This past weekend my DVD player stopped working. This neither surprised nor concerned me, since I bought it for $29 dollars last November at Radio Shack. Frankly, I was happy it lasted as long as it did. Money was running tight, but I needed a new DVD player. However, I decided that I wanted my new DVD player to be made by a company I had heard of, and hopefully, to last at least a full year. I set myself a budget of $60 and headed out to the one place where I knew I could find a decent DVD player for that price: Wal-Mart.
I hate Wal-Mart. But my reasons for hating Wal-Mart are not the typical ones. I do not care that they are a big greedy corporation that runs small businesses into the ground. I do not care that they use unfair and possibly illegal employment practices. I do not care that they use extortion to force companies to sell them their products at low, low prices. I hate going to Wal-Mart because when I am there, it is more likely than not that I am the most educated person in the store, and I’m not sure I could handle the leadership responsibilities if there were some sort of disaster that trapped us all in the store for an extended period of time. But I tempted fate and went off the buy a new DVD player.
As I was walking through the store, I experienced the same déjà vu feeling that I have every time I go to Wal-Mart. The reason for this is simple: every Wal-Mart is the same. I have been to Wal-Mart in the Midwest, the Deep South, the Mid-Atlantic States, and the Southwest, and each store looks the same, smells the same, and has the same cast of characters working there and shopping there. The other day I observed a few of these characters.
The only person that I actually had any interaction with was the guy back in the electronics section. This guy is typically a mid-twenties or older tech geek who couldn’t quite make the cut at Best Buy. He has the air of knowledge about technology that only one and a half semesters at ITT Tech can give you. He spends his time between helping customers conferring with his fellow tech geeks about the latest installment of Grand Theft Auto and making fun of the customer who just bought an X-Box. “Playstation 3 is coming out soon. Have fun with your outdated system”, he says sarcastically. This sparks a debate between the tech geeks about the merits of different video game consoles. The tech geek eventually notices me browsing the DVD players and sidles over, asking if he can help. I tell him no, and pick up the box of the chosen player (57.98, made by Philips…Score). He tries to sell me any number of accessories, which I politely decline. He gets the hint and sidles back to his fellow tech geeks, undoubtedly to make fun of my selection.
On my way to check out, I saw one of the most common shoppers you find at Wal-Mart: The fat, ugly mother with her fat, ugly kids. They are always a sight to see. The mother wore her brown hair in a nice feathered perm, circa 1989, a t-shirt commemorating the 1997 co-national champion University of Michigan football team, and black gym shorts. The shorts are, of course, too tight, and her legs are pasty white and display several bruises. She is blissfully ignorant of the fact that the University of Michigan has a whole system set up to keep people like her away from their campus. Her kids aren’t much better. The oldest, a boy of about 7, had a rat tail. I could stop there, but then I couldn’t tell you that he wore a WWE t-shirt and ripped jeans. The middle child, a girl of about 5, was crying, presumably because her mother wouldn’t buy her some toy, and not because her mother had dressed her up in a hideous floral print shirt which was way too tight (because she was so fat) and spandex pants. The youngest child was about 2. I could not tell if it was a boy or girl, with its androgynous bowl haircut and overalls. Its face was covered with some sort of red sticky substance, and it intermittently cried and screamed between drinks out of a sippy cup. And this was one of the classier families I encountered.
I cut through the clothing department to get to the checkout quicker, where I saw another familiar face, the young white trash woman. From a distance, she appeared to be somewhat cute. But as I approached, that thought quickly gave way to revulsion. She had dyed blond hair with one inch black roots, teeth badly in need of a trip to an orthodontist, and a lizard tattoo on her forearm. She isn’t fat, but she has definitely had a few kids, most certainly by different fathers. It is well within the realm of possibility that she once worked in a low end topless bar, before one too many stretch marks ended her career. At this point I realized that she is about my age (25). Yikes. Here I am, a year away from getting my JD and starting my life, and here she is, a mother, working at Wal-Mart after having been spit out the bottom of the porn industry.
Finally, I get to the checkout. The cashier is about 30, chubby, but with no noticeably disfigurement. She isn’t hideous, but she isn’t pretty either. I am immediately reminded of the scene in Sideways, when Jack describes an overweight waitress as “Two tons of fun. You know, the grateful type.” The she opens her mouth. She had the thickest, deepest southern twang I’ve ever heard, and I don’t even live in the South. She starts going on and on about my DVD player, how she wants to buy one, etc. I try not to be rude, but I also don’t want to engage in conversation. I smile and nod politely as she rings me up, swipes my credit card, hands me a pen, all the while yapping away in her annoying accent about her job, house life and anything else that came to mind. I quickly signed the receipt and got out of there.
I began speed-walking out to the parking lot. I couldn’t take any more Wal-Mart. It’s all too much for me. Once I got to the safety of my car, I made a life decision: Next time, I’m going to Target.
