Last Monday, during one of our intermittent newsroom staff meetings, I received an assignment that my editor told me might be akin to war coverage. I am to embed myself in the teeming masses of consumers on the Friday after Thanksgiving (also known to retailers as 'Black Friday') at some of our local stores and try to document the workings of capitalism at it's most feral.
The only problem I see with my assignment is that I don't think I have enough time to grow a proper Geraldo Rivera mustache, and my publisher won't pick up the bill to properly arm myself for self-defense.
My plan of attack is to begin gathering reconnaissance by entering through a little used side door where the shrubbery is kept at about 2 a.m. after saying the requisite password (not Ni!) Since I won't be armed, I'm going to use this time to scout out escape routes; our local store has a number of emergency exits that would serve as an escape if a shopper, say, was bitten by a zombie or if there was a bee inside the store. (I do not like bees. OMG what if there were zombie bees!?)
By 3 a.m. I will have found where my perfect photo shot will be, in the toy section near this year's 'it' toy. I intend to stand at my post and watch as ravenous parents show their baser instincts. I hope I don't slip and fall on the eviscerated remains of Zhu Zhu hamsters.
Because the unnamed but nationally famous store is going to be open 24 hours, there won't be any kind of lines or buildup outside the front doors. From my completely trustworthy (and factual) sources inside the management, when the magic hour comes around (6 a.m.) the managers will come over the intercom and broadcast that Black Friday has begun.
And oh, the horror. The humanity. The savings! I don't know if anyone's gotten a Pulitzer for Black Friday coverage, but I do know that if I don't have my award winning photograph by 8 a.m., I plan to be gone. This is because, I hear, that when the sales start to die down, and the merchandise needs to be restocked, people get increasingly frantic.
Older, more experienced journalists, when asked about Black Friday coverage, speak of this hour with dread, where consumers wantonly reach into the overflowing baskets of their kin and rip out a morsel, a teddy bear or baseball mitt or, once, told to me from the mouth of a grizzled old veteran, the arm of a Tickle Me Elmo.
"I can still hear the laughter from the Elmo," he told me when I talked to him.
"It haunts me in my dreams," he told me.
I don't plan on having bad dreams myself.
David Ryan Palmer is a reporter for the Southwest Daily News, and actually isn't being let inside this store to take pictures, so be sure to let him snap a shot in the parking lot! He can be contacted at sdneditorial@yahoo.com or his personal e-mail address, nonah.me@gmail.com.
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Last Monday, during one of our intermittent newsroom staff meetings, I received an assignment that my editor told me might be akin to war coverage. I am to embed myself in the teeming masses of consumers on the Friday after Thanksgiving (also known to retailers as 'Black Friday') at some of our local stores and try to document the workings of capitalism at it's most feral.
The only problem I see with my assignment is that I don't think I have enough time to grow a proper Geraldo Rivera mustache, and my publisher won't pick up the bill to properly arm myself for self-defense.
My plan of attack is to begin gathering reconnaissance by entering through a little used side door where the shrubbery is kept at about 2 a.m. after saying the requisite password (not Ni!) Since I won't be armed, I'm going to use this time to scout out escape routes; our local store has a number of emergency exits that would serve as an escape if a shopper, say, was bitten by a zombie or if there was a bee inside the store. (I do not like bees. OMG what if there were zombie bees!?)
By 3 a.m. I will have found where my perfect photo shot will be, in the toy section near this year's 'it' toy. I intend to stand at my post and watch as ravenous parents show their baser instincts. I hope I don't slip and fall on the eviscerated remains of Zhu Zhu hamsters.
Because the unnamed but nationally famous store is going to be open 24 hours, there won't be any kind of lines or buildup outside the front doors. From my completely trustworthy (and factual) sources inside the management, when the magic hour comes around (6 a.m.) the managers will come over the intercom and broadcast that Black Friday has begun.
And oh, the horror. The humanity. The savings! I don't know if anyone's gotten a Pulitzer for Black Friday coverage, but I do know that if I don't have my award winning photograph by 8 a.m., I plan to be gone. This is because, I hear, that when the sales start to die down, and the merchandise needs to be restocked, people get increasingly frantic.
Older, more experienced journalists, when asked about Black Friday coverage, speak of this hour with dread, where consumers wantonly reach into the overflowing baskets of their kin and rip out a morsel, a teddy bear or baseball mitt or, once, told to me from the mouth of a grizzled old veteran, the arm of a Tickle Me Elmo.
"I can still hear the laughter from the Elmo," he told me when I talked to him.
"It haunts me in my dreams," he told me.
I don't plan on having bad dreams myself.
David Ryan Palmer is a reporter for the Southwest Daily News, and actually isn't being let inside this store to take pictures, so be sure to let him snap a shot in the parking lot! He can be contacted at sdneditorial@yahoo.com or his personal e-mail address, nonah.me@gmail.com.
