It had to be done

I have just returned from a rare trip to Wal-Mart, a store I avoid for a wide variety of reasons. When I do go there to shop, I most always have a meticulous plan to get in and out in the least possible amount of time. If at all possible, I try to plan any trips either late at night or early in the morning. Any other time of day will present a gauntlet of well-nourished individuals driving their beloved MartCarts at a snail's pace in the absolute center of whichever aisle I choose to go down, preventing passage from either side. I am usually so lucky as to be asked something similar to the following: "Excuse me...since you're tall, would you mind reaching up there (at a shelf roughly 4 feet from the floor, no less) and handing me a couple of bags of those double-stuffed deep-fried Twinkies....no, no, not the plain ones...over to your right...yes, those chocolate fudge covered ones with the sprinkles and bacon bits." If you can successfully get past this obstacle, next comes the employees themselves, who seem to have their shelf re-stocking schedule precisely synchronized to the times of peak store traffic. In addition, one must always be on the lookout for screaming children, older men yelling at each other because they have forgotten to turn on their hearing aids, and the annoyance of overhearing the same worn-out conversations. Current topics at the Sylacauga Wal-Mart are: not being able to "get over" why one can't get cell phone reception inside the store (hint...it's a big metal box); the rising cost of food; the fact that kids used to not behave the way they do now; the shrinking size of product packaging, the rising cost of gas, and the oft-overheard conversation wherein two people reassure each other that we are indeed living in the end times and that the good Lord will be coming soon and none of this will matter.
So, when I found myself in a virtually empty Wal-Mart tonight, I realized I was actually enjoying my stroll around the store. My first observation was that even after perusing the entire store, there was virtually nothing that caught my eye as being even slightly appealing to me as a consumer. Perhaps I was just tired. It never ceases to amaze me, though, the range of products one can buy at the supercenter. Don't get me wrong. I am most impressed with Wal-Mart's business model, and while their distribution methods may be adding carbon to the environment in unfathomable quantities, the revolutionary and efficient logistical performance that results in the aggregation of thousands of fresh fruits and vegetables from hundreds of countries picked, packed, shipped, and displayed within a period of days to every store in the nation is mind-boggling. The logic, however, that is employed on the side of the store know as the "general merchandise" area leaves me entertained, confused, and a bit scared. I could spend hours discussing not only the offerings of but also the patrons of our local Wal-Mart. Instead, I just wanted to record a few rather unique and interesting items I came across during my perusal of the wares. With Easter approaching, there's no question but that there would be pastel displays of eggs and chocolates, etc. What amazes me about much of the Easter candy, however, is the sheer volume of some of the packages. A five pound bag of jelly beans? A two pound box of malted milk balls? A mesh bag containing 50 plastic eggs? These quantities might be useful if you ran a decent-sized orphanage, but for the average consumer? Five pounds of candy? Really? Another interesting department was men's clothing, and I am being most liberal in my use of the word clothing. Among the offerings: Nascar tank tops, t-shirts screen printed with images of large-mouth bass, Auburn and Alabama boxer shorts, baseball caps emblazoned with Nascar logos, Auburn and Alabama team colors, various cartoon characters, skulls, some type of skate/punk imitation graphics, and some type of hat that looked like a cross between a fedora and a toboggan. My next stop was the "literature" department, where I was actually impressed to see that Vanity Fair was offered among the magazine selections. This was about as good as it got, however, with the exception of mega best-sellers such as Stieg Larsson's trilogy and a few Oprah's Book Club selections that were of some merit. The rest could be grouped into a few general classes: soft-core vampire porn, Fabio-covered romance novels, puzzle books (mostly circle word) and Christian works, generally falling into either self-help style books promising prosperity through Jesus, or hellfire and brimstone guides to preparing for the end times. Having had enough, I proceeded to the check out lanes to purchase the sunscreen I had come to the store to buy in the first place. Amazingly, there were three lines open. One, the express lane, had 4 customers; another, two or three registers away, had only one person on line, but this person had a shopping cart containing enough food to support a small country for the better part of a year, and finally, the line I chose, a line, from all appearances, the one most likely to swiftly get me through my transaction and out the door. Prior experience should have told me that when faced with the choice of a long line or a short line, especially at Wal-Marts and bank drive-through tellers, always choose the longest line. I don't know why this is, but I know the opposite always results in a near-eternal wait. While the lady in front of me at the check out had only 3 items on the conveyor belt, it was the instrument of torture in her hand that led to my increasing levels of irritation. I say irritation, but that actually came later. At first, it was more of a feeling of intense disbelief. It seems that she had forgotten to pick up some puff paint for a t-shirt she was going to "embellish". So, instead of paying for her few items and then going back to get the item she had forgotten, she called her son on his cell phone (poor reception and all), as he was still wandering around somewhere in the store. She told him that she had forgotten the puff paint, and directed him to the craft section to pick it out, and then proceeded to tell him to look for this kind and not that, this color but not that, and then specified the type of applicator tip, and finally an admonition to get the regular kind, sans glitter. She then continued to speak in a loud voice to him over the phone, directing him back to my register. Nearly 8 minutes had elapsed. I payed and walked to the exit as quickly as possible, but of course, as it was now approaching 10 p.m., the exit that I had chosen had been locked for the evening, and I had to walk the length of the store to the other set of doors, where my sunscreen set off the alarm at the door. I vowed to myself on the way back to my car that I would not, under any circumstances, return to Wal-Mart for at least a month, or until I need a new "My other vehicle is a Bass Boat" bumper sticker, which ever comes first.