“Can You Go to Walmart For Me?”

It’s my fault. I know better. I knew better… I went anyway.

I parked my truck out in the “back 40” trying to make  a conscious effort to avoid shopping carts, nincompoops without the ability to stop opening their door before it comes into contact with the vehicle next to them and gain some small nugget of physical exertion walking to the door. I had barely taken the key out of the ignition before a battered white compact pulls up into the next spot adjacent to me, using the yellow parking stripe on the passenger side as some sort of guide to straddle.  It’s a typical Sunday afternoon and I notice the regulars are all here; the driver in the large SUV blocking the lane waiting for the grandmother to finish emptying her cart into her trunk, all while three cars sit impatiently behind them. This is all so they can park 8 spots away instead of 12. Of course they can’t park in front of the store as the firelanes are already taken up by the early birds. I look both ways before crossing the pedestrian “right of way” grid since it has been interpreted by many to mean that someone walking or pushing a cart across this area only has the right of way when there are no vehicles visible.  I see their slogan “Save money live better” and I’m thinking “Stay home and live longer.” 

Inside the store and I go into action. I have the list my vindictive and sadistic wife gave me that had to be filled today, no “ifs” “ands” or “buts”.  No substitutions, no off brands, get what is written down, no matter what. Shifting into my “power shopper” gear I knock off 17 items in less than 5 minutes and now I’m on a bee line, shooting down empty isles, resisting the urge to slow or glance behind the ammunition counter in sporting goods, eyes locked forward  thru bras and panties then women’s jewelry. I shoot along the checkout rows, searching for my “Blackjack” lane, the one that has the lone shopper almost ready to leave that somehow has fallen below everyone’s radar. Three carts deep in that one, nope, two carts in that one and an argument over why they won’t allow whiskey to be sold from that register. “Hey, there’s one.” Nope, clerk just shut her light off to go on break. So I just keep cruising along to the far end of the store where the “Express” checkout lanes are. That’s where you go when you only have a few items, right?

I get in line and notice an older fellow in an orange tank top, jean shorts and sandals casually walking in past the greeter. I wouldn’t have given him a second thought except its January and 12 degrees outside. I in a construction zone now- behind a woman in  pink sweatpants with a full cartload and a phone in her ear; this is important to note because it means everything she does for the next twenty minutes will be one handed. Thirty seconds in and everything stops so the clerk can get another associate to ring in the booze, oh and “need to see your id” mam, which the lady never dreamed was going to be needed, so she digs and digs and finally comes out with it. Now here comes the boyfriend or husband with some more stuff to drop on the conveyor belt. Then the snap card comes out, which of course won’t cover all of the items, so she tries a credit card and can’t remember the pin number, so she goes to write a check and can’t find her pen, the pen the clerk gives her is dry, then she asks for cash back which involves some sort of cash register reboot, and the hair color was supposed to be 2 for $6 and the clerk says “no it’s $4.97 each and your coupon is for another brand”, so we wait for a manager to come over and override the purchase price and as they complete everything one of her kids slides between me and the candy rack with a bottle of Dr Pepper and some cat litter and they go thru the process all over again while the woman is paying cash for the litter she tells the child to put the soda back and the whining starts while I switch between watching customers in other lanes get into line after I did and leave and trying to find something on my phone to pass the time, because if I stand there and stare at the woman time will slow down into 1/10th speed. Now the manager is flirting with the checkout girl and talking about his mother in law. The guy in the orange tank top that entered the store when I first got in this line just paid for his 1/2 cart of groceries and now he is walking out, omg I need a pill.

I’m leaving, I’m heading out the door, I’ve crossed the lot and I’ve finished emptying my cart and as I get into my truck I get the “text of death”.

“Honey, I need to add a couple more things to the list.”