By hour three of the long wait, my back is burning, my mouth is yawning and my feet are barking. In the midst of my discomfort, I remember the email the better half had sent a day earlier.
“I don’t think you should stand in line tomorrow night. Becoming a slave to demand-driven capitalism … kind of repulses me,” the missive read.
More Top Picks Waterproof Cases
Such concerns, however, are past their sell-by date. I’m in line trying to score the hottest, newest video game system to put under the tree. We’ve failed to pre-order the Xbox One. Most places are sold out and not making any promises about new ones coming in before Dec. 25. An early morning attempt to land one on Amazon, when some were supposed to be up for grabs, timed out — demand outstripping supply.
The choice: Spend four hours of one night in the hopes of lucking out and snagging one or devote the next 33 days to chasing a present that might not become available until after Christmas morning. Failure to get one is not an option. Like many dual-income suburban parents, we lug around massive guilt for not spending enough time with the kids.
Besides, we’re hoping to provide The Greatest Christmas Ever. I remember just one childhood Christmas morning. In 1980, 9-year-old me coveted the Atari 2600. The Sears Wish Book featured the retailer’s house brand of the video game console. It sold for about $150 —$425 in today’s dollars. Figured it was beyond my parents’ reach. But they saved, probably served more Hamburger Helper the following year. Come Christmas morning, I was shocked to tear open the gifts and find the Atari along with Space Invaders, the hot game that year.
These days, there’s not a material possession on Earth the Black Friday bingefests could offer that would get me out of bed in the middle of the night. Haven’t waited in line outside a store for 15 years. Remember the Beanie Baby craze? Well, they were on my mother’s Christmas list. And birthday list. And Mother’s Day list.
But those were shorter waits with older women — ladies who knew how to post up like an NBA power forward, to be sure — and there weren’t that many of them. The Xbox experience would pit me against a throng of large man-children in small T-shirts. They’d have goatees. Think Comic Book Store Guy from “The Simpsons.” (Worst. Line. Ever.)
Turned out that I was the one who most resembled that description. Arrived at the Microsoft Store on North Michigan Avenue around 8:30 p.m. a week ago Thursday. It’s in a mall, an indoor location on a night when it’s raining and in the 40s. The sales tax in the city will be higher, but such is the price you pay.
When the mall closes at 9 p.m., there are only about a dozen people, four of them sitting in portable camp chairs, trying out the display Xboxes. In front of me is Igor Mihaljko, who came here from Serbia four years ago. He’s settled near Irving Park and Kimball. He’s here for “Call of Duty: Ghosts” and “Ryse: Son of Rome,” combat games set in different eras. “Christmas is early for me,” Igor tells me.
We’re invited to sit on wooden stools in the store. Padraic, who’ll lead us through this evening’s ordeal, tells the crowd that those who’ve pre-ordered the game (a group that’ll show up en masse closer to midnight) will be taken care of first. Everyone else is vying for whatever extra consoles the store has received, and it’s unclear how many of those are on hand.
There’s a well-dressed guy ahead of me, and we talk about the economy and the city’s government worker pension crisis. Josh McClure, a 32-year-old trader, lives in Roscoe Village but says he grew up in Austin as one of nine kids. “This wasn’t on the agenda when I woke up today,” McClure says of waiting in line for a $499 video game system.
The evening drags on. Those of us still in line are hopeful we’re going to score an Xbox, but aren’t going to believe it until we’re walking out with one. Our hopes are pinned largely on the fact that during the afternoon, we each filled out a card at the store that we hoped would secure us a console that night. Upselling was involved. Would you like to spend an extra $200 for a couple of games, an online membership and a two-year warranty? Thinking it might help my chances if I said yes, I agree. Might also have bought the undercoating and rustproofing.
As we wait, the news is grim. There are only about 10 consoles that aren’t spoken for. Would we make the cut? What if they’re short for the pre-sale customers? Many of us are fading, one yawn begetting another, in the way that yawns are contagious.
In the end, it’s all orderly. We hand over our credit cards around 11:30 p.m., and within 45 minutes, most everyone there is walking out with a large bag containing the new device, all smiles and excitement.
On the long drive home, I spot a homeless person sleeping under a pile of blankets on Lower Columbus Drive. The feeling of guilt is instantaneous, and I’m not unaware of the irony as I reach for the remote to my not-strictly-necessary satellite radio and select the holiday music channel. A cover of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” by Rod Stewart and Dolly Parton is playing. It’s as unholy as you would imagine.
I press the gas pedal, thankful for what I have and hopeful for a Christmas morning that will prove epic. The Xbox could go under the tree as a gift from Santa — the boys still believe, or so they’re letting us think — but to heck with that. All this slave to demand-driven capitalism wants for Christmas is a little credit.