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Not entirely sure if this is the type of stuff that people tend to post here, but this is the "Writers" section, and this is something I wrote almost exactly a year ago. So, what the hell...
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David Lynch must have spent many an hour shopping in Wal-Mart after midnight.
Working swingshift at the hospital, I end up swinging by there on my way home about once a week. I never fail to be pleased with how relatively sparse the parking lot is at that hour; it's the perfect time, I always think to myself as I glide my vehicle past the store's entrance without having to stop and wait for a break in the never-ending flow of pedestrians.
And there's always a decently close spot that I can comfortably squeeze my old truck into, which I can always find without delay... no endlessly waiting behind people obliviously pushing carts up the center of the lane... no waiting behind the car that's hovering with an insistent turn signal over some lady with a cart full of purchases to load into her car... no crawling along to avoid the kids who dance happily away from their parent's unattentive orbit like erratic satellites. Flippin' genius, this coming at midnight business. I open my door without needing to hold it back from hitting the car that parked on the line next to me and step out into the cool night air. Yep, I think, it's the perfect time.
Drifting toward the store, I always seem to see a couple bickering about something or other. Last time, it was a young, slightly yuppified couple who had just whipped into a spot in their shiny SUV and leapt out, slamming doors and bickering about lending her brother their new blender. This time, a skinny guy in a Mariners' cap and a wifebeater follows bitterly at the heels of a blotchy-faced, heavyset woman in a pink coat, as they push a cart with three bags in it back toward their car and quibble over her purchase of a chick flick DVD. (He reminds me of what the main streaker guy - Ben Garrant with the uber-long mullet and ballcap - from Reno 911 would look like if his face was unpixelated... missing teeth and all.)
Invariably, when I get through the doors, the graveyard greeters are just as polite and unnecessary as any during the day. Of course, the odds are far less that someone will be occupying their attention, thus sparing me the need to say 'hello' in a convincingly friendly tone. This one - a pleasant, heavyset lady - actually makes a sweeping gesture like a carnival barker issuing me into a sideshow tent. 'Hello', I answer pleasantly and make enough sincere eye contact to give her undoubtedly dismal night a meager shot of sympathetic acknowledgement, but not enough to invite more small talk.
Inside, the flourescent lights diligently bring out the sickly pale in every sleepless face and bared, bruised thigh. I grab a blue handbasket from the stack, making note of the security tags stuck on each one, as they continue to foil my dreams of absconding with a blue plastic Wal-Mart handbasket that I can call my own. Someday, though, mark my words... I'll have my whale. The Cuban cigars and 50-year scotch will flow as I show off my prized possession to in-laws or visiting dignitaries and regale them with a colorful account of its liberation by my hand. In the spot where the security tag was once affixed, I shall mount a gold plate, engraved with details of how I managed, at last, to outfox the small, grey clump of plastic and metal once and for all. It will rest in a glass case on a marble and walnut pedastal, under a trifecta of track spotlights in the very center of my home. This I foreswear. But, for the meantime, I take a handbasket... simply to shop with.
Taking a regular pushcart at this hour is just begging for a prolonged and painful experience. All of the aisles are heavily impeded and most of the turnarounds blocked with palattes, carts, cardboard, and silent, almost hostile freight-throwers that accumulate to insistently push you down unwanted paths like a sadistic labyrinth. Even empty-handed, navigating the store is like an Indiana Jones adventure without all of that senseless adrenaline and exotica.
It's amazing how many tweens and barely-teens are running around the store at this hour on a school night. For that matter, it's astonishing how many younger kids I see accompanying their parents or parent up and down the aisles at that time of night, usually as bright and talky as if it were half a day earlier. I suddenly wonder if I've stumbled onto a reason for the dismal state of education in this nation; kids who are passed out and drooling on their desks during exam-time are probably less likely to test well, overall.
As I turn into the soft drink aisle, I see one of those nearly hostile stockers turning quickly away and beginning to walk in the opposite direction, not from me, but because he's spotted a young girl in hip-huggers with red-streaked hair moving intently past me with a question in her eyes. Wow, I think, how deep (albeit somewhat understandable) is the aversion to being interrupted by customers when a young guy like that even tries to run and hide from a reasonably cute girl, just because she obviously has a question.
She keeps following him, drifting steadily as if in a vague trance, with her arms folded tightly over her ribs, hands jammed into her armpits. After a few moments, she asks rather quietly for the distance between them and without directly calling for his attention, 'Are the salty crackers with the salty snacks?'
I have to replay it in my mind as I watch the stocker pause, obviously having heard her (at least heard her speak, if not what she said) and wrestle with the decision of whether to pretend to press on as if he hadn't, or turn and help her. (And, yeah, upon careful mental replay, I confirm that that was exactly what she had asked.) She continues to drift forward, clutching herself like a zombie in search of a thermostat as he weakly pretends that he was pausing to glance at something on the wall of 2 liter bottles, before continuing away. Rather than pursue or ask again, the girl - without breaking speed or momentum - makes a steady U-turn and goes back the way she came. As she passes, her eyes seem largely unfocused and wholly unaffected; she begins mumbling something to herself about crackers. I'm almost offended that I'm not sufficiently stunning to garner even a fleeting glance from her, but then I remind myself that she's clearly crazy.
I pull some soda from the wall as the stocker, having u-turned himself, fixes his eyes frowningly on the retreating girl. I'm not sure if he's feeling guilty for ignoring her, but he begins heading slowly after her with a fixed, unhappy glare. After he passes, I notice, near the end of the aisle ahead of me, a slim bald guy with a frog tummy, in a tank top, shorts, and no shoes, facing the chips on the other side of aisle and dancing slightly in place, as if the floor is too hot... or too cold. I don't bother looking back to see what develops with the stocker and cracker girl; this aisle has become entirely too bizarre for me, so I elect to move on.
After negotiating several more obstructive aisles (including one where I was unwittingly blocked by a stocker who bent down to tie his shoe while his creepy co-worker stared me in the eye and laughed a crazy little chuckle), I make it to the DVDs. There's nothing that grabs my eye, but as I'm checking out the new releases, a jowly guy in a beige sweatervest and grey slacks imposes himself between me and the DVDs, plucks a copy of The Outsiders and, staying rooted in front of me, begins to examine it while breathing loudly and rhythmically through his teeth. After a while, after moving myself to the next section over, I realize from the corner of my eye that he's spent far too much time intently examining the front cover of that DVD, which had very little writing on it. As I'm thinking this, he drops the DVD haphazardly and walks away with a particularly loud exhale through the teeth. For whatever reason, I feel compelled to pick it up and look at it myself, then put it back in its place. (For the record, it was the same as all of the other Outsiders DVDs... there was no hidden sailboat.)
Weird snippet of conversation as I walk past a mother with a child in the cart: 'All you think about is raspberry jam!' For some reason, it made me really wish I was a kid again, so that all I thought about was raspberry jam. Not that I ever did, when I was a kid, really.
I pick up some light bulbs, some contact solution, and head off to find some hangers. In the middle of a clusterfuck of housewares aisles, is a particularly dense (in numbers) group of freight throwers, talking happily as they work. When they see me approach they all go swiftly silent. I smile and nod easy-goingly as I approach. None of them smiles or speaks, but they instinctually shift around, clearing a path directly toward the hangers I need (which I hadn't even spotted until they cleared the path to them). Just to make things a little more awkward, in the silence, you can hear some lady griping from a couple aisles over about all of the 'shit in the aisles'.
As I head toward the checkout, I see an old lady (man, seniors really don't sleep, do they?) wandering along, not paying attention to where she's going, almost hit a pierced, punked-out teen (whose back was to her) with her cart. Even though it wasn't his fault, he quickly apologizes and even bows slightly as he slides out of her way. She stares at him for a moment with foggy, slack-jawed surprise, but resumes her course without acknowledging him. I'm less taken by that fact (his appearance would certainly shake some seniors into silence or fear), than I was by the sudden realization that she must have driven herself to the store.
As I'm walking along, examining the checkout lines, among all of the people who seem like they'd be more comfortable weedling prescriptions in an ER or wearing dusty leather outfits leftover from a Mad Max movie, I suddenly get an impulse from the blue... or more likely, the flourescent. I don't know why, but I want fish sticks. I can't remember the last time I had fish sticks, but I really want a big, fat bag of them. It's one of those things that just seems like the right thing to do at Wal-Mart.
Fish sticks in the basket, I elect to do self-checkout this time. Somehow I begrudgingly wrestle down that urge to let out a rebel yell and take flight with the precious blue basket in hand, which is a good thing, since the employee stationed at the head of the self-checkout lanes is keeping a hawkeye on it. I pause and follow her eyeline to the basket with heady temptation, before acquiescing to the better angels of my nature and setting it on the floor. Clearly, she is reading my mind on the matter. One day...
As I leave, I notice a really stunning brunette standing at the McDonalds by the entrance. She's dressed to kill in a somewhat tight black-and-burgundy dress that wouldn't look out of place on James Bond's bedroom floor. She turns and sets her gorgeous, dark eyes on me for a moment. What a stare; intelligent, strangely non-commital, yet entirely sexy... I almost look around for a ponytailed Madison Avenue cameraman perched behind a tripod, taking her picture. After that moment, she anomolously returns her attention to the menu board's Big Macs and Chicken Sandwiches, as I drift pass the security scanners and tell the greeter 'thanks' for wishing me a good morning.
Outside, the night air begins to snap me out of my surreal, Wal-Mart trance. But it holds on for a lingering moment as I spot cracker-girl standing outside of the entrance, still staring off without focus in her eyes and clutching her arms against herself. In one of her hands is a bag, through which I can see a box of crackers. I actually feel glad that she managed to locate them, and briefly pity that her eyes can't focus enough to realize what a fine specimen she's failing to appreciate pass by her. I can find crackers like a bloodhound; her loss.
Once again, I think to myself, I managed to negotiate the entire place without encountering any disco-dancing, backwards-speaking dwarves. And, now that it's over, I shouldn't have to stop here for at least another week. Sitting in my truck, with a bag of fish sticks next to me, I realize that the lot is so empty, I'm not going to have any problem getting out of there. Man, this is the perfect time, I think. And, then I realize that there's a bag of fish sticks next to me and I was so driven to distraction that I forgot to get any of the produce items I was going to get.
I glance back at the sparsely trafficked entrance (cracker-girl still at sentry), mere dozens of yards behind me. I've got time and it would only take a couple minutes to go back and grab what I need. Oh well, I reason... with a turn of the key, the truck roars into life. I release the e-brake, throw it into reverse (with a surreptitious glance at the fish sticks), and get out of Dodge.
However, I must say, as I munch on my sea-salted and malt vinegared Van De Kamp's fish sticks... they aren't half bad. Tastes like life. A little salty, a little tart... crunchy, bready, and slightly fishy.
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Hope someone was moderately amused by it.
- Darin -
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That was fucking brilliant. Why you aren't writing your own column for a paper, I don't know... 
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Thanks, Pro!  I definitely do intend to try and get a writing career going, in the near future.
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Dude you really should that was great
We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit. - Aristotle
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I saved the thread to favorites, having a VERY busy day here, won't get time to relax till LATER in the day but I will read this!
"I offer you a Vulcan prayer, Mr Suder. May your death bring you the peace you never found in life." - Tuvok. 
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Thanks, cross!
Wow... I can't believe this was Front Paged. Thanks again, Pro!
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Public Enemy #4 4000+ posts
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You captured the essence of Wal-Mart after prime time perfectly. You were desriptive without dragging me out of the moment with a too-cute turn of phrase.
I don't know what you do for a living but, you seem to be pretty good at this.
but to be honest here's the real reason I commented:
Your sig. I have no idea what Colonel Angus is but, I'd take bacon and scotch for breakfast any time...as long as the scotch is at least Johnnie Walker Black and the bacon is peppered in thick slices.
Oderint, dum metuant.
You are a god damned idiot, you know that? You ought to be smacked upside your dumb-fuck head, even after all these years. Shame on you! -USCHI showin' some love
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Crawford, I just read your story..it is excellent!!!!!! Have you been published before?
"I offer you a Vulcan prayer, Mr Suder. May your death bring you the peace you never found in life." - Tuvok.
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Thanks, Bastard! I work in Medical Records at a hospital, currently. I started a novel a while back that got back-burnered that I hope to resume working on in the near future.
As for the Breakfast of Champions: thick, peppered bacon is ... for my scotch, I try to keep it at or above Johnnie Walker Black or Chivas 12 (A friend just got me my first-ever bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue for my b-day... oh maaannn... ) ... and Colonel Angus? Uh... try saying the name sort of run-together in a Southern drawl. If that doesn't help, check this out: http://snltranscripts.jt.org/02/02mangus.phtml 
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Thanks, beardguy! No, I haven't. Haven't finished anything fit for submitting yet.
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Quote:
crawfordcrow said:
Thanks, beardguy! No, I haven't. Haven't finished anything fit for submitting yet.
Your writing seems quite fit to me! I only wish that I could write that well! 
"I offer you a Vulcan prayer, Mr Suder. May your death bring you the peace you never found in life." - Tuvok.
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Quote:
crawfordcrow said:
As for the Breakfast of Champions: thick, peppered bacon is ... for my scotch, I try to keep it at or above Johnnie Walker Black or Chivas 12 (A friend just got me my first-ever bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue for my b-day... oh maaannn... ) ... and Colonel Angus? Uh... try saying the name sort of run-together in a Southern drawl. If that doesn't help, check this out: http://snltranscripts.jt.org/02/02mangus.phtml
Johnnie Walker Blue is the shizinit. Best scotch I've ever had. The stuff is almost $200 a fifth. It's 30 bucks a shot in the few bars that carry it. I've had it 3 times in my life...once after each of my kids was born and on New Years '99. Gold and Green aren't bad if you're working on a budget. The worst scotch I'll drink is Dewars white label. Anything else isn't fit to drink.
Colonoel Angus. Why don't you just say "eatin' pussy"?
Don't need none of that high falutin writer talk 'round these parts...
Oderint, dum metuant.
You are a god damned idiot, you know that? You ought to be smacked upside your dumb-fuck head, even after all these years. Shame on you! -USCHI showin' some love
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I read this under Pro's suggestion. He really built you up, with all the "damn fine piece of writing" and the frontpaging and stuff. And you didn't disappoint. That's the kind of stuff that makes me want to write.
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Quote:
crawfordcrow said:
As for the Breakfast of Champions: thick, peppered bacon is ...
Bacon in any form is (I could never be Kosher...  )
Quote:
for my scotch, I try to keep it at or above Johnnie Walker Black or Chivas 12 (A friend just got me my first-ever bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue for my b-day... oh maaannn... )
You ever have Glenlivet? Now that's some smooth drinkin'... I'm a Jameson girl myself, but that's sort of an everyday whiskey...
I've had JW Blue for celebrations, great stuff, but tres 'spensive. And you got a bottle for your b-day? You have nice friends, crow...
Quote:
... and Colonel Angus?
Ah, you're a good man... 
As for your above writing, I want to re-read it (when I have a lil more time) before I comment...
 Dear, sweet Harley Kwink...I'm madly in love with you. Marry me! We can go to Canadia. Or Boston or something. It'll be grand...You know the cookies are a given. They are ALWAYS a given. You could dump me tomorrow and you'd still get the cookies. Boston..shit, wherever dyke weddings were legalized. And where better to rub their little piggie noses in how bad they suck than right on their doorstep? What are they gonna do? Be jealous of you? Stare furiously at your tah-tahs? Not willingly give you cookies, but instead begrudgingly give you their cookies? Woman, time to wake up to the powers you wield - Uschi
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Old men, fear me! You will shatter under my ruthless apathetic assault!
Uschi - 2
Old Men - 0
"I am convinced that this world is of no importance, and that the only people who care about dates are imbeciles and Spanish teachers." -- Jean Arp, 1921
"If Jesus came back and saw what people are doing in his name, he would never never stop throwing up." - Max von Sydow, "Hannah and Her Sisters"
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Quote:
Wednesday said:
FUUUUUUCK!
.......After Midnight?
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Guys, I gotta say, some of the most brilliant, funny stuff I have read in the last year came from Crow. This entry is just the tip of the iceberg! Crow, you gotta post the rest....too good not to, and looks like you have an appreciative audience. Scotch.....Blue Label all the way!!! WooooOOOOOO!!!  Colonel Angus.....hehe....the ladies love to see his shining face down at Shady Thicket!!
A man has to believe in something, I believe I'll have another drink. - W.C. Fields
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I don't know why, but this read better the 2nd time around. Is there another tale for you to post?
Dear, sweet Harley Kwink...I'm madly in love with you. Marry me! We can go to Canadia. Or Boston or something. It'll be grand...You know the cookies are a given. They are ALWAYS a given. You could dump me tomorrow and you'd still get the cookies. Boston..shit, wherever dyke weddings were legalized. And where better to rub their little piggie noses in how bad they suck than right on their doorstep? What are they gonna do? Be jealous of you? Stare furiously at your tah-tahs? Not willingly give you cookies, but instead begrudgingly give you their cookies? Woman, time to wake up to the powers you wield - Uschi
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I, too, would like to see more writing in here by Crawford!
"I offer you a Vulcan prayer, Mr Suder. May your death bring you the peace you never found in life." - Tuvok.
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Quote:
harleykwin said:
Quote:
crawfordcrow said:
As for the Breakfast of Champions: thick, peppered bacon is ...
Bacon in any form is (I could never be Kosher... )
Quote:
for my scotch, I try to keep it at or above Johnnie Walker Black or Chivas 12 (A friend just got me my first-ever bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue for my b-day... oh maaannn... )
You ever have Glenlivet? Now that's some smooth drinkin'... I'm a Jameson girl myself, but that's sort of an everyday whiskey...
I've had JW Blue for celebrations, great stuff, but tres 'spensive. And you got a bottle for your b-day? You have nice friends, crow...
Quote:
... and Colonel Angus?
Ah, you're a good man...
As for your above writing, I want to re-read it (when I have a lil more time) before I comment...
I am quite fond of bacon in its myriad forms, as you can see... http://www.cafepress.com/baconleague
I have some Glenlivet 12yr at home! I do enjoy the single malt scotches, as well. (In fact, I toured the oldest distillery in Scotland, Glenturret, on my UK trip.)
And, yes, sadly I haven't had nearly enough of the third aspect of the Breakfast of Champions, lately. 
I look forward to your thoughts. ...Bear in mind, it's not really polished up; that's why I was pleasently surprised that everyone took a shining to it. I just wrote it as a journal entry, about a year ago.
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Quote:
Uschi said:
It made me wet.
Success!
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Quote:
Scratch said:
Guys, I gotta say, some of the most brilliant, funny stuff I have read in the last year came from Crow. This entry is just the tip of the iceberg!
Crow, you gotta post the rest....too good not to, and looks like you have an appreciative audience.
Scotch.....Blue Label all the way!!! WooooOOOOOO!!!
Colonel Angus.....hehe....the ladies love to see his shining face down at Shady Thicket!!
Scratch-man, you flatter me! (Scratch here is the cat who sent me the Johnny Blue, by the way. )
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Quote:
harleykwin said:
I don't know why, but this read better the 2nd time around. Is there another tale for you to post?
Glad to hear it, harley. Like I said, I hadn't really buffed it up or anything. I might have some more stuff, if I sniff around.
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Quote:
Beardguy57 said:
I, too, would like to see more writing in here by Crawford!
Ahthankyah.
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Quote:
crawfordcrow said:
Quote:
harleykwin said:
Quote:
crawfordcrow said:
As for the Breakfast of Champions: thick, peppered bacon is ...
Bacon in any form is (I could never be Kosher... )
Quote:
for my scotch, I try to keep it at or above Johnnie Walker Black or Chivas 12 (A friend just got me my first-ever bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue for my b-day... oh maaannn... )
You ever have Glenlivet? Now that's some smooth drinkin'... I'm a Jameson girl myself, but that's sort of an everyday whiskey...
I've had JW Blue for celebrations, great stuff, but tres 'spensive. And you got a bottle for your b-day? You have nice friends, crow...
Quote:
... and Colonel Angus?
Ah, you're a good man...
As for your above writing, I want to re-read it (when I have a lil more time) before I comment...
I am quite fond of bacon in its myriad forms, as you can see... http://www.cafepress.com/baconleague
"It's all about spreading the Bacon love."
You prolly already know about this but:
http://mgrsti5395q.seamlesstech.biz/Merchant/2005TGP/BOM%20pages/bom.html
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I have some Glenlivet 12yr at home! I do enjoy the single malt scotches, as well. (In fact, I toured the oldest distillery in Scotland, Glenturret, on my UK trip.)
I've tried both Glenlivet 12 yr and 18 yr - 18 is smoother, but both are excellent...
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And, yes, sadly I haven't had nearly enough of the third aspect of the Breakfast of Champions, lately.
Well, that's a damn shame.  A boy needs all three for a healthy and proper diet...
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I look forward to your thoughts.
You described it really well - it kinda felt like we were in there with you. And there were some cool lines - the Indiana Jones line went over well w/me.
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...Bear in mind, it's not really polished up; that's why I was pleasently surprised that everyone took a shining to it. I just wrote it as a journal entry, about a year ago.
It was a very good entry. I'm curious, did you write it for yourself or with the intent to show it to others at some point?
Dear, sweet Harley Kwink...I'm madly in love with you. Marry me! We can go to Canadia. Or Boston or something. It'll be grand...You know the cookies are a given. They are ALWAYS a given. You could dump me tomorrow and you'd still get the cookies. Boston..shit, wherever dyke weddings were legalized. And where better to rub their little piggie noses in how bad they suck than right on their doorstep? What are they gonna do? Be jealous of you? Stare furiously at your tah-tahs? Not willingly give you cookies, but instead begrudgingly give you their cookies? Woman, time to wake up to the powers you wield - Uschi
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Joined: Dec 2000
Posts: 33,919
devil-lovin' Bat-Man 15000+ posts
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devil-lovin' Bat-Man 15000+ posts
Joined: Dec 2000
Posts: 33,919 |
I think your story is the greatest achievement in human history, and I haven't even read it.
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Joined: May 2003
Posts: 19,633
I walk in eternity 15000+ posts
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I walk in eternity 15000+ posts
Joined: May 2003
Posts: 19,633 |
"I offer you a Vulcan prayer, Mr Suder. May your death bring you the peace you never found in life." - Tuvok.
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Joined: Apr 2005
Posts: 777
The whole forest in one tree. 500+ posts
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OP
The whole forest in one tree. 500+ posts
Joined: Apr 2005
Posts: 777 |
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Im Not Mister Mxypltk said:
I think your story is the greatest achievement in human history, and I haven't even read it.
Damn straight you do!
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Joined: Jun 2004
Posts: 46,308
Who will I break next? 15000+ posts
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Who will I break next? 15000+ posts
Joined: Jun 2004
Posts: 46,308 |
Finished reading. Loved it.
I used to work swing shift when I lived in Sacramento and I've had plenty of late night experiences with stores like Wal-Mart, K-Mart and Winco (only three people here will know what that store is). I might even post some of them.....eventually.
November 6th, 2012: Americas new Independence Day.
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Joined: Apr 2005
Posts: 777
The whole forest in one tree. 500+ posts
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OP
The whole forest in one tree. 500+ posts
Joined: Apr 2005
Posts: 777 |
Thanks, rex! I haven't heard of Winco, but I did used to work at Fred Meyer (which I know that at least you have heard of). You should post your stories, definitely. Nothing beats a good retail story for utterly weird humor.
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Joined: May 2003
Posts: 32,001 Likes: 1
We already are 15000+ posts
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We already are 15000+ posts
Joined: May 2003
Posts: 32,001 Likes: 1 |
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crawfordcrow said:
Not entirely sure if this is the type of stuff that people tend to post here, but this is the "Writers" section, and this is something I wrote almost exactly a year ago. So, what the hell...
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David Lynch must have spent many an hour shopping in Wal-Mart after midnight.
Working swingshift at the hospital, I end up swinging by there on my way home about once a week. I never fail to be pleased with how relatively sparse the parking lot is at that hour; it's the perfect time, I always think to myself as I glide my vehicle past the store's entrance without having to stop and wait for a break in the never-ending flow of pedestrians.
And there's always a decently close spot that I can comfortably squeeze my old truck into, which I can always find without delay... no endlessly waiting behind people obliviously pushing carts up the center of the lane... no waiting behind the car that's hovering with an insistent turn signal over some lady with a cart full of purchases to load into her car... no crawling along to avoid the kids who dance happily away from their parent's unattentive orbit like erratic satellites. Flippin' genius, this coming at midnight business. I open my door without needing to hold it back from hitting the car that parked on the line next to me and step out into the cool night air. Yep, I think, it's the perfect time.
Drifting toward the store, I always seem to see a couple bickering about something or other. Last time, it was a young, slightly yuppified couple who had just whipped into a spot in their shiny SUV and leapt out, slamming doors and bickering about lending her brother their new blender. This time, a skinny guy in a Mariners' cap and a wifebeater follows bitterly at the heels of a blotchy-faced, heavyset woman in a pink coat, as they push a cart with three bags in it back toward their car and quibble over her purchase of a chick flick DVD. (He reminds me of what the main streaker guy - Ben Garrant with the uber-long mullet and ballcap - from Reno 911 would look like if his face was unpixelated... missing teeth and all.)
Invariably, when I get through the doors, the graveyard greeters are just as polite and unnecessary as any during the day. Of course, the odds are far less that someone will be occupying their attention, thus sparing me the need to say 'hello' in a convincingly friendly tone. This one - a pleasant, heavyset lady - actually makes a sweeping gesture like a carnival barker issuing me into a sideshow tent. 'Hello', I answer pleasantly and make enough sincere eye contact to give her undoubtedly dismal night a meager shot of sympathetic acknowledgement, but not enough to invite more small talk.
Inside, the flourescent lights diligently bring out the sickly pale in every sleepless face and bared, bruised thigh. I grab a blue handbasket from the stack, making note of the security tags stuck on each one, as they continue to foil my dreams of absconding with a blue plastic Wal-Mart handbasket that I can call my own. Someday, though, mark my words... I'll have my whale. The Cuban cigars and 50-year scotch will flow as I show off my prized possession to in-laws or visiting dignitaries and regale them with a colorful account of its liberation by my hand. In the spot where the security tag was once affixed, I shall mount a gold plate, engraved with details of how I managed, at last, to outfox the small, grey clump of plastic and metal once and for all. It will rest in a glass case on a marble and walnut pedastal, under a trifecta of track spotlights in the very center of my home. This I foreswear. But, for the meantime, I take a handbasket... simply to shop with.
Taking a regular pushcart at this hour is just begging for a prolonged and painful experience. All of the aisles are heavily impeded and most of the turnarounds blocked with palattes, carts, cardboard, and silent, almost hostile freight-throwers that accumulate to insistently push you down unwanted paths like a sadistic labyrinth. Even empty-handed, navigating the store is like an Indiana Jones adventure without all of that senseless adrenaline and exotica.
It's amazing how many tweens and barely-teens are running around the store at this hour on a school night. For that matter, it's astonishing how many younger kids I see accompanying their parents or parent up and down the aisles at that time of night, usually as bright and talky as if it were half a day earlier. I suddenly wonder if I've stumbled onto a reason for the dismal state of education in this nation; kids who are passed out and drooling on their desks during exam-time are probably less likely to test well, overall.
As I turn into the soft drink aisle, I see one of those nearly hostile stockers turning quickly away and beginning to walk in the opposite direction, not from me, but because he's spotted a young girl in hip-huggers with red-streaked hair moving intently past me with a question in her eyes. Wow, I think, how deep (albeit somewhat understandable) is the aversion to being interrupted by customers when a young guy like that even tries to run and hide from a reasonably cute girl, just because she obviously has a question.
She keeps following him, drifting steadily as if in a vague trance, with her arms folded tightly over her ribs, hands jammed into her armpits. After a few moments, she asks rather quietly for the distance between them and without directly calling for his attention, 'Are the salty crackers with the salty snacks?'
I have to replay it in my mind as I watch the stocker pause, obviously having heard her (at least heard her speak, if not what she said) and wrestle with the decision of whether to pretend to press on as if he hadn't, or turn and help her. (And, yeah, upon careful mental replay, I confirm that that was exactly what she had asked.) She continues to drift forward, clutching herself like a zombie in search of a thermostat as he weakly pretends that he was pausing to glance at something on the wall of 2 liter bottles, before continuing away. Rather than pursue or ask again, the girl - without breaking speed or momentum - makes a steady U-turn and goes back the way she came. As she passes, her eyes seem largely unfocused and wholly unaffected; she begins mumbling something to herself about crackers. I'm almost offended that I'm not sufficiently stunning to garner even a fleeting glance from her, but then I remind myself that she's clearly crazy.
I pull some soda from the wall as the stocker, having u-turned himself, fixes his eyes frowningly on the retreating girl. I'm not sure if he's feeling guilty for ignoring her, but he begins heading slowly after her with a fixed, unhappy glare. After he passes, I notice, near the end of the aisle ahead of me, a slim bald guy with a frog tummy, in a tank top, shorts, and no shoes, facing the chips on the other side of aisle and dancing slightly in place, as if the floor is too hot... or too cold. I don't bother looking back to see what develops with the stocker and cracker girl; this aisle has become entirely too bizarre for me, so I elect to move on.
After negotiating several more obstructive aisles (including one where I was unwittingly blocked by a stocker who bent down to tie his shoe while his creepy co-worker stared me in the eye and laughed a crazy little chuckle), I make it to the DVDs. There's nothing that grabs my eye, but as I'm checking out the new releases, a jowly guy in a beige sweatervest and grey slacks imposes himself between me and the DVDs, plucks a copy of The Outsiders and, staying rooted in front of me, begins to examine it while breathing loudly and rhythmically through his teeth. After a while, after moving myself to the next section over, I realize from the corner of my eye that he's spent far too much time intently examining the front cover of that DVD, which had very little writing on it. As I'm thinking this, he drops the DVD haphazardly and walks away with a particularly loud exhale through the teeth. For whatever reason, I feel compelled to pick it up and look at it myself, then put it back in its place. (For the record, it was the same as all of the other Outsiders DVDs... there was no hidden sailboat.)
Weird snippet of conversation as I walk past a mother with a child in the cart: 'All you think about is raspberry jam!' For some reason, it made me really wish I was a kid again, so that all I thought about was raspberry jam. Not that I ever did, when I was a kid, really.
I pick up some light bulbs, some contact solution, and head off to find some hangers. In the middle of a clusterfuck of housewares aisles, is a particularly dense (in numbers) group of freight throwers, talking happily as they work. When they see me approach they all go swiftly silent. I smile and nod easy-goingly as I approach. None of them smiles or speaks, but they instinctually shift around, clearing a path directly toward the hangers I need (which I hadn't even spotted until they cleared the path to them). Just to make things a little more awkward, in the silence, you can hear some lady griping from a couple aisles over about all of the 'shit in the aisles'.
As I head toward the checkout, I see an old lady (man, seniors really don't sleep, do they?) wandering along, not paying attention to where she's going, almost hit a pierced, punked-out teen (whose back was to her) with her cart. Even though it wasn't his fault, he quickly apologizes and even bows slightly as he slides out of her way. She stares at him for a moment with foggy, slack-jawed surprise, but resumes her course without acknowledging him. I'm less taken by that fact (his appearance would certainly shake some seniors into silence or fear), than I was by the sudden realization that she must have driven herself to the store.
As I'm walking along, examining the checkout lines, among all of the people who seem like they'd be more comfortable weedling prescriptions in an ER or wearing dusty leather outfits leftover from a Mad Max movie, I suddenly get an impulse from the blue... or more likely, the flourescent. I don't know why, but I want fish sticks. I can't remember the last time I had fish sticks, but I really want a big, fat bag of them. It's one of those things that just seems like the right thing to do at Wal-Mart.
Fish sticks in the basket, I elect to do self-checkout this time. Somehow I begrudgingly wrestle down that urge to let out a rebel yell and take flight with the precious blue basket in hand, which is a good thing, since the employee stationed at the head of the self-checkout lanes is keeping a hawkeye on it. I pause and follow her eyeline to the basket with heady temptation, before acquiescing to the better angels of my nature and setting it on the floor. Clearly, she is reading my mind on the matter. One day...
As I leave, I notice a really stunning brunette standing at the McDonalds by the entrance. She's dressed to kill in a somewhat tight black-and-burgundy dress that wouldn't look out of place on James Bond's bedroom floor. She turns and sets her gorgeous, dark eyes on me for a moment. What a stare; intelligent, strangely non-commital, yet entirely sexy... I almost look around for a ponytailed Madison Avenue cameraman perched behind a tripod, taking her picture. After that moment, she anomolously returns her attention to the menu board's Big Macs and Chicken Sandwiches, as I drift pass the security scanners and tell the greeter 'thanks' for wishing me a good morning.
Outside, the night air begins to snap me out of my surreal, Wal-Mart trance. But it holds on for a lingering moment as I spot cracker-girl standing outside of the entrance, still staring off without focus in her eyes and clutching her arms against herself. In one of her hands is a bag, through which I can see a box of crackers. I actually feel glad that she managed to locate them, and briefly pity that her eyes can't focus enough to realize what a fine specimen she's failing to appreciate pass by her. I can find crackers like a bloodhound; her loss.
Once again, I think to myself, I managed to negotiate the entire place without encountering any disco-dancing, backwards-speaking dwarves. And, now that it's over, I shouldn't have to stop here for at least another week. Sitting in my truck, with a bag of fish sticks next to me, I realize that the lot is so empty, I'm not going to have any problem getting out of there. Man, this is the perfect time, I think. And, then I realize that there's a bag of fish sticks next to me and I was so driven to distraction that I forgot to get any of the produce items I was going to get.
I glance back at the sparsely trafficked entrance (cracker-girl still at sentry), mere dozens of yards behind me. I've got time and it would only take a couple minutes to go back and grab what I need. Oh well, I reason... with a turn of the key, the truck roars into life. I release the e-brake, throw it into reverse (with a surreptitious glance at the fish sticks), and get out of Dodge.
However, I must say, as I munch on my sea-salted and malt vinegared Van De Kamp's fish sticks... they aren't half bad. Tastes like life. A little salty, a little tart... crunchy, bready, and slightly fishy.
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Hope someone was moderately amused by it.
- Darin -
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