I Survived Black Friday . . .

Black Friday, America’s de facto shopping holiday, falls every year on the day after Thanksgiving. I’d thought about participating but never did, held back by pride and the lack of both patience and money. But this year I couldn’t resist the lure of great deals any longer. So I joined in a strict observance of Black Friday. This is my story.

Thursday

10 AM – The morning paper arrives with thirty-plus store flyers crammed with Black Friday deals – from Bon Ton’s ruffled handbag collection to brand-name laptops at Best Buy to $49.99 quilting sets at Jo-Ann Fabric to dirt-cheap sweaters at Old Navy’s “Gobble Palooza” event. The Burlington Coat Factory offers reasonably priced “bubble jackets” for the whole family – the photo depicts a nuclear family smiling like Chinese factory workers during a party official’s visit, except for the dog, who wears a bubble jacket and a distracted frown. His jacket may say, “Black Friday savings!” but his smile says, “Looking forward to biting the animal wrangler who stapled me into this coat.”

11:30 AM – I reread the flyers, working out my strategy. I notice the fine print and see phrases like, “Five per store,” and “No rain checks.” Rain checks are for baseball games – what does this all mean?

5:30 PM – The week’s news stories are filled with warnings about Black Friday. “How to Survive Black Friday” is a popular headline (stop, drop and roll, I suspect) as is “Black Friday’s Dirty Secrets.” The unfortunate word choice of “Door Busters,” used to describe the best deals imaginable, isn’t lost on me. A Long Island Wal-Mart worker was killed on Black Friday 2008 when a crowd couldn’t wait any longer, burst past the doors and trampled the young man to death. I might pin my home address and blood type to my own bubble jacket in case things go awry.

6:00 PM - My 14-year old son Sam agrees to join me. He’s faster and stronger and pines openly for a new video game, assuming it’ll be his reward for joining me. “We’ll get it at Best Buy on sale,” he announces. We agree to start the night at the Tanger Outlet mall in Tilton, twenty minutes north and end our excursion at Best Buy in Concord.

11:20 PM – A lone spotlight scans the night sky over Tilton as we park and head towards the mall. There are so many people here that it’s unnerving. The mood isn’t what I’d call “festive,” despite the quartet playing Christmas carols on their flutes and horns. Scores of people walk the concourse, some standing in lines dozens deep, waiting for stores to open. I meet my sister and her friend, and we part ways immediately. There’s no time for family on Black Friday, unless a loan is necessary.

11:35 PM – Standing in the middle of the Nike outlet, we try on jackets, pullovers and shirts. Sam grabs a bag of socks with the word,”Irregular” on it. Pirates would have loved this place.

11:50 PM – Lines outside stores like J Crew, Ralph Lauren and The Gap are growing. The sidewalks teem with shoppers, none of whom seems to want to be here, especially the two toddlers in a dual stroller whose mom wedges them through the crowd. I’ve seen better parenting choices but keep it to myself and run to find Sam, who’s in Banana Republic, looking for a jacket for his mom. The store’s a whirlwind of frenzied shopping. Everything in the store is 50% off tonight, and you’d think a lifetime of free healthcare’s included with every flat-front khaki trouser sold because people are giddy, their arms filled. We learn the jacket (“with toggle buttons”) was gone weeks ago and leave empty-handed. Besides, how many cowl-neck safari picnic jackets with matching print scarves can one person buy in a night?

Friday

12:09 AM – Sale prices at Brooks Brothers are like cute girls at Sci Fi conventions – they exist only in rumor. You always end up alone with a $70 pink seersucker bathing suit on sale for $65.60, just like the last time. “Can we please leave this place?” Sam begs. We watch shoppers file into the Yankee Candle store. Every elementary school teacher from Meredith to Hollis must be getting one this year – people caress huge candle buckets as they lurch outside, no hint of a smile or a sense of relief on their faces. A teenage girl in her pajamas and slippers shuffles past holding her boyfriend’s hand, heading for the monster line outside Starbucks.

12:40 AM – The mood on the sidewalk isn’t improving. An angry woman cuts us off as she runs into Casual Male XL. I’d be grumpy too if my casually extra-large spouse sent me to Tilton in the middle of the night to find him a new formal muumuu and matching compression stockings.

12:48 AM - People look anxious, almost panicked, like when Gamera appeared in the night sky over Tokyo. I’d welcome an enormous prehistoric sea turtle rising up in the sky over J Crew, scattering the waiting crowds with a shriek and a blast from his fire-breathing snout. “This is kinda scary,” Sam says, and we head for the car.

12:53 AM – We reject the idea of sleep tonight and instead sit down for a hot meal. Over plates of eggs, corned beef hash, vanilla cokes and waffles, we sort the store flyers into three piles- YES (Best Buy, Dick’s, Bon Ton), NO (Kohl’s, JC Penney,) and MAYBE (Wal-Mart, Toys R Us, Sears and Michael’s Crafts). It’s barely past 1 AM, and as the diner fills to capacity, we decide to head to Concord and whatever awaits us.

1:40 AM – After midnight, the line between Wanting and Needing gets blurry. “You want a nice TV, and the sales are so good, so you really need it,” Sam suggests. “And I need Call of Duty, definitely.” A few days earlier, when I told my wife about Target’s Doorbuster Special – a flat screen TV for less than $300, her response was similar. “I want that TV – no, I NEED that TV.” Wanting and needing have always meant the same thing to me late in the night’s wee small hours. Tonight must be no different.

2:10 AM – The line inside Toys R Us is either free market capitalism at its best or its abject worst. It ends at the registers and snakes back and forth, down every aisle along one wall to the back, across the back wall and begins somewhere along the opposite side, heading back down towards the registers. At least 600 people stand next to shopping carts filled with games, clothes, action figures, horses and books, their eyes a mixture of despondency and gloom. One man has ten board games in his cart - on the top rests game, “Would You Rather,” as in, “Would you rather feed your pancreas to angry hamsters than be in this line much longer.” I bet a few people wish they had a Strangle Me Elmo so they could end it before reaching the checkout line.

2:35 AM – We enter Wal-Mart and wonder if this is like what Woodstock was like before the bands arrived. Groups of people sit on the ground, playing cards or reading books, closed off behind yellow rope, waiting for the 5 AM clarion call to take advantage of sale prices. I wait a half-hour to buy a camera, and we watch the crowds grow and grow. The poor woman waiting on us is in a full sweat, knows very little about these cameras, fending off line cutters and people looking for ammo and candied yams.

2:50 AM – Sam tries to ask me a question but it sounds like he’s talking in his sleep. Two women pass by, and one of them says, “You looking for Wii games? They’re in the Dairy section,” as the other woman accepts this truth without hesitation. Black Friday – a day when everyone should expect $60 video games to be sold next to unsalted butter and strawberry Go-Gurt squeeze tubes.

3:05 AM – Near the Wal-Mart exit, a woman exhales cigarette smoke in my face while yelling into her cell phone, “Seriously? She needs another microwave? That’s wicked stupid.” We keep walking. In the car, we need a moment. Wal-Mart just sucked the life from us. Sam crawls into the back and fashions a bed for himself among the coupons.

3:09 AM – Corned beef hash is never a smart choice.

3:10 AM – Our plans to shop at Best Buy need to change. Doors don’t open for almost two hours, and the line is hundreds of people long. Two tents are pitched near the entrance, and police officers chat with future customers. “I’m not waiting in that,” Sam says, his hopes for a low-priced video game dimming. I ask people how long they’ve been waiting. “Since midnight,” someone yells. “Ten o’clock tonight!” a father and son shout. “I’ve been here since two yesterday afternoon,” one guy tells me as he heads to the port-o-potty. I can’t tell if he’s proud or embarrassed.

3:55 AM – “So if Best Buy won’t work and there are only five TVs at Target - what are you gonna do?” Sam asks. He knows I want a TV – the ones I saw in the flyers – and he won’t let it go. We’re parked near Bon Ton and Sears, and they both open in five minutes. I find the Sears flyer and clarify the want versus need argument, circling the $379 32” LCD TV (only six per store – no rain checks). “Then let’s get in line,” he says, and we do.

4:01 AM – I’m trying not to run, and the woman in front of me is doing me no favors, shuffling along at a non-competitive pace. Where is Sam? I’ll never get there in time – only six per store! Would you please hurry, I want to yell. I find the line but am too far back. Want and Need have converged into “I can’t imagine life without that TV.” Just then, Sam’s head pops out of the line near the front. “We’re all set,” he smiles. He’s right. We get the TV I wanted and needed and head for the door.

4:50 AM – I’m trying to do the math, calculating the savings from my Bon Ton coupons and the offers on the down comforters I’ve been instructed to find. If I did it correctly, Bon Ton owes me $37. But on second thought, I’ve been awake for almost twenty four hours, and math’s never been my strong suit. Put them down and walk away.

5:25 AM – The traffic is so thick that we have to fight to get across the road to Dick’s Sporting Goods. The sales are mediocre at best here, unless I want cold weather hunting bib overalls. Sam’s wandering aimlessly, the energy leaving his body. I’m lost in women’s sportswear, seeking a new top for my wife. I grab one and feel it with my fingers and as I look up, a woman stares at me and walks away. Even on Black Friday, pawing women’s sportswear in public is frowned upon.

5:35 AM – One last attempt at Best Buy, but the line is even longer, and they’re managing the door like bouncers at a discotheque - two come out, two go in. Before we can park, a mom and daughter pair in matching sweat suits and perms cuts us off. They look like they power-walked from the Epsom traffic circle. I don’t have the strength to even honk.

5:45 AM – Target is complete chaos. The line stretches from the cashiers to the absolute back of the store, and we walk the length of it just to see how bad it is. The aisles are crowded, and I bet if I shouted that plastic forks were now on sale in Aisle 16, we’d have a full-scale riot. We leave and head home. We’ve had enough.

5:50 AM – The rain starts to fall. We’ve lost the ability to converse, now communicating in a series of grunts and chirps on the ride home.

5:59 AM – I pull into the driveway. Sam walks upstairs without a word. I follow and fall into a restless sleep, my mind filled with extra microwaves, the Sears 50-yard dash, and dreams of a line at Toys R Us that stretches from here to infinity and beyond.