The Modern Major General of Dollar General…Or…How I Accidentally Became a Strategic Consultant to the Discount Retail Empire

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD

I am the very model of a modern Major-General,

I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral—

Stop.

Wrong kind of general.

Though... not entirely wrong.

Because for six months—

six glorious, confusing, utterly accidental months—

I became something far stranger:

The Modern Major General of my local Dollar Generals.

Plural.

All of them.

THE BEGINNING

It started innocently.

As all great disasters do.

I needed paper towels.

Simple.

Mundane.

The kind of errand that barely qualifies as an event.

I went to the Dollar General on Fifth Street.

The one near the Taco Bell with the broken sign.

I walked in.

Found the paper towels.

And noticed—

as one does when one has too much time and too many thoughts—

that they were in the wrong place.

Not wrong like "criminally wrong."

Just... inefficient.

They were on the bottom shelf.

In the back corner.

Next to the motor oil.

Which made no sense.

Paper towels are high-frequency items.

Everyone needs paper towels.

They should be visible.

Accessible.

Optimally placed.

I said this.

Out loud.

To no one.

Or so I thought.

THE MANAGER

A voice behind me:

"You're absolutely right."

I turned.

A woman in her forties.

Manager name tag: Brenda.

She looked exhausted in a way that suggested she'd been exhausted since 2008 and had simply learned to operate within it.

"I've been saying that for months," she said.

"But corporate doesn't listen."

"They just send the planogram and we're supposed to follow it."

I nodded.

Because I understood planograms.

Not because I worked in retail.

But because I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.

And I notice things.

Brenda looked at me.

Really looked.

And then she said the words that would change everything:

"You seem like you know what you're doing."

I did not.

But I do know how to appear confident while having no idea what I'm doing.

It's one of my core skills.

"Would you mind," Brenda continued, "just... looking around? Tell me what else is wrong?"

And I—

because I have never been able to resist a creative challenge—

said:

"Of course."

THE AUDIT

I spent ninety minutes in that Dollar General.

Ninety minutes.

Taking notes.

On my phone.

Like a deranged consultant.

I documented:

• Seasonal items (Halloween decorations in July) taking up prime real estate

• The greeting card aisle facing the wrong direction

• Impulse buy items (candy, gum) positioned too far from checkout

• The toy section somehow both overstocked AND inaccessible

• A clearance endcap that hadn't been updated since the Obama administration

I presented my findings to Brenda.

She read them.

Slowly.

Then looked up and said:

"This is... actually really good."

"Can you come back tomorrow?"

THE EXPANSION

Tomorrow became next week.

Next week became monthly.

And then—

this is where it gets weird—

Brenda told the other managers.

There are seven Dollar Generals in my area.

Seven.

Within a fifteen-mile radius.

Which says something troubling about late-stage capitalism, but that's another essay.

The other managers started calling me.

Not officially.

Not through corporate.

Just... calling.

"Hey, Brenda said you helped reorganize her store?"

"Could you maybe... stop by ours?"

And I—

because I am a fool—

because I cannot resist the allure of unsolicited retail optimization—

said yes.

THE STRATEGY

I developed a system.

A methodology.

The Orson Optimization Protocol™ (not actually trademarked).

It went like this:

Step 1: The Walk

Enter the store.

Walk every aisle.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Notice the flow.

The bottlenecks.

The dead zones where no customer ever ventures.

Step 2: The Shopper Simulation

Imagine you are a customer.

A tired customer.

A customer who just wants laundry detergent and a Snickers bar.

How quickly can you find them?

If the answer is "not quickly," then something is wrong.

Step 3: The Heat Map (Mental)

Identify the high-traffic zones.

The areas everyone passes through.

Put the high-margin items there.

Put the impulse buys there.

Make them UNAVOIDABLE.

Step 4: The Clearance Purge

If something has been on clearance for more than two months?

It's not going to sell.

Move it to a "last chance" endcap near the exit.

Or accept defeat and donate it.

Step 5: The Seasonal Rotation

Seasonal items should NEVER occupy permanent shelf space.

They go on temporary displays.

Near the entrance.

Where they create excitement.

Urgency.

Then they disappear when the season ends.

No lingering Christmas décor in March.

No Easter baskets in July.

Respect the calendar.

THE RESULTS

The stores started... improving.

Not dramatically.

They were still Dollar Generals.

Still fluorescent-lit temples of "good enough."

But better.

Customers could find things.

Checkout lines moved faster.

Sales—according to Brenda—went up 7%.

Seven percent!

In retail, that's basically a miracle.

The managers started treating me like a visiting consultant.

They'd have coffee ready when I arrived.

They'd walk me through their problem areas.

"The toy aisle is a disaster."

"No one can find the cleaning supplies."

"Why do we have so many bird feeders?"

And I—

with the confidence of someone who has no formal training whatsoever—

would offer solutions.

Move this.

Consolidate that.

For the love of God, put the lightbulbs near the batteries.

THE NICKNAME

It was Brenda who started calling me "The General."

As a joke.

But then the other managers picked it up.

"The General's coming on Thursday."

"Have you asked The General about your seasonal display?"

"The General says we need better signage."

And then—

because I am dramatic and cannot help myself—

I leaned into it.

I started wearing a blazer when I visited.

Carrying a clipboard.

I'd walk in and announce:

"The General has arrived. Show me your problem areas."

It was absurd.

It was ridiculous.

It was glorious.

THE CORPORATE INCIDENT

It couldn't last.

Of course it couldn't.

Because corporate eventually found out.

Not through official channels.

But because one of the district managers noticed that several stores in the same region had:

• Similar layout improvements

• Better sales numbers

• Mysteriously consistent organization strategies

And started asking questions.

"Who authorized these changes?"

"Did you hire a consultant?"

"Where are these memos coming from?"

The managers—bless them—tried to cover.

"Oh, we just... collaborated."

"Shared some ideas."

"You know, team building."

But corporate wasn't buying it.

They sent someone.

A guy named Todd.

Regional something-or-other.

He walked into the Fifth Street store while I was there.

Clipboard in hand.

Mid-consultation.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

Brenda looked at both of us.

Todd said: "Who are you?"

I said—and I will never regret this—

"I am the Modern Major General of Dollar General."

There was a pause.

A long one.

Todd blinked.

"That's... not a real position."

"And yet," I said, "here I am."

THE END

They asked me to stop.

Politely.

But firmly.

Something about "liability."

And "unauthorized store modifications."

And "we appreciate your enthusiasm but please don't come back."

The managers were apologetic.

Genuinely sad.

Brenda gave me a gift card.

$25.

To Dollar General.

I still have it.

I can't bring myself to use it.

It feels like accepting a severance package from a job I never officially had.

THE LEGACY

But here's the thing:

The changes stuck.

I drive past those Dollar Generals sometimes.

The ones I "consulted" for.

And I can see—through the windows—

that the paper towels are still in the right place.

The seasonal displays are rotated properly.

The clearance endcaps are current.

My work remains.

I didn't change the world.

I didn't cure disease or end suffering.

I just... made it slightly easier to find paper towels in seven Dollar Generals in a fifteen-mile radius.

But in its own small way—

in its own absurd, unnecessary way—

that mattered.

At least to me.

And probably to Brenda.

THE REFLECTION

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if corporate had embraced it.

If they'd said: "You know what? Let's hire this weirdo."

"Let's make him an actual consultant."

But they didn't.

Because corporations don't work that way.

They don't want clever solutions from theater people who wandered in off the street.

They want metrics.

Credentials.

Compliance.

And I—

I am none of those things.

I am just a man who noticed that paper towels were in the wrong place.

And couldn't let it go.

THE ANTHEM

So yes.

I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

I know the layouts vegetable, seasonal, and mineral.

I've reorganized clearance from the recent to the trivial,

In matters of endcaps I'm the expert most tribunal.

I'm very well acquainted with the flow of customer travel,

I understand the science of why certain products sell or unravel.

About the planogram I'm teeming with a lot of news—

With many cheerful facts about the placement of children's shoes!

(I'm sorry. I had to.)

End Transmission.

(Orson exits, blazer draped over one arm, unused $25 gift card in pocket. Behind him, in seven Dollar Generals across the region, paper towels sit exactly where they should be. His legacy, modest but undeniable, endures.)