated. He explains that it simply takes X number of minutes to cook more of what we want. This does not satisfy the Orly Taitz of barbecued chickens. She insists that he grovel a bit, admit that the system is seriously f'ed up and in dire need of correction, and then present her with an immediate chicken-to-go. Or else.
The Costco boss-person insists the system works fine, 99% of the time. It just doesn't work if two guys come in and buy 23 chickens all at once, which in all his years of managing has never before happened. He explains that Costco sells no chicken that is more than two hours old; that once a hen has gone untaken that long, it's removed from the shelf and either discarded or stripped of its meat to make Costco's chicken soup. With the patience of Job or maybe even an Obama supporter, he tells her that it's all expertly timed for the normal traffic and that if they made more than they do, they'd wind up throwing out too many unsold chix and have to raise the price. And of course there's no guarantee that if there had been ten more chickens there, those two fellows wouldn't have purchased 33 chickens.
He is just explaining why Costco couldn't limit the number of chickens per person when I notice that standing next to me among the amused spectators, is a man with about fifteen Kirkland Seasoned Chickens in his cart. It's one of the two gents who'd bought out the available supply and it looks like he's returned to the scene of the crime to see if and when more might be available. I turn to him and say, "See what you caused?"
The man chuckles, then hears our unofficial spokeswoman start to ratchet it up to yelling and insulting the manager's sanity and parentage. Out of some combination of guilt and peacekeeping, the man with all the birds takes one from his cart, thrusts it at the lady and says, "Here…go home and feed your family." Then before other chicken-cravers can pounce on his stash, he turns and pushes his cart away. As he passes me, he says, "You want one, too?" I say yes and he hands me one and then gets the hell outta there. I look at all the unfulfilled folks who desperately wanted what I now have, see the expression on their faces and decide to also go and pay.
In the checkout line, I find myself standing behind the loud lady. She is still outraged in a manner that suggests to me this is how she is about everything in life. At the moment, she is outraged that she had to make a fuss to get what she should have had all along…but to me she looks kinda proud of herself.
I start to think, "I don't know how people can go through life being that rude, especially about something as mundane as a rotisserie chicken." But then I slap and correct myself: They do it because it works. For some people, getting your way is more important than what you get, and "winning" can justify any means. Even though her rudeness indirectly got me what I wanted, I wish it hadn't turned out like that.
Then again, as I'm writing this, I'm lunching on a damn fine sandwich made out of leftover chicken.