Someone please remind me why one should not get within a
mile of a Walmart on a Saturday let alone step inside. Entry into that zoo on a Saturday is nothing
short of an ineffable experience. Before
you accuse me – I had little choice.
I think I spent most of my tour trying to get around an
indolent shopper with her two kids sitting, standing, and playing in the aisles. When it wasn’t her kids it was her, standing
her cart in the middle of the right half of an aisle while she planted her rear
end in the middle of the other half of the aisle. My best attempt at a smile and a polite “excuse
me” were met with contempt as she pulled a bag of candy from a display and
plopped most of it into her mouth. I
made a U-Turn and made my way down an adjacent aisle.
I thought from that point on that my Saturday experience
could only get better. Oh, I was oh s-o-o-o
WRONG! The 275 pound, five-foot, six
frame with a hairy beer gut protruding out from under his tank top assaulted
both sense and sensibility. Or, was it
scents? I’m really not sure. His burley beard melded somehow into his
curly chest hair. To be fair, I am sure
he works hard for a living to provide for his four kids who were jumping off
the shopping cart onto the cake mix and frosting shelf. Had it not been for the cart that was fixed
to the floor at a 90 degree angle to the aisle, I would have tried to plow
through. I made another U-Turn.
I tried yet another aisle to get to where I wanted to go
only to be met by the arrogant “lady” I had encountered before, coming directly
toward me. It was no use. My only escape from confrontation and rioting
was to make yet another U-Turn. Thinking
that since she could no longer be in the first aisle where I met her I tried
that one again. Aha! Clear sailing! Alas, I couldn’t find what I was looking for
in that aisle.
My blood pressure runs about 117/63. After 30 minutes of what should have taken no
more than 10 minutes I could feel the blood pulsating through the veins in my neck. So help
me, I thought to myself, if I see
that “lady” in the red, white, green, yellow, and mostly black skin tight
things on her legs I’m going to scream!
I am always cautious when I come to the end of a shopping aisle
before entering those primary aisles. I’ve
been banged and collided with too many times.
My angst and blood pressure must have been showing as the nice man (who was
clearly having the same experience that I was having) stopped, smiled, motioned
me on, and said, “I understand.”
“Bless you!” Somebody
else gets it.
For a short while things began to improve. Then I hit the check-out lines. Most were three and four deep. They were all like that except for beer gut
man and Miss/Mrs./Ms. Attitude. I chose
the beer gut man aisle even though it was two-deep as opposed to Ms. Attitude’s
one-deep line.
To my amazement Attitude’s line was moving much faster. She plopped things on the conveyor belt with
rapidity. Beer gut man was still lifting
– beer – out of his cart while wrangling his kids away from the candy bar
impulse buying shelves. I took a chance. First opportunity I got I moved to Attitude’s
line.
As it turns out, Ms. Attitude was Princess Attitude. It wasn’t until she got in line that Queen
Attitude showed up on the scene.
I think it was a price check or having to clear something off
the register that brought the line to a screeching halt. Whatever it was, it was enough to get
Princess Attitude to move her fat butt away from the conveyor belt so I could
put my six or seven items on it. She
literally turned and sneered at me.
It’s O.K. I’m a man and I can handle this. I refuse to be intimidated by this “lady”
even if it means starting a riot. She
must have read my mind, but it didn’t matter cause her little rug rat started
poking his grimy little finger into my bagels.
Calm down. You’ll be home soon and this nightmare will
all be over. Beer gut man and three
other shoppers left before Attitudes’ (yes, that is plural possessive) line
began to move.
Just because I don’t drink beer doesn’t mean that others can’t
do the same. No big deal. And Ms. Attitude had beer in her cart along
with various and sundry other things. It
was one of those big boxes of beer. I
don’t know what you call them. I’m sure
they have at least 24 cans of beer in them.
Not my problem. I don’t
care. At least I didn’t care until she
pulled out her Food Stamp card or whatever it is called and then pulled out a
wad of twenty-dollar bills to pay for the beer.
I don’t fault people who need assistance for using it. Times are tough for a lot of people in spite
of how good Obama says things are. But,
when she pulled out a stack of twenties thicker than what I’ve ever carried in
my life, my heart literally sank. It had
to sink as my blood pressure couldn’t get much higher. This, I
thought to myself, is what gives welfare
a bad name. I don’t know her story and
I don’t want to know her story. People have
to eat and they have to feed their kids.
I guess they need their beer, too.
Princess and Queen Attitude waddled off with the crumb
snatcher and I moved up to finish my transaction. The one thing that could have made it all
better was to have the cashier simply apologize for the delay. Or, she could have thanked me for shopping at
Walmart or said good afternoon. She
could have even said, “Go pound sand” and I would have been ecstatic. Nothing.
That is, she said nothing until I tried running my credit
card through the reader. The message in
the card reader said “Invalid Card” or something like that. I knew better. So, I tried a second card. And a third card. I was about to try a fourth card when the
cashier who was watching all this with a sense of wicked glee said, “It’s
broken.”
I try very hard to not use profanity. Two words were on the tip of my tongue. One was profane. I didn’t say it, but I thought it. I handed her my card.
The receipt says, “Save money. Live better.” Maybe that’s true, but not on Saturday at
Walmart.
