Mark Ellwood - Bargain Fever: How to Shop in a Discounted World

M y names Mark, but Im surprised my parents didnt call me Markdown. Bargains have loomed large throughout my life. Growing up in London, I remember my mothers coupon stash. It was stored in an old Turkish delight box, clear plastic and brittle, that sat on the kitchen counter, just level with a childs eyes. Always stuffed with ripped-out coupons, their ragged edges meant that the lid could never quite close; the box gave off a sugary whiff of rosewater that made deals, quite literally, delicious. My mother is from Scotland; were bargain-hunting an Olympic sport, her countrymen would win gold, silver, and bronze (and probably melt them down for their value). Tartan tightfistedness is the butt of constant British jokes. Insulating windows with double panes is a booming business in Scotland, they say, because it stops the children from hearing the ice cream truck when it comes around.

In my mothers case, the determination to root out price adjustments is arguably her favorite hobby. She regularly returns items so she can, instead, rebuy them on sale. The staff at the refund counter at Marks & Spencer, the British department store, greet her by name with the warmth of an old friend. That same urge for a deal first emerged in me when I was a teenager, trawling for music in local record stores (RIP, HMV). I would drive from suburb to suburb on a single-minded search: to find the rare new releases that had been marked down to spike their chart placements. Nothing was as thrilling on a Saturday afternoon as finding a 7-inch single, half price at 99p. The fact that Id spent more on gas to get to the store than Id saved on The Cars didnt ever cross my mind.

Sales kept me solvent throughout university, when I was shipped in as a temp to staff the biannual extravaganzas at the tony British department store Harrods. It was a stressful gig, mostly because then-owner Mohamed Al-Fayed would prowl the shop floor sniffing out infractions of the staff policy (sitting, removal of jackets, or talking to colleagues) and firing miscreants on the spot. I kept my mouth shut, and my job, through several Januarys and Julys.

Soon after college, I moved to New York City, where Ive spent the majority of my adult life. After arriving, I passed most Saturdays ambling around the aisles of Century 21, the discount megastore housed in an old bank just a few feet from whats now Ground Zero. I devised a system to sift through the haphazard racks of designer bargains (hint: Buy anything you see and like in every size, take that haul home, and just return the rejects). If I wasnt scoring deals at Century 21, I was lurking in the Strand bookstore. Its had a spiffy makeover since, but in the 1990s the Strand was still a dark, dusty place that smelled of old things, both books and New Yorkers. The racks in the basement were its treasure trove: full of publishers review copies, illicitly offloaded by critics. I could buy brand-new hardcovers at half price.

Yet it was ducking into the boutique branch of Bloomingdales in New Yorks Soho recently that made me professionally curious about all things cut-price. The store is just minutes from my apartment, and I wanted to buy some deck shoes. I was ready to snap up a snazzy pair in white when the perky sales assistant wandered over to chat. Unprompted, when I asked the price, she offered a spot out-of-towners discount. Some of the chains stores slash 10 percent off for tourists, she told me. Thank goodness Ive held on to the occasional plummy British vowel. It was a gleeful moment, an unexpected deal that clinched the sale. The thrill was ruined a week later when I found the same pair of deck shoes nearby downtown at one of those stores where the sign in the window screams: CRAZY SALE ALL SHOES 50% OFF. Just seven days later, at this new, just-started blowout sale, they were half price. Ten percent seemed like an insult. I kicked myselfwith those shoes. But I still bought a pair in another color because the deal was too good to resist.

It was a landmark moment. My experience with those shoes left me wrong-footed. Clearly, bargains were now no longer restricted to niche stores, clearance periods, or grubby basements. Buying without a discount almost felt foolish, rather than fair. Frankly, I wondered, why would anyone ever pay full price again?

I started to notice deals everywhere. The nagging impulse to search for a code before checking out online. The stamping of a coffee cardwhere ten espressos will trigger a free drinkis like 10 percent off. Sneaking out of work a little early, or arriving a little late, because of a special one-day sale. Browsing at a brick-and-mortar store for a new TV before bettering the price with a dot-com deal. Shrugging at a 50% OFF sign, unimpressed, and instead waiting for that discount to tumble to 70 percent. Groupon, coupon-cutting, or asking, ever so gently, Is that the best you can do? Bargain hunting was inescapable and exciting, at least to my Scottish side.

In some cases, the spread of sales seemed sensible. Coffee shops co-opted the idea of a bars happy hour to jolt sales in the slower afternoon period, as Manhattans wichcraft did by selling drinks 50 percent off between 3 and 6 p.m. on weekdays.

The symptoms of such salesmania continued to spread. Take, for example, retailers starting markdowns the day before Black Friday, coining a new name for Thanksgivingthats Gray Thursday, please. Even this wasnt always enough, as I heard stories of families delaying Christmas expressly to snap up gifts more cheaply. More than just a response to straitened economic times, there was a palpable pride in cut-price shopping that overrode any stiffened sense of tradition. One woman told me, all aglow, that she weighted boxes with sugar, then wrapped them, stunt-present style, until the real treats arrived a day later and 50 percent off. Another single mom opted to leave her young sons a note from Santa, apologizing that he couldnt make it to their house the night before and saying hed asked her to take them shopping on his behalf. These women may have gloated over such reindeer games, but their clique has been rapidly expanding: December 26 is trending to be the third-biggest selling day each year, after Black Friday and the Saturday before Christmas.