Red Cart, Red Light
I am no-one, and today I bring you a tale of suspense, betrayal, and excessive seasonal home decor. You’ve heard of Squid Game, that wildly popular show where financially desperate people played childhood games for cash… and those who lost, well, let’s just say they didn’t need to worry about overdraft fees anymore.
Now imagine that, but it’s just you, a Target, and a faintly vibrating sense of fiscal doom. The rules are simple: buy one thing. The outcome? Catastrophic. Welcome to Red Cart, Red Light.
Game 1: Dollar Spot Roulette
The player enters. Their objective is clear: toothpaste. A list, gripped tightly in hand. Determined. Focused.
But they are immediately intercepted by the Dollar Spot Gauntlet, a deceptively cheerful zone filled with $1–$5 items too cute to resist. The music plays lightly overhead. A glowing gnome figurine stares them down.
Red light.
They stop.
Green light.
Three ceramic mushrooms leap into the cart.
Round one: failed. But morale remains high.
Game 2: The Cart Pull Test
The red cart is deceptively smooth. Pushing it activates a psychological mechanism known as Commitment Escalation. It feels natural to keep adding “just one more thing.”
“I’ll only go down a few aisles,” the player whispers.
The cart answers with silence, and space.
They pass the bath section. The towels beckon. A sage green bath mat lunges into their hands with the subtle force of a ghost.
Game 3: Endcap Elimination
The player is now deep in the maze. And here’s where the traps become obvious: endcaps (those siren-song displays at the end of each aisle). Each one is a test.
A candle labeled “Midnight Fern” sits alone.
A bamboo charcuterie board priced just right.
A half-off seasonal wreath? Unclear purpose. Unstoppable force.
Red light.
Cart pause.
Green light.
Add to cart.
The player is no longer speaking.
Game 4: The Candle Gauntlet
This level is the hardest. Most never leave unchanged. The Candle Gauntlet plays with your identity, your scent preferences, your sense of control.
The labels are abstract: “Hygge Wind,” “Quiet Fireplace,” “Regret on a Tuesday.”
The player smells one. Then another. Then eight. Time stretches. The cart now smells like six versions of a distant memory.
A store employee walks by. Says nothing. They’ve seen this before.
Game 5: Self-Checkout Sudden Death
There are no guards here. No pink jumpsuits. Just the cold, merciless screen that reads: “Total: $147.92.”
Red light.
The player freezes.
Green light.
Tap card. No eye contact. Exit.
The toothpaste? Never found. Possibly never existed.
A Few Notes from the Surveillance Room:
- The red cart increases spending by 42%, according to a study I made up just now.
- “I’m just browsing” is the retail equivalent of “I’ll just watch one episode.”
- Endcaps (those aisle-end setups) are tactical psychological warfare disguised as “seasonal inspiration.”
- You always remember what you didn’t put in the cart.
- There is no return policy for shame.
Because We’ve All Played
You don’t need numbered tracksuits to know the rules of the game. You’ve entered for one thing. You’ve emerged dazed, holding a basket shaped like a hedgehog and three candles named after emotions. There are no losers here, only highly-scented survivors.
This is our modern coliseum. The arena of mild despair and maximum dopamine. And we go willingly.
If You Know, You Know
If you made it home without crying over your receipt or explaining your purchases to anyone, you won. For now.
But the game is always running.
Every Target is an invitation.
Every cart is a contract.
And the next time you say, “I just need toilet paper”, you’ll hear it too:
Red light… green light…