I had to go to Walmart today.
I only go if I have No Other Choice. (Time was of the essence: when you’re a one-car family, logistics can be a nightmare. Sure enough, the shopping gods think it’s hilarious that Walmart happens to be the closest “grocery” to my house.) I get there and pull into a parking lot a mile away from the door, and hike to the entrance.
There’s that smell…what the hell is that?
Walmart interior design by Dr. Heinz Doofenshmirtz
The people who lay out the aisles in Big Box stores, and especially the ones in charge of Walmart, are Sinister and Evil people. I think they work for Dr. Doofenshmirtz. One can not just “run into” Walmart. If I need shampoo and, oh, milk, for instance, I have to walk, literally, from one end of Walmart to the other, and then back up to the front of the store. The layout peeps think this is clever because I will pass Every. Freakin’. Aisle. in the store, and they think this will ensure I will snag a bunch of poorly made crap I don’t need on a sheer whim. They’re wrong. Doing that requires Disposable Income, which few in this country have seen since the Clinton Administration, and certainly nobody who shops at Walmart.
I consulted my list and filled my cart, avoiding hazards like people restocking shelves in the middle of the aisles at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday. I put the milk in the cart and somehow made it up to the front of the store before it expired.
Capitalism at its finest…
And then I looked for an open lane. Please note I did not say a “short” lane. I said an *OPEN* lane. This place has set expectations so low, we’re thrilled if there’s a Basic Warm Body to be found working at all. Out of the twenty-eight lanes there, two express lanes were open, and one regular lane. For reasons no one can figure out, other than a possible nostalgic paralysis, there are no self-check-outs at this stinking (using this term literally. Really, someone needs to get Bill Nye in here to find out what the hell that smell is) Walmart.
I groan, internally. I needed to be home at 3:30. I got in line at 3:15.
I stood in the creepy women’s department (because there were three full carts, and two poor souls in motorized carts ahead of me) and pulled out my phone to read Les Mis on my trusty Kindle app. I figured I could get in a hundred pages or so before I made it to the front of the line. Suddenly, the questionable fashions on the racks around me became irresistible to hoards of Walmart patrons. I couldn’t concentrate. People were ‘scuzing me and bumping the cart; it was like Black Friday at Best Buy.
I was losing my Zen.
Then, the dude in the motorized cart in front of me lost his: that little man started backing right the hell up, no turn signal, no nothin’. He turned his liver-spotted head and a gleaming hearing aid revealed itself. He sped (heh…you know what I mean) off in a huff as I barely escaped with my toes still attached, and I moved up and saw the problem: the lady way up there with the huge order spread all over the belt had seen those commercials that inform us Walmart matches prices. (Please, stores, for the love of all that is holy, stop doing this. It results in unnecessary violence.) And, by golly, this good steward was gonna keep Walmart true to their word. Every dang thing in her cart was on sale somewhere else, and she had forty-seven crumpled up ads to prove it.
Did I mention this was the only lane open?
The Walmart smell was giving me a headache at this point. I moved up my cart. The checker, poor thing, looked around for reinforcements: nuthin’. I have a soft spot for grocery checkers: I was one in high school. It’s not the absolute blast it appears to be, lemme tell ya. She finished the monster order as I attempted to read a bit more from Victor Hugo. The man ahead of me in the other motorized cart got his turn, and he pitched a fit about the wait. Like having one lane open was the checker’s idea. I tried to ignore him and read. Lost in France, time had no meaning. I looked up. It was my turn. I pulled up to the (germ ridden) belt and proceeded to begin unloading.
You’re never going to believe this. That checker looked me right in my eyeballs and said, “I’m closed.”
I was holding a can of refried beans. It took all the self-discipline I could muster not to throw the damn thing at her. Bless. her. heart.
Ooh, look: hell!
Attention Walmart shoppers: Zen has left the building.
I glared at her. I think there was some steam. Some benevolent Walmartian who appeared out of thin air and was wandering about for no reason I could discern said to her, “She’s been waiting forever!”
“I know, but it’s my break.”
I hate Walmart. Did I mention that?
In order to save that poor checker’s life (I have a soft spot for them, really, I do), I turned around and began to search for a non-existent open lane. A managerial type was checking people out on the D.L. a lane over. I pulled in. Two overflowing carts were ahead of me attached to people who brought loud and unhappy children. To prevent myself from committing a violent felony, I texted the BFF:
“In effing Walmart line…one lane open. About to throw canned goods. Bail me out?”
Get a load of this response:
“Minimum wage workers, babe. Think about how tired she is.
Peace comes from within.
And it’s a fantasy to throw those cans.”
My BFF is one of the truly beautiful people, inside and out. I texted back, while laughing:
“You are not helping.”
She said:
“Lmao
I wish you had my gun
You could wave it like a looney.”
(I ignored this, not being the gun-toting-type, and besides, I was still using every ounce of will-power trying to keep my butt outa jail.) I replied:
“Take that “be a better person” crap and shove it. lol”
Chelly’s nothing if not brilliant:
“I can see you are in no Buddha mood.”
“Not hardly.”
“Well, shall I call in a bomb threat?
Or Free Food on the corner?!?!?”
(Yes, she abused some punctuation. But, in her defense, she was desperate to help me.) Newly buoyed with laughter and friendship, my Zen returned. I made it out of line finally, drove home, unloaded the food, and sank into a chair. I told the kids we’re having Laffy Taffy for dinner, because as my BFF proved, it’s good for the soul.
But I still hate Walmart.