A Refill at Wal-Mart

I'm almost always fascinated by my occasional deployments to Wal-Mart. Nearly every time I go I'm left with passions stirred—joy, like the recent day when I briskly scooped up a set of three DVDs, The Mummy Collector's Set: The Franchise Collection, for only $13.72; disgust, like when one goes on a typical Saturday and Wal-Mart is packed with wall-to-wall white trash; and perplexity, reasons for which I cannot accurately and succinctly explain.

I go likely for the same reason that everyone else does: "Always low prices. Always." Money alone, however, is not the sole reason for going. As a "supercenter," Wal-Mart is extremely consumer friendly. It's not difficult to pick up more than you originally set out for, seeing that they offer most everything that one could ever need. From feta cheese to curtains, to oil changes to haircuts to banking services to Cheetos to KY, Wal-Mart has it all. They excel more in breadth than depth of product, for Wal-Mart, as a supercenter, by definition doesn't do specialties very well, only offering a few name brands for any given product.

A few days ago, realizing I was on the verge of running out of test strips for measuring my blood sugar, and letting remote notions like waking up with one less limb or perhaps turning on the lights without the light, bother me, I went to the pharmacy before work to order a refill.

The pharmacy windows were closed up, so I took my time perusing for the best low-carb bar available; indeed, quite the internal debate was raging over whether I should purchase my usual Advant Edge Peanut Butter Crunch or the Atkins Smores Bar; I chose the latter. There was no disappointment. I started to hear some commotion behind the pick-up window and thus realized that they were opening up within the minute. I then began walking down the aisle and toward the drop-off window when some–by all appearances—housewife, who was much closer to the window already, began to slither on to the front as she leisurely scanned through coupon after coupon.

Housewives—there was a time when I really loved. I thought they represented the best of old regime culture, and, with rich and elaborate fantasies of fresh, homemade sugar cookies and crisply ironed shirts, I had thus fully planned on my wife being one. To be sure, my own mother was a housewife for many years until mom and dad realized that bein' poh ain't so cool. That same reality hit me. With frozen lunch entrees, leftovers, and unmade beds galore, it keeps on hitting.

Things changed, however, when I was on the Island. I had much more exposure to housewives over there, not necessarily because there are more—perhaps, but that's beside the point—but rather simply because I left my house a lot more than I do here. Since the Island, I've been hyperaware of all passive aggressive tactics housewives like to use. A main reason why they can be so bothersome is because they present a clash of worlds, basically. We're operating at different speeds. I like to keep moving, not only because it gives me less chance of contact with others or because I have a scarcity of time, but because it keeps me fresh, with energy, I mean.

A housewife, though, faces none of these issues. Gone are the days when a housewife actually worked at home. Nowadays, "housewife" is the dictionary equivalent of "a portly woman who believes in the virtue of at least 22 rotations on the couch per day along with the mass consumption of Maury Povitch and Malted Balls." Each and every day proceeds as a blissful, slow-mo bitch-fest.

From a helpless distance, I could see the housewife approaching the pharmacy window. Of course, she made it there first. And as I patiently waited for nearly 10 minutes as she thrice gave a verbal recitation of her medical history, it surely never crossed her mind to let me pass in front of her. Oh, no, that's right, I have, like…things to do. Time is money for me. And late time makes for angry bosses. To the housewife, however, all this is quite incomprehensible since, again, she operates by a different clock.

In fairness, the above experience would almost always be more pleasant than an exchange with either Robert or Pam.

Anonymous housewife having concluded negotions, I approached the front, informing Robert that I would need a refill. He asked me "name and date of birth?" Check. Then the problem; it's always a problem with these people: "Here or later?" I was confounded with this question. What the hell does it mean? I gave him the ole' Bush blank stare for about four seconds before shaking my head and responding, "I don't understand that question." "Will you be staying here for the pick-up or will you come back in, say, a few hours?" "Oh, yes, of course; I'll be coming back later," I said.

This incident of customer service—albeit a tad more cordial—is almost perfectly parallel with that of man-hater Pam.

The very first encounter with Pam was the most memorable. Here goes:
With a stern staccato voice, Pam asked the following questions: "Name?" "Date of birth?" "What for?"

After "what for?" I was completely lost. "What the hell does that mean?" I thought. Umm…I have diabetes; might you request a colonoscopy perhaps as well? I told Pam, "I have diabetes." She reacted nervously, sarcastically, completely jaded, semi-enraged, and with an agitated chuckle. I suppose she had never been thus challenged. "What for?" "What are you getting refilled?" asked Pam again. "Oh, I see, you said 'what for,' meaning for what malady I have. You should have said something along the line of 'What are you refilling?'" Oh, but of course you couldn't do that for you might be required to speak in complete sentences.

Checkmate, bitch.

That was that, however irksome.

I had planned on stopping at Wal-Mart on my way home for the pick-up, and, in this way, the best was yet to come.

Returning to the pharmacy, I was met with a pick-up line at least, say, 60 feet long and stretching all the way to the end of an aisle.

It is through still, crowded moments like these when one really confronts the nature of Wal-Mart's rank-and-file clientele. And it's an enigma to the superficial because Wal-Mart is profoundly capitalistic, but—while still catering to everyone—from my view a great number of Wal-Mart customers are lower class; more still, shopping elbow to elbow with these undesirables must surely resemble some government distribution center for necessities to the masses in the old Soviet Union—that's my impression when I go to Wal-Mart. Literally every Saturday the most repugnant conditions are set, where one must wade through wave after wave of unwashed masses. Literally every Saturday I go to Wal-Mart, I develop things like shortness of breath, violent mood swings, and low blood sugar.

It's a package deal, though. One cannot separate the proletariat from "Always low prices. Always." That's the tradeoff. And because I like Wal-Mart, it's one I make at least once a week.

Despite the line's length, it was moving moderately fast. But not too fast for the man in the motorized cart in front of me.

At what point, I wonder, did this whole motorized cart craze in Wal-Mart become in vogue? So increasing is their use in these parts, I sometimes wonder if I should be riding one. To be sure, a few genuinely need the assistance; as for the person who gains 15 extra pounds and subsequently finds walking a difficult chore, I have my doubts.

Let them ride, though. They are perfectly within their rights; so am I—to can their ass in obscure blogs, that is.

My imagination, still ringing with Madonna's La Isla Bonita from the ride from work, was then interrupted by the movement of the line, which was brought to a standstill. I looked ahead to the other pick-up window only to see another motorized cart housing a plus-sized older woman. The lady was very talkative and schooled in the persuasive arts of voice inflection and indeed very rhetorically practiced as she was describing in depth her malady du jour while holding high in the air a small orange container of capsules as exhibit A of some perceived injustice. The pretty yet frazzled cashier—apparently she is a neighbor of mine—having placated our crises-ridden, motorized damsel, manned the other cash register again, allowing the line to proceed at a more satisfactory pace.

I then reached second from the front, again, behind the motorized man. I wasn't paying any particular attention until motorman, now standing up, finished his transaction and effortlessly walked back to his cart in front of me. Apparently, I was standing too close behind his cart and thus preventing him from reversing and then moving forward.

The picture of it all, now ad absurdum, I couldn't even make eye contact with the fellow for fear of showing my hand—laughter. And then I found power, real power, when I slowly rotated my eyes to various points slightly above my own height and took slow, short steps backwards, all the while steadfastly refusing to make eye contact or even acknowledge the event. I will do this more in the future for it seemed quite effective.

Finally, I arrived to the front of the line.

This was when lisp-lipped David, our friendly pharmacy cashier, no doubt full of frisky thoughts for untouched, fair young lads like myself, felt at liberty to inquire in a nonchalant quasi-whisper and with an oddly contorted facial expression, "Do you wear contacts"? "Oh, uhh, what?" I confusedly responded. "Do you wear contacts?" he asked again. "Oh, uhh, no," I replied. David then felt the urge to reveal, "You have the most beautiful eyes"; said I: "Ha ha, thank you. Yes, I see. How much you say…$11.38?" This little revelation of his was followed by more than one nervous "but I'm just sayin.'" Sure David, and I'm just goin'.

Such, friends, is the typical venture to Wal-Mart. There is no meaning to it; only low prices, convenience (sometimes), madness, confusion. A circus, namely.