When I was a teenager rebelling against a summer job in the family business – it was the era of proving myself, taking a stance of fierce independence, or perhaps it was just the ultimate in my stubborn streak – I took a job at Taco Bell. I learned to withstand skin burns from pinto beans that burst, the ever-present smell of chili powder, and the scorn of the manager who, I’m sorry to say, was not impressed with my many suggestions to improve our little taco outpost. What I never managed to learn was the upsell.
It was hard enough to stand at the counter and listen to people order food they didn’t really want in the first place, distinguishing words and requests hidden in the boredom and impatience of fast food that, no matter how quickly delivered, seemed not fast enough. I was supposed to ask each and every person the upsell of the week, which turned out to be the upsell of the entire time I was there: Would you like some Cinnamon Crispies with that?
I was supposed to ask this of people who finished their order with finality, with a brusk, “That’s all.” People whose eyes never scanned to the dessert listings. People who I didn’t want to ask.
So I often didn’t. My success rate was rather small, and my surprise at being taken up on the idea at times must have shown on my face. Really? You do want some of those? Well, all right. If my manager was around, I asked. If he wasn’t – if he was in the giant refrigerated store room, or couldn’t hear the cashiers because of the cacophony of bursting, popping, radioactive pinto beans and audible anguish of whatever other employee was in charge of their constant stir, or was out in his car in the parking lot – the car in which he lived while working as the manager, leaving the overall impression that no one could make a living at Taco Bell, not just young adolescents who are only there to piss off their parents and pretend to be working toward independence – if he wasn’t in earshot, I didn’t push the fried cinnamon/sugar twists.
Fast forward a few decades. I’ve not stepped foot in a Taco Bell since they stopped making their own pinto beans daily, from dried beans and lard. These days, huge sacks of pre-made ingredients are in the storerooms; Cinnamon Crispies are off the menu. I dislike the upsell every time I’m on the receiving end of it. Don’t you think I’d have considered what I want before I placed my order? Are there that many people who need to be asked to supersize or add more crap food to what is clearly not the best decision they’re making that day anyway?
Even outside the world of fast food, the upsell is everywhere. Would you like some floor mats with your sedan? Would you like high definition with your already-overpriced cable carrier? Would you like to donate a dollar to the charity of choice at the grocery store? Would you like to donate your bring-your-own bag refund? Would you like to open up another credit card?
Of course, everyone upsells. At a friend’s house for dinner, the second helping, the wineglass refill, the offer of after-dinner coffee or tea – all of these are the upsell. Dating, I suppose, is one giant upsell – and don’t get me started on the wedding industry, perhaps the pinnacle of the upsell world where every groom knows that even a single “no thanks” will ruin his wedded bliss and chances for sex with his wife forever after.
I like to think I’m immune from the upsell, but I’m not. I upsell green beans at lunch to my son; dinner after the movie to my husband. At least in the world of business, the world of overt sales, everyone knows that the salesperson is pitching, selling and upselling. That by entering the door, or putting just a single item in your online shopping cart, you’ve agreed to participate in the upsell. We writers are a terrible bunch of upsellers – the worst, maybe – as we deny this urge to push ourselves on others, to make a person take more than they want, to finish the podcast or buy the book or just keep turning the damned page. Some books now even have a bit of a preview of the next in the series, so that the act of finishing one book leads seamlessly into the upsell of the next. We writers pitch, sell and upsell with every word, every story arc, every impossible plot twist, every detail we slip into a memoir.
Every day I write is the upsell. I write one sentence, one idea, and then I could stop, but no, I keep going. Would you, my unknown audience, like emotional resonance to go with the humorous anecdote? Would you like to read just one more way I can describe that? Would you like one more well-polished sentence? Would you like to cross the bridge that usually separates us as you read these words? Would you like to know just the tiniest bit more about my world?