On stocking Christmas merchandise when it’s 80 degrees in October

by OF

I grew up in Southern Illinois, at the very tip where you’re closer to Memphis than Chicago. The
summers of my youth were brutal and swampy: far worse than those my parents remembered, and god awful to my delicate sensibilities. Heat waves would hover over 100 degrees for days, only letting up after a cold front kept the tornado sirens running all night long. As such, summer became a season of indoor fun. My preferred pastimes were reading books, going to movies, and playing video games.

I developed certain habits during these heatwaves. A preference for “cold” video games. Skiing simulators, ice levels, jingling bell soundtracks. It might have been boiling outside but there I sat in front of the TV, blasted with AC to the point of needing a blanket and forcing Mario through some slippery Christmas-themed torments. No discomfort required. The draw of video games is often escapism, to slip into a different, more enjoyable version of reality for a while. It can give you something your current environment lacks.

This isn’t an inherently bad thing. The purpose of fiction is to provide an emotional outlet: to give catharsis, provide comfort, and reflect complicated parts of life. However, the nature of video games, movies, and so on as a commodity makes this analysis more complicated. They are designed to make a profit. Individual designers and creatives working on products may put passion and depth into their work, but it is still filtered through the lens of commercial viability and consumer dependence on producers. This goes beyond the entertainment industry, and captures general trends in today’s consumer culture. I am haunted by the eagerness of corporations to steal our world, and sell us hollow replicas.

As an adult, I work a retail job in Madison. Early each week, shipment arrives. We sort through
the boxes, stock the shelves, and find homes for overstocked items. In the latter half, we set up new displays and put out signage for upcoming sales. The weekend brings the largest crowds, so we focus on selling.

I have a complicated relationship with this work. As a lover of things, there is something
gratifying in opening up shipments and seeing new inventory. This year, the Halloween shipment arrived in July, during the hottest week of the year. We unboxed bat-themed tchotchkes and pumpkin spice scents with sweat rolling down our legs and visible pit stains (seasonal attire not permitted by the corporate dress code). I felt a sense of relief seeing these items. They promised cooler weather, changing seasons, and passing calendar landmarks.

But the heat didn’t let up. September came, and – despite a few chilly days– it was
indistinguishable from Summer. October as well. Christmas merchandise started arriving a few weeks after the Halloween junk, and remained steady throughout the whole Fall. The season was marked not by changing weather or migrating birds but by consumption and waste. What will be bought next, what will it be replaced with. Constantly anticipating the next milestone, ignoring the outdoor reality. Our merchandise arrived improperly priced; shifting tariffs and political instability increased the price of some stock by double. This added an extra unpleasant layer to the work, if you thought about what those numbers represented. Did the workers making these items see any of the profit? The workers shipping and delivering the boxes? It certainly wasn’t reflected in what I was paid, nor any additional spending money lining our customers’ pockets.

Peeling price stickers off of holiday ornaments and replacing them with more expensive ones gives a fellow lots of time to ruminate. No matter what the weather was like outside, I was surrounded by reminders of an impending season. One associated with crimson leaves, chilly breezes, longer nights and the sweet flavors of holidays. How much of that could be turned into a product? Fragrances, colors, and flavors can replicate these senses. Visual cues hit the viewer with instant nostalgia. “Ah, it’s a bat! I love Halloween and childhood memories and seasonally-allotted whimsy. This purchase will align my external consumption habits with my internal identity of a alienated, sensitive weirdo!” Nevermind the stagnant weather, nevermind the damage done by the system that produces so much excess, nevermind the whole, independent person you were before you felt the need for a bat figurine. None of our seasons depend on the weather actually changing, on anything marked on the calendar other than quarterly reviews. They are no longer defined by the time of year, but by the items you expect to find on the shelf.

Which is convenient, given how unreliably seasons behave at our current point of climate
catastrophe. No matter what the weather is doing tomorrow, a pumpkin spice candle remains static. Smelling like memories and the abstract impression of food made with love. Costing only $19.99, on sale, ending this week, get one before they’re gone. Don’t look at the trees, still green well into October. This towel is the right shade of orange, with a pretty leaf print. You’re allowed exactly 5 seconds to grumble about the price before you decide whether or not it’s worth it. Don’t think about who made it, or where, or how it got to the store. Don’t think about why it was so cheap before. You deserve this. You deserve empty luxury, surrounded by inanimate reminders of a world you pretend still exists.

If our corporate masters found a way, they’d rip our faces off and sell them right back. They’d make us thank them for it.