The Final Days of Great American Shopping: Stories Past, Present, and Future

By Gilbert Allen

A quirky assortment of materialistic suburbanites trying to supersize and spend their way to happiness

An affectionate satire of the culture of self-indulgence, The Final Days of Great American Shopping exposes the American obsessions with money, mass marketing, and material objects. In Belladonna, a gated subdivision in upstate South Carolina, readers meet acolorful cast of characters doing their best to buy happiness in a series of sixteen closely linked stories from the past, present, and future. Whether speed dating, test driving cars, upsizing to dream houses, flying helicopters, or lusting after designer shoes, these small-town spenders have good intentions that often go hilariously awry as they search for emotional and spiritual comfort.

Gilbert Allen is a master at character development and the individuals in this collection are no exception. Among them are the childless, emotionally distant couple Butler and Marjory Breedlove; the harried appliance salesman John Beegle and his precocious, pole-dancing daughter Alison; and the one-handed soccer wunderkind Amy Knobloch. Also featured are Ted Dickey the mastermind of the Mental Defectives self-help book series and the undefeated Speed Dating Champion of the World; Jimmy Scheetz, the pragmatic philanthropist behind Ecumenical Bedding; Ruthella Anderson, a retired first-grade teacher addicted to Star Trek and to extreme couponing; and the mysterious Gabriella, an aging Italian beauty who presides over Doumi Shoes.

Arranged chronologically, the stories span nearly a century. While most are set in the recent past or in the immediate future, the book's title story is set in 2084. It depicts a dystopian shopping mall worthy of George Orwell, John Cheever, or Flannery O'Connor, and raises the question, "Can America survive international terrorism, ecological apocalypse, and demographic disaster to morph triumphantly into the USAARP?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: University of South Carolina Press
• Release date: Apr 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781611176391

Gilbert Allen

Gilbert Allen is the author of seven books of poems and the short story collection, The Final Days of Great American Shopping. His work has received the Robert Penn Warren Prize from The Southern Review and Special Mention for a Pushcart Prize. He is the Bennette E. Geer Professor of Literature Emeritus at Furman University and a member of the South Carolina Academy of Authors, the state’s literary hall of fame.

Book preview

THE SKYLIGHTS OF HELL

Butler Breedlove wanted only to surprise her. For years, ever since The Great Oil Embargo, they’d talked about getting storm windows. But something had always come up: he’d have a bad month with commissions, she’d want to go to Spoleto, it wasn’t that hot, it wasn’t that cold. Last week, though, after selling a million-dollar policy to the contractor in Sans Souci, he’d gotten a great deal on some 32x40 double-hung deluxe units with spring-loaded screens. He’d save even more by installing them himself. Nine screws, his new client had told him. It’s easier than a second honeymoon. Butler had taken home a couple of boxes from the warehouse each day, hiding them under an old piece of indoor-outdoor carpeting in the garage.

On Saturday morning, after Marjorie had left to visit her mother in Easley, he decided to put them up. He started as soon as her Toyota had disappeared behind the row of sugar maples that marked the east end of their property. He might have to work straight through if he were going to finish before she came back for the sake of the Morrisons, who would be over for supper at 7:00. Marjorie hated them. She hated most of his friends.

For once, life was as easy as he’d been told: nine Phillips screws per frame, three on every side except the bottom, to sink into the soft pine of the casing. Grunting happily with each twist of the handle, he congratulated himself for having had the sense to insist that they buy a ranch, not the split-level white elephant on Beacon Street. There he’d be perched on an extension ladder, sweating like a fireman by now. Here he was getting by with an old paint-splattered folding chair, carefully splayed to avoid Marjorie’s foundation plantings.

By noon he’d gotten all the aluminum frames up and was ready to start shoving the glass panels and screens into their slots. He brought them out, two by two, and leaned them against the house. The sun had just pulled itself over the tops of the trees, so he decided to sit down with a beer for a half-hour and browse through the News-Piedmont. As usual, he started with the obituaries—no clients to cross off the Christmas-and-birthday-card list—and then flipped to the sports, where he saw the cable listing for the Braves-Giants game at 1:00. He had resigned himself to a day without TV, what with the windows and the Morrisons, but now his stomach fluttered with the unexpected prospect of being a perfect husband, a perfect host, and a perfect fan, all on the same weekend. And he was barely forty, younger than Rick Reuschel, who had pitched a one-hitter in his last outing against Los Angeles. He tossed his beer can into the kitchen garbage, then opened the fridge. His waistline was trimmer than Reuschel’s, too. Who said Butler Breedlove couldn’t have it all?

Butler felt uneasy for eight innings. He’d rooted for the Braves ever since they’d moved to Atlanta, but he didn’t want Reuschel to lose. After the old pro was lifted for a pinch-hitter in the top of the ninth, he felt his loyalty settle into its comfortable, accustomed place. To his delight, Dale Murphy broke out of his slump with a line-drive homer, just inside the foul pole, in the bottom of the eleventh inning.

He killed the set with his remote control while Murph was still rounding the bases.

Back in the kitchen, the clock read 4:30. He’d have to hurry to get the windows up before Marjorie got home. He took a new pair of white gardening gloves from under the sink, so he wouldn’t have to clean the glass after he’d finished. Smart.

He made it with half a beer to spare. When Marjorie came up the driveway, he tried to look as if he’d been in the lounge chair all afternoon. Yawning, he waved at his wife as she got out of the car.

Tough day?

Okie-dokie, he smirked. Braves won.

She kissed him on his sweaty cheek, then frowned at his undershirt. Better shower while I get supper. They’ll be here in less than an hour.

But instead of going inside, he led her past the front porch to the first set of new storm windows. He pointed upward. Notice anything different?

Oh my God, she whispered. How did you do it?

He felt insulted. I did it myself, he said. With a screwdriver and my own capable hands. It was then he noticed that her head was lowered, as if she were gazing into an open grave.

My flowers, she said.

Down the length of the foundation were patches of brown thatch, 32X40, at perfectly regular intervals.

She ran around the side of the house and let out a sound that Butler was quite certain he’d never heard before, not even in their waterbed. Butler prided himself upon his powers of observation. He could always tell when a deal was about to fall through. He looked at the parched ground at his own feet and wiped the sweat from his forehead. How had he failed to notice?

After Marjorie had locked herself into the guest bathroom, he cooked supper.

Fortunately, her chicken Kiev was already in microwave dishes in the refrigerator, just in case she’d gotten caught behind an accident on Route 123. He took off the aluminum foil and replaced it with plastic wrap before he put the dishes inside the Amana. He’d seen enough aluminum for the day.

Marjorie still hadn’t come out when the Morrisons rang the front doorbell at 7:45.

Sorry, Lorene Morrison said. Our babysitter was late.

Butler told her that some things couldn’t be helped.

Peace offering, Charlie Morrison said, holding out a bottle of Inglenook Sauvignon Blanc with a pink ribbon around its neck. Next best thing to beer.

Before Butler could answer, Marjorie had come up behind his right shoulder. That’s all right, she said, taking the bottle, baring her teeth in what he suspected wasn’t a smile. Butler needed the extra time. He spent the whole afternoon cooking.

Charlie whistled. I didn’t think you could find the kitchen, buddy. What’s on the menu? Hot dogs?

Flowers, Marjorie said. He specializes in flowers.

She had insisted on taking the Morrisons on a tour of the yard before supper. Butler followed silently, as far behind them as he decently could, pretending to pull weeds from between the flagstones.

Do you know much about flora, Lorene? he heard his wife say.

Plants, Charlie said.

Lorene cleared her throat. Not much.

Then let me help you, Marjorie said. This is a laceleaf maple.

Like a doily, Lorene said. My grandmother used to make them, before she died. Ovarian cancer.

Butler winced. Marjorie made them, too.

This is a Rose of Sharon, Marjorie said. And behind it is a crape myrtle.

Even I know that one, Lorene said cheerfully.

Now Marjorie approached the house and stopped beneath the first new storm window. "This was a petunia. She walked five feet farther on. This was a begonia. And those, she gestured expansively, were coral bells."

Must have been some dog, Charlie deadpanned. Did he have the wind with him?

My husband, Marjorie said, was putting down storm windows.

Charlie scanned the foundation plantings, his Preowned Vehicle Appraiser’s eye noting every withered brown patch. Then he grinned at Butler. I didn’t know Hell had skylights, buddy.

Lorene giggled. It sure does now.

Marjorie didn’t speak to him for sixty-one hours. On Sunday she disappeared while Butler was still in the shower. At first he thought she’d gone to church without him, but both cars stood in the driveway. Alarmed, he decided to stay at home, close to the telephone. He shouted for her throughout the house and yard. It was raining.

At 11:00 he was ready to take the Grand Prix out to look for her when he checked the hall closet to see if she’d remembered her umbrella. She was sitting on the floor in her nightgown.

Would you like me to leave you alone?

She didn’t move. She’d never camped out in this particular closet before.

I’m sorry, he said, and shut the door, feeling more relieved than angry.

On Monday she brought him his coffee in the breakfast room, then went back into the kitchen for his English muffin. It was buttered and smeared with his favorite apricot marmalade. Perhaps her emotional weather had changed. Outside, the clouds had lightened to the color of anodized aluminum; it was finally going to stop raining. This is delicious, he said, his mouth full.

When she returned with her own plate, it held a piece of toast blackened almost beyond recognition. She sat down heavily, lowered her eyes, and ate it without butter, without jam, without coffee. Each bite sounded like a limb being broken off a dead tree. Crumbs littered the table and fell into her lap.

It was time to get his briefcase and go to work. As he kissed the crown of her head, she was standing in the living room, looking down through a new window, her left hand over her mouth.

For a moment Butler couldn’t even remember what she had planted there. Then it came to him. Hosta, he said.

She began to cry.

On Tuesday he found a perfect bagel waiting for him after he’d finished shaving. When she joined him with her blackened toast, he handed her his napkin.

Look, Marjorie, I’m sorry I ruined your flowers. I just wanted to surprise you.

You surprised me, she said.

He was shocked by the sound of her voice. It was stupid of me. Okie-dokie? But it wasn’t anything I planned, for God’s sake.

No, she said. Not consciously.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Marjorie, who had been a psychology major at college, smiled faintly. I don’t know. She took another bite of black toast. Nothing I planned.

Very funny.

It was my fault, she said. I should have warned you about putting the storm windows that we hadn’t agreed to buy over my flowers for the whole afternoon.

He slammed his open palm on the table so hard that half of his orange juice slopped out of the glass.

It was poor judgment on my part, she said.

Taking his plate into the kitchen, he noticed the calendar entry for Saturday, July 10: STUPIDITY. It was underlined three times. Furious, he turned on the gas burner, then stuck one half of the bagel on his knife, the other half on his fork. He stood by the blue flame until a cloud rose to the kitchen ceiling and spread into the hallway, setting off the smoke detector outside the bedroom. Then he returned to his chair, triumphantly, and ate every bite.

Best bagel I ever tasted, he said, wiping the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture he knew she detested. Okie-dokie. He could barely hear his own words over the scream of the First Alert.

That was the worst day. By the end of the week Butler thought that his life had greened itself back over. They’d had a three piña-colada dinner at the Aloha, their favorite restaurant, on Friday night. The next morning she was already out of bed when he woke up. Through the open window he heard her working in the yard. He lay on his back and thought about the first time he’d seen her, in Beyond Western Civilization, twenty years ago. Her blond ponytail would hang over her coat as he watched her from the back row. It wasn’t until March—after she’d already spoken to him, twice—that he worked up enough nerve to ask her out. He brought her a single red rose and handed it to her in the lobby of her sorority. She’d told him it was beautiful. He’d said it was just a down payment.

Finding her with a wheelbarrow half full of flowers, a tiny smudge like a stray petal on her chin, he felt a surge of tenderness for her. Can I help you with that?

"I figure if we have a desert, it might as well be a perfect desert, she said, pulling up an unrecognizable flower, then a live petunia. I know how you are about imperfections."

His anger returned. I’ll watch.

When she was done, there was nothing but red clay and three garbage bags around the foundation. While she was wheeling the first one across the lawn, he cradled the other two in his arms and staggered behind her.

You’ll hurt your back again, she said.

Maybe I’ll get a good nurse. He dropped the bags at the curb and caught his breath. Somebody with compassion.

Maybe a mother.

Oh no, he thought. Oh no.

"Even the Morrisons have children."

The Morrisons aren’t 41. He didn’t dare mention the anace-phalic child they’d aborted seven years ago. The Morrisons haven’t had three miscarriages.

We don’t even have a dog because you say they’re too much trouble. Well, nothing is trouble too. Our lives are empty, Butler. She pointed toward the bare ground under the eaves. Empty.

He looked down the street to see if any of the neighbors were watching. Can’t we talk about this in the privacy of our living room?

"It’s not our living room, Butler. It’s your living room! I never wanted to live here. She lowered her voice. Do you know what bothered me the most? Not the flowers. It was knowing you were trying to be nice, trying to be nice for me, and it only made things worse. That’s what I was thinking about in the closet. I live in the best of all possible worlds. I’m free. No living thing on this earth needs me."

I need—

She handed him her gardening gloves. I’m going for a walk now, Butler. Please don’t follow me.

He circled the yard for a half-hour, staring at the red clay that now ringed the foundation. Hell’s skylights, he muttered, then broke out in a bitter laugh. More like Hell’s halo now.

He’d just have to try harder, that’s all. Put in some overtime.

The woman at Belladonna Nursery told him that it was too late in the season for bedding plants, but he persisted. What if I watered them every day?

Just to be safe, you’d better take ones that can stand the heat.

Butler smiled. What do you recommend?

Marigolds would be ideal.

Just marigolds? he said. Wouldn’t that seem a little … empty?

Well, if you go with a fabric underliner you can keep the soil moist enough for almost anything. She paused. It’s nineteen-fifty a roll.

Give me three. Okie-dokie?

And you’ll need a few bales of pine needles to go over it.

When she first saw the mulched flowers, glistening from the garden hose, she rushed into the house and hugged him. After supper, when he came into the bedroom to suggest a drive to Noah’s Ark Pet Shop, she was already undressed. She peeled back the covers and patted the semi-waveless mattress beside her. Let’s stay in one place for a while.

On the Sabbath, he slept deeply and late, until ten. A warm breeze was coming through the screens he’d installed eight days before. Marjorie had already gone to Sunday school when he walked outside to get the newspaper. He’d meet her in the sanctuary at eleven.

He lingered on the porch to admire the flowers which were, in his mind at least, every bit as pretty as the ones he’d ruined. Maybe she thought so, too. After all, compensation was his business, wasn’t it? He’d been nudging his clients toward Full Replacement Insurance for years.

On the way to his car, he strode around the garage to enjoy the work that yesterday he’d hardly had time to see, let alone savor. Beneath the bathroom