Thursday, February 06, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Goldberg: Secret agent man

By Tod Goldberg

I'm standing in the middle of a notoriously disgusting chain buffet restaurant trying to figure out if the hostess is wearing the appropriate uniform, if my waiter has a name-tag on, if the guy cutting the meat is wearing sanitary gloves and if the shift manager (his name is Jose, I did get that much) greeted me one of four ways when he swung by my table to check on me. My choices for greetings are the following: A) Warmly, B) Pleasantly, C) Curtly, D) With disdain.

I battle between the four choices because A and B pretty much mean the same thing, while C and D have a distinct difference to them. Curtly, to me at least, would indicate the shift manager was angry at me for something (like, for instance, the way I intentionally spilled Jell-O on the floor to check out his crisis management skills) whereas disdain would indicate that he pitied me in some way (say for eating at his notoriously disgusting chain buffet restaurant). I settle on B because I don't want the guy to lose his job just because I'm doing a little research.

A few weeks ago, I got the bright idea that I'd like to write a fictional story about a mystery shopper, one of those people who goes into stores and writes up little critiques about the customer service, or the consistency of the mashed potatoes, or the cleanliness of the stalls. I thought I'd put this character into situations where odd things would happen and he'd question who he was and what made him do great evil or great good (I hadn't decided yet), and in the end it would be moving and funny, yet deep and literate and, eventually, Hollywood would option it and my life would again be swirled in the compass of lies and deception and great financial wealth that generally has been the hallmark of my celluloid and literary existence. The problem was my only experience with mystery shoppers occurred when I worked at the Wherehouse in college and was written up for being "unknowledgeable and unwilling to cooperate in a mystery shopper's search for albums outside Associate's [me] personal taste."

After much searching--about four minutes online--I applied for and was hired by three separate companies that service establishments in several different markets, including restaurants, clothing stores, gas stations and office supplies. Within 24 hours, I had my pick of assignments (apparently, the Ashcroftian-background checks used to weed out terrorists are not enforced quite as much in the retail sector) and settled on three that seemed interesting and at least somewhat lucrative. I'd visit a fast-food restaurant twice, once in the morning and once in the evening, and check out the drive-through service and for that I'd get a nice hourly wage and compensation for my meals. That one went off without a hitch because I didn't have to get out of my car and, as a bonus, got to enjoy a tasty mayonnaise-based breakfast sandwich and a burger made from, purportedly, grade A beef. I filled out the 40-deep questionnaire about the service and the meal (Extra comments: "The cheese on my burger wasn't identifiable as cheddar.") and filed it with the home office.

My next assignment involved buying a shirt from a clothing store in the mall--maximum price $18--that I would get to keep while earning a few bucks for my troubles ($7) as long as I accurately described the customer service and upselling skills of the 16-year-old kid behind the counter ("Chad was very cheerful!") and then it was on to the buffet.

I figured this would be the mother lode--where all my fictional ideas coalesced and my anti-hero (I'd determined my hero would absolutely be an anti-hero because that's all I write about anyway) would grow out of the morass of fried chicken (Warm to the touch? Check!), roast beef (Is the carver smiling? Like Raymond back from the dead!), green beans (Steaming? Check! Green? Closer to brown) and soft-serve ice cream (Thick and easily ribboned on your plate? No, runny and melted) into a complete, fully formed character.

Instead, I'm sweating through a 60-question checklist about everything conceivable in this particular franchise. The rules the shopping company gives you say you shouldn't be seen taking notes within the restaurant because that would look obvious and could lead to your TERMINATION. So when they ask you to deliver the names of EVERY SINGLE PERSON you encounter, well, it gets a bit tough. It gets to be like a real job and not something I'm doing to give my fiction the authority I require (or the authority one Carrie Winegarden thought I lacked in my last book, according the hate e-mail she sent me) and thus, I feel like being nice to everyone despite the overall horrid quality of everything.

I look around and there are literally 5 million people here eating the epitome of white trash food--all that's missing is NASCAR-flavored pudding--and they all seem inordinately happy, despite the fact that I know at least three other people saw the meat carver wipe his hands on his ass after he set down his latest hunk-o-beef. Oh, what the hell, I think, and I pull out the questionnaire and begin filling it out right on the buffet line. Let 'em fire me.