The Battle for the Ultimate Black Friday Treasure

Black Friday was a battlefield back in the early 2000s. I was 15 and already full of grand ideas about how I deserved the best of everything, even if it meant a little creative rule-bending. My target that year: a fancy new gaming console I’d been eyeing for months.

Armed with sheer determination and absolutely zero strategy, I convinced my older cousin to drive me to the mall at 3 AM. We arrived to find a line that stretched so far it might’ve looped back around the earth. But I wasn’t deterred. The crowd was my adversary, and I was convinced I could outwit them all.

My genius plan? Pretend to “look for my family” while inching closer to the front. Subtlety wasn’t my strong suit; I was caught within three minutes. A woman in a puffy coat called me out, shouting, “We’ve been here since midnight! No cutting!” My cousin looked mortified, but I doubled down. “My little brother is up there! He’s seven!” I lied, not even having a sibling under 20.

The crowd booed. Security escorted me to the back of the line, where I endured an awkward 45 minutes of side-eye from every direction. But luck was on my side—or so I thought. As the doors opened, chaos erupted. Grown adults pushed like it was a mosh pit, and I had to dodge a flying elbow.

Once inside, I sprinted to the electronics section. There it was—the console, glowing like the Holy Grail. But so were dozens of other hands. The store had three consoles. Three. I reached out, only for a guy twice my size to snatch it away, smirking like a cartoon villain.

Defeated and bruised (mostly my ego), I left the store empty-handed. My cousin, who had wisely hung back, bought me a consolation gift: a pair of discounted socks. “You’ll thank me later,” he said, handing them over.

What did I learn? Black Friday isn’t for the entitled—it’s for the prepared. Also, socks are oddly comforting when you’re crushed by retail heartbreak.