That’s Where They Get Ya’

1979. 159th Street. Calumet City, Illinois.

It was a short drive from my neighborhood on the Southeast Side of Chicago.

Aunt Sally’s, Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips, Maxwell Sweeney’s, Jack in the Box, Ball of Fire, Barnaby’s, Cattle Company, and many other restaurants populated this strip and nearby area.

Included was Shakey’s Pizza Buffet.

Pizza and buffet. Two irresistible words to a teen.

It was decent pizza in an area overflowing with great pizza. But sometimes quantity trumps quality. This is where a tremendous life lesson was learned.

Naturally, the buffet included a variety of pizza. It also offered fried chicken, fried potatoes, and an assortment of other items that didn’t matter to us. Amidst the greasy fried food lie an innocent looking pan of sliced garlic bread.

As garlic bread goes, it was pretty good. But after falling victim to this trap a few times, we concluded that it was there for nefarious reasons. It was an undercover agent working for the restaurant.

Simply put, the bread was there to fill you up. Each bite, though tasty, occupied space in your belly, meaning less room for lower profit margin, higher value items like chicken.

The free refills on pop? It was the Natasha to the Boris of bread. It is impossible to determine how many teens belched out loud, spewing rancid garlic breath for all to enjoy, but it’s safe to assume it happened frequently.

Some friends got hooked. Good kids that just took the wrong path. We warned them that wolfing down bread and guzzling carbonated drinks would result in fewer slices of pizza, potatoes, or even two delicious pieces of chicken. But these were the teen years and for some, the temptation proved too great. Sadly, some became statistics as high profit margin customers.

These unsuspecting kids were all got. They didn’t even know it.

Need more proof? Pay attention at wedding receptions. Specifically, ones that serve family style dinner. The older guys, usually uncles, instinctively pass on select side dishes. These wisemen instead double down on the mostaccioli and beef, knowing the servers will bring more upon request. Ever hear 275-pound Uncle Pete say, “I’ll pass on the sausage but hit me up with more of that kale?” Nope. His slice of wedding cake is as much a dinner victory celebration as it is a salute to the happy couple.

So, why serve salad on a festive occasion? Forget the notion that some people like it. Or that nothing screams, “Let’s party!” like iceberg lettuce. It’s a margin thing.

Wedding got ‘ya’s. Often more successful than the marriage itself.

However, being gotten is not limited to dinner.

Las Vegas. There are deals to be found. So, you figure that the gambling budget increases because the travel and lodging expenses are kept down. Soon you get planted at a table or a slot machine and start shelling out your money. However, the opening of your wallet or purse sends a low frequency signal to the bar and on cue, free cocktails rain from the sky.

By 1:00 am, you have sat at a five-dollar Blackjack table for eight hours next to someone named Torbjorn, who barely speaks English, yet has somehow become like family. Every trip to the bathroom involves a glance at a conveniently located cash machine. Eventually, you justify a withdrawal with a promise to skip something else later, which is forgotten shortly before discussing plans to meet Torbjorn in Lillehammer someday.

You wake up with a scorching hangover, little recollection of the Norwegian guy, and your empty wallet or purse echoes like a deep cave. The predetermined gambling budget has been blown on day one of a three-day trip.

You got a two-star room at little cost to the owners. They got your paycheck.

What happens in Vegas is your money stays in Vegas, because they got ya’.

Simple trips to the store should be treated with extreme caution too, as they cannot wait to get ya’ either.

For example, seasonal products are often on sale, so you decide to splurge for a nice $9.98 hose nozzle. But this is a small item in a big box hardware store and unusually difficult to find. After searching through nine isles, you find them in a cardboard box, priced as advertised. However, the path to them was strategically designed to expose you to cool tools, kryptonite for the do-it-yourselfer.

Hence, you return home with the nozzle, a new orbital sander, 36-AAA batteries, and a flashlight powerful enough to keep the Grand Canyon lit for a decade. Plus, a bag of spicy pretzels and some beef jerky.

They laid it out and you became the got-ya’-yourselfer.

Often, it is wise to read the fine print to avoid being gotten.

I vividly recall the defunct mail order music clubs that relentlessly hawked 13 records or tapes for only one cent. What an offer. You and your leisure suit could shake your booty for a penny! Anyone, especially young people, could afford it.

Except there was more to it. There were shipping and handling charges, which were not unreasonable. But they also required at least ten more purchases at full price, which were about ten dollars each, for three years. It was far from a thirteen-cent deal.

Additionally, if you did not complete their required monthly forms on time, they made the selection for you. So, hard rock fans eager to blast Ted Nugent may have received the newest Peaches and Herb album. They would have to wait a month to be reunited with Cat Scratch Fever.

So, for the offer that sounds too good to be true, guess what?

It’s probably one where they get ya’!

This column originally appeared in the Times, a Shaw publication.