People will buy anything that is 'one to a customer.'

Host: The neon lights of the downtown street flickered like nervous eyelids in the midnight rain. Cars passed in a slow, constant rhythm, their tires hissing over the wet asphalt. On the corner stood a small storefront, its windows dressed with desperate signs:
“LIMITED STOCK.” “ONE PER CUSTOMER.” “FINAL DAY.”

Inside, Jack and Jeeny stood by a counter littered with boxes of trendy gadgets, discount perfumes, and limited-edition watches that all seemed to whisper the same lie: rare means real.

Jack’s coat was damp, his grey eyes sharp with skepticism. Jeeny, her hair still dripping from the rain, studied a display sign with quiet curiosity, her fingers brushing the edge of a glossy box.

Jeeny: “Sinclair Lewis once said, ‘People will buy anything that is one to a customer.’”

Jack: “He wasn’t wrong. You slap the word limited on garbage, and suddenly it smells like gold.”

Host: A fluorescent light above them buzzed, casting their faces in a pale, restless glow. The cashier, half-asleep behind the counter, watched the clock like it was his last chance at salvation.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that fascinating, Jack? The way scarcity makes us value things. Maybe it’s not stupidity—it’s instinct. We chase what’s rare because we think it means something.”

Jack: “No, we chase it because we’re trained to. Marketing is the new religion. The holy trinity: scarcity, status, and fear of missing out.”

Jeeny: “And what’s the alternative? Not wanting anything at all?”

Jack: “Want something real. Something that lasts beyond the shelf life of a sale.”

Host: A group of college students entered, laughing, their voices loud with the intoxication of youth and caffeine. One of them grabbed the last “limited-edition” speaker and shouted, “Got it!” as if he’d just conquered Everest.

Jeeny smiled, watching them.

Jeeny: “You see? They’re not buying the object. They’re buying the feeling—the victory of getting something others can’t.”

Jack: “That’s not victory. That’s hunger disguised as pride. Sinclair Lewis saw this a century ago. He knew that people aren’t buying products—they’re buying validation.”

Jeeny: “But validation is human, Jack. The desire to be seen, to be special—that’s as old as fire. Even the first caveman probably wanted the best stone axe.”

Jack: “And the second one probably killed him for it.”

Host: The rain outside had turned into a steady drizzle, tracing thin lines down the glass. The world beyond the window looked like a reflection warped by greed and neon.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re being too cynical. Not everyone buys out of greed. Some buy to belong. That’s not manipulation—it’s connection.”

Jack: “Connection sold in a box isn’t connection, Jeeny. It’s dependency. The market doesn’t sell you things—it sells you yourself, back to you, with a markup.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you still carry that old watch? The one your father gave you?”

Host: Jack’s hand froze over the counter. For a moment, he didn’t answer.

Jack: “Because it’s the only thing I didn’t buy to impress someone. He gave it to me. It’s… the one thing that’s mine without a price tag.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the difference. Things can mean something if they’re rooted in love, not envy.”

Jack: “Love doesn’t scale, Jeeny. You can’t mass-produce sincerity.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can remember it. And that’s what we’ve forgotten in this world. People don’t buy things—they buy stories. And the best ones remind them of who they want to be.”

Host: The cashier yawned, the sound echoing through the quiet store. The students had left, leaving behind the faint smell of wet clothes and adrenaline. Jack and Jeeny were alone again, surrounded by the soft hum of artificial light.

Jack: “So you’re saying this—” he gestured at the shiny boxes around them “—isn’t about greed, but about identity?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every purchase is a mirror. Some people see vanity in it. Others see hope.”

Jack: “Hope wrapped in plastic.”

Jeeny: “Hope comes in all forms, Jack. Even foolish ones.”

Host: A flicker of lightning briefly illuminated the window. For a moment, the reflection of their faces appeared in the glass—two people standing between reality and illusion, between truth and the seduction of scarcity.

Jack: “You know, I read somewhere that during the Depression, people still spent money on lipstick. Sales went up. Even when they couldn’t afford bread.”

Jeeny: “Because they wanted to feel alive. When the world collapses, beauty becomes rebellion.”

Jack: “Or delusion.”

Jeeny: “Or survival.”

Host: The clock ticked. The store was closing soon. A security shutter rattled somewhere in the back, the sound sharp as a warning.

Jack: “So you’re saying scarcity isn’t manipulation—it’s just a reflection of human need?”

Jeeny: “Yes. We crave rarity because we’re terrified of being ordinary.”

Jack: “But we are ordinary.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why we search for something to prove otherwise. Even if it’s just a perfume labeled ‘limited edition.’”

Host: Jack laughed, a low, tired sound, half amusement, half surrender.

Jack: “You sound like a poet in a shopping mall.”

Jeeny: “Maybe poetry is the only way to survive a shopping mall.”

Host: A faint smile touched his lips. He looked at the counter again—at the last “exclusive” watch still sitting under the glass.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s why the ‘one to a customer’ trick works. It makes us forget the crowd. For a moment, it feels like the world paused for us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It feeds the illusion that we matter more than the millions.”

Jack: “And maybe we keep buying that illusion because the truth is too unbearable—that most of us are replaceable.”

Jeeny: “Not replaceable, Jack. Just… repeating. Like songs sung by different voices. Some out of greed, some out of love.”

Host: The lights began to dim, signaling closing time. Jeeny picked up her umbrella; Jack grabbed his jacket. As they walked toward the door, the rain had almost stopped—just a few drops falling like punctuation at the end of a long argument.

Jack: “You think we’ll ever stop falling for the illusion?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe one day, we’ll learn to see through it and still smile.”

Jack: “That sounds like acceptance.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s awareness.”

Host: They stepped out into the quiet street, where the reflections of the store’s neon signs still glowed in the wet pavement: SALE, EXCLUSIVE, LIMITED—words built not just to sell things, but to sell dreams.

Jack and Jeeny walked in silence, their footsteps echoing softly, the city’s pulse around them now slower, gentler, almost human again.

And as the lights behind them flickered out, the truth Sinclair Lewis had seen a century ago still hung in the air—
that people, in their eternal hunger to feel special, will always buy not the object, but the illusion that they were chosen for it.