“Sale! Cotton Sheets Only $21.95! Won’t last at this price!”
So announced the banner pasted across the window of Abraham’s Department Store, in the heart of tiny Riverdale. Shopping hats stuck primly on their heads, the two little old ladies discovered it early Monday morning.
“Well,” said old lady Pinkerton, “I must say, that’s not a bad price.”
“Oh well, as to that,” replied Mrs. Spillman, “I hope you know better than to rush in and buy before the ‘war’.”
Old lady Pinkerton looked at her sister doubtfully. Had Martha slipped a memory disc? “And what ‘war’ would you be referring to, my dear?” she asked a little too kindly.
Mrs. Spillman, who didn’t miss the condescending tone, crinkled her eyes in a shrewd smile. “Oh, I forgot, you haven’t been here long enough to know about the wars,” she replied in her best, ‘I’ll-show-you-the-ropes-you-dottering-old-fool’ voice.
Put in her place, Old Lady Pinkerton grinned delightedly and waited for an explanation. Her sister had finally convinced her to move to this sleepy little town outside Kansas City so the two of them could ‘go to each other’s funerals’. It was a joke they enjoyed sharing often and with many. They did so like a good joke.
“By this afternoon,” Mrs. Spillman told her sister, “Old Mr. Abraham’s neighbor will put up his own announcement. Just you wait and see!” Naturally curious and with demands on her time distilled down to an afternoon nap, Old Lady Pinkerton could afford to indulge her aging sister.
So after lunch the two sisters wandered back to Abraham’s Department store. Mrs. Spillman laughed and slapped her side. “There, you see,” she exclaimed triumphantly. And, sure enough, the large window of the department store next to Abraham’s sported a fresh new sign. It read,
“Sale! Cotton Sheet s Only $16.95! Best Price in Town!”
“That’s the ‘war’ I was talking about,” Mrs. Spillman cried, delighted. “If old Mr. Abraham tries to discount some article in his store, Mr. Josef, next door, slashes his even more!”
Old Lady Pinkerton smiled at her sister’s eagerness. “Super,” she returned, sincerely enthusiastic, “I could really use some new sheets. Let’s go!”
“Oh, you mustn’t buy them yet!” Mrs. Spillman responded, horrified.
“Why ever not?” Old Lady Pinkerton cried in irritation, “$16.95 is too good to pass up!”
Mrs. Spillman smiled a knowing smile. “Just you wait, dearie. The war has only just begun!”
And sure enough, a little patience proved her point. Mr. Abraham would not be outdone and very soon a new banner graced his window, cutting his neighbor’s price by a whole dollar. On Tuesday Mr. Josef countered by throwing in a pillowcase. Mr. Abraham threw in two. By Wednesday the whole town was in on the soap opera. Some of the newcomers were sure neither store would dare take another penny off, but the seasoned townspeople had seen battles rage for days and they weren’t about to buy until one or the other waved the white flag.
At lunch time on Wednesday Mr. Josef came blustering out of his store, and making a lot of noise and fanfare, put up a new banner that read:
“Sheet sets, two extra pillowcases, only $14.95! Lowest price in the world!”
It was pretty ostentatious but then all’s fair in love, war and sales. The townspeople wandered over in little groups to the front of Mr. Abraham’s store, eager to see how he would weather this shelling. They weren’t disappointed.
Mr. Abraham came stomping out of his store, disgusted. He made a big show of glaring at the new banner and making blustery kinds of noises. The crowd were delighted with this show of ‘down and dirty’ capitalistic competition. He stood there for several minutes grinding his teeth and shaking his head and then raising an angry fist at Mr. Josef’s window, he disappeared back into his own shop. By now the crowd had expanded to include a few high school kids, business people at lunch, the sheriff, mailman, butcher and even the librarian. They didn’t have to wait long. Apparently tired of making new signs, Mr. Abraham brought out a ladder and a large felt pen and, crossing off the $15.95 on his sign, wrote above it: $13.95. The crowd gasped. This could be the end. Would Mr. Josef surrender? They waited, chuckling and talking excitedly while Mr. Abraham stood with his arms folded across his chest, like a general in command of a superior army, just daring Mr. Josef to fire another shot!
But Mr. Josef was no coward! Out he came, looking fit to bust. He seemed to have been prepared for the cutthroat pricing this time as he slammed his metal ladder into place, wielding his own heavy ammunition in the form of a black pen. Up went his ladder, down went his price.
Mr. Abraham’s return volley was quick and nasty and in the twinkling of an eye he had slashed yet another half dollar off. The crowd was transfixed. These two commandos seemed to have forgotten about the profit they were supposed to be making. It seemed pride had surpassed price. But Mr. Abraham, seeing the triumphant look on Mr. Josef’s face as he lowered his own price yet again, was beginning to snap. His Jewish blood boiling over, he let Mr. Josef have a full blast of his Yiddish unhappiness. No one but Mr. Josef understood and he just leaned against his own store window and smiled. He seemed certain Mr. Abraham wouldn’t, nay, couldn’t go lower than $12.00. He had him beat. Mr. Abraham stomped back into his store, swearing like a trooper. And it seemed the battle was over.
Still the crowd wasn’t sure. Should they buy? Mrs. Spillman put a restraining hand on her sister’s shoulder as she began to edge toward the store. “Not yet!” she whispered dramatically. And sure enough, heels thudding on the cement walk like the cavalry in the nick of time, out came Mr. Abraham, determined, grimacing. He had a look about him that said, ‘So, you wanna play tough, huh? Well, you got tough!’ You could see that Mr. Josef wasn’t quite so cocky now.
Mr. Abraham threw up his ladder and whipped the old banner off the window. Then he stuck up the new one with machine-gun speed:
“Cotton Sheet Sets $11.00 Final”
The audience clapped enthusiastically. Mr. Abraham faced Mr. Josef, triumphant. “Ha!” he said victoriously. Mr. Josef’s mouth trembled in undisguised anger and he kicked viciously at the dust on the sidewalk then he turned and snarled, “Look, you son of a snake’s mother, if you want to cut your throat to save your face, go right ahead! What do I care if you send yourself to the poor house by pricing your stuff below cost? Ha! Go right ahead and hang yourself. And then I won’t have to put up with your damned nonsense anymore!” and with that Mr. Josef marched back into his store and slammed the door. Defeated. For today.
The onlookers cheered loudly as though they’d been comrades on Mr. Abraham’s side all along. Then more than half the group bought more than half of Mr. Abraham’s sheets that day. They didn’t allow themselves to be influenced by Mr. Josef’s dire warning about putting Mr. Abraham out of business. The great bargain was just the spoils of war and they happily bought with genial camaraderie. They couldn’t believe their luck in having two such incredibly spiteful competitors in their own little town. How they hated each other! ‘Son of a snake’s mother’ was tame by comparison to some of the adjectives they’d heard! Sometimes they had to cover the children’s ears!
But Mr. Abraham wasn’t always the victor. Sometimes the townspeople were convinced that Mr. Josef must have found an extraordinary bargain at the wholesalers, so smug was he about undercutting Mr. Abraham. “Do your worst, you flea-ridden fool,” Mr. Josef would yell, “you know darn well I got the edge on ya this time!” And as the price fell so low that even Mr. Abraham could not beat it, he would grudgingly concede defeat. You could see it really went against the grain. He’d turn and slink back into his shop muttering and swearing, obviously bemoaning the customers rushing to his unworthy rival.
Neither man was stupid, either. They both knew that when folks come into your store to get one thing, they remember half a dozen other things they need too. Nope, they were no fools,
no matter what the townspeople thought. And the items they chose for battle zones were the very things the townspeople needed. That’s why the skirmishes were so fierce. They weren’t trying to sell leopard-skin throw rugs to a wool and flannel clientele—these were necessities!
When Old Lady Pinkerton was finally allowed to buy her first bargain from Mr. Abraham she was loud in her gratitude to her sister. “Why I saved over ten dollars!” she exclaimed excitedly.
Mrs. Spillman accepted her appreciation as modestly as she could. You couldn’t expect an outsider to know the rules—when to buy, when to wait. It was a knack and Mrs. Spillman was confident, even cocky, that she was gifted. She was pretty pleased with some of the bargains she’d gotten in the past. To be sure, she’d been carried away by the moment and had bought one or two little things that she hadn’t really needed, or, truth be known, wanted. But, a bargain is a bargain and the troops always felt so victorious when the battle was won that they just couldn’t help themselves from rushing in to claim the booty. That they still had to fork out eleven or twelve dollars or so was a minor detail only thought about privately in their own homes as they were wondering where in the heck they would store yet another sheet set or throw rug or shower curtain with all the fittings. Together, the townspeople could have opened their own department store for all the unwanted, unnecessary things they bought during the ‘wars’.
The waste and unnecessary expense should not be lamented, however. The entertainment alone was worth the money. Little else went on in that sleepy town and, without realizing it or trying for it the two shopkeepers had been instrumental in building bridges between people who would never even have gone halfway otherwise. The old ladies spoke to the teeny boppers; and the butcher spoke to the hairdresser; and the grumpiest man in town could not keep from asking anyone nearby, ‘What’s all the damned fuss about?’
Even the little spinster librarian had had the temerity to tap the sheriff on the shoulder and ask what price had been reached by now. And when he turned to say with eager delight, “Stainless steel pots down to $9.75,” their eyes had locked and they ended up buying three saucepans each and later laughing about having six between them when three would have done. All in all there were many new friendships and acquaintances and romances that sprang up from all the healthy competition over superfluous haberdashery.
And if either of the two shopkeepers got rich on slashing prices, they never showed it. There were no ostentatious proofs and little changed. The two shops looked the same, the wars raged on, the name-calling continued. And the only thing they ever seemed to agree on was vacations. Apparently, they couldn’t stand to think that the competition might get up to some kind of really foul shenanigans while they were away, so they always agreed to leave together. At all other times they vied and fought and bellowed as happily as any two cantankerous opponents could.
Old Lady Pinkerton and Mrs. Spillman spent many a pleasant hour watching the soap operas, gossiping about the outcome and the newcomers that always bought too soon. It was like sharing a private joke. And they did so like a good joke.
And so life went on in Riverdale and pretty soon the librarian and the sheriff were going hand in hand to the war games and the gossips said the butcher actually owned a jar of hair gel and the grumpy old man made a friend of a ‘deaf old bat’ who couldn’t read his lips and just thought he was being friendly when he’d say, “What are you looking at, you deaf old bat?”
And Mr. Josef and Mr. Abraham never seemed to lack for new epithets to bestow on each other during the heat of the battle. “You lily-livered horse thief,” Mr. Abraham spat at Mr. Josef once over the price of a set of stainless steel bowls (he’d heard that in a cowboy movie—a great place for stocking up your name-calling library). It didn’t seem quite accurate as they never sold anything to do with horses but then Mr. Josef, returning the fusillade with the appellation of “duck-tailed ninnyhammer,” perhaps wasn’t terribly apropos either. Nobody cared. Creativity was always appreciated, especially when it was going to the good cause of reduced prices.
But Mr. Josef was not a young man anymore and eventually he started hinting that he was thinking of packing it in. And though Mr. Abraham wasn’t a young man either, he railed at him and found a whole slew of new verbal gifts to bestow on a quitter. But, Mr. Abraham notwithstanding, Mr. Josef one day closed his doors never to open them again. And within a week, Mr. Abraham had done the same. The town was stunned. “I guess the competition finally got to them,” some said, and “If you’d put up with all that abuse for so many years, you’d go too,” they said. And, “With such heavy competition they probably weren’t making a profit,” others said guiltily.
But a discovery was made not long after the two shopkeepers left town that laid guilt and sympathy completely to rest. And though some townsfolk were totally outraged, others saw the funny side and laughed long and loud at the clever deceit that had been foisted on them.
For in an obviously well-used underground passage that linked the two stores together, a dusty letter was found that made a complete mockery of twenty-five years of capitalistic competition. Addressed to Josef, the last sentence simply said, ‘Tell your brother, Abraham, to write’.
When Mrs. Spillman and Lady Pinkerton heard the gossip their laughter was the loudest. And every time they come across the extra knitting wool or pans or sheet sets that they’ll never use in a month of lifetimes, they laugh all over again. They do so like a good joke.