Slydawg

In America I was taken to a warehouse called Costco. At the door, a woman checked my friend's membership card. At last, I thought. A checkpoint. A travel pass. Finally, this country has proper gate protocol. Inside, the ceiling was so high that weather felt possible. They sell mayonnaise in containers I would describe as architectural. Forty-eight eggs at once. Trousers next to televisions next to a kayak. Old women stood at small stations, handing out free food on toothpicks. I asked my friend when the festival ends. He said, "It's Tuesday." The festival does not end. The festival is the store. Then he bought me a hot dog and a soda. It cost one dollar and fifty cents. I assumed I misheard. I checked the receipt. One dollar. Fifty cents. The price has not changed since 1985. I was alive in 1985. Everything I have purchased since then has betrayed me at least once. Gasoline. Rent. Rice. All of them broke their word. The hot dog did not. I asked how this is possible, and I received a story I did not believe until I confirmed it. The founder, before he stepped down, told the next chief what would happen if he ever raised the price of the hot dog. He said, and this is recorded history: "If you raise the price, I will kill you." Scholars believe he was joking. The price has not moved in forty years. I leave the conclusion to you. At the exit, a man checked our receipt and drew one line across it with a highlighter. A seal. A magistrate's signature, approving safe passage. I bowed to him slightly. He said, "Have a good one," which I now understand can refer to a day, a life, or a hot dog, depending on need. In my country, we honor merchants who keep the same price for generations. There is a shop in Kyoto four hundred years old. We treat it as a national treasure. Costco is forty years old and sells tires. Give it time. Empires fell. Currencies died. The hot dog holds. A nation is its promises. I paid one dollar and fifty cents. The promise held.