Super Wal-Mart: The Bane of Southern Existence

I despise Wal-Mart. I mean, seriously, I freaking hate Wal-Mart. There are so many reasons, so many instances, so many times that I have walked out of there with just a little less faith in the human race just because I was there. Unfortunately, the Waltons targeted small Southern towns when they decided to construct these temples to hickdom, these bastions of "omg, that 400 pound chick has on a midriff" and kids with permanent Kool-Aid moustaches with full diapers. Our county was not spared by this epidemic and in the early 1990's, they planted a Super Wal-Mart right beside Highway 20 in Cartersville, four miles from our store.

I tried my best to NEVER go in there. There was just something wrong about someone like me intentionally walking through those doors. I thought of all the mom n' pop stores all across the South that were out of business because of Wal-Mart. All the hardware stores, pharmacies, gas stations, craft stores, and clothing stores that were boarded up in the town square because Wally World priced them into the unemployment line. In Northwest Georgia, so many downtown areas are desolate and are simply a black hole for any business because of places like Wal-Mart. Luckily, we were far enough away and provided such a unique service, that Wal-Mart never really threatened our existence. Stick it up your ass, Sam Walton. If I had a DeLorean, a flux capacitor and Mike Tyson, I would go back in time and have him reenact his knockout of Carl "The Truth" Williams.

I remember the last time I was in Wal-Mart. It was 1:00 AM and I had a leak in my bathroom and there was NOBODY open. No, I checked. I called places twelve to fifteen miles away, just so I would not have to face the inconceivable notion that I might have to spend money with them. No luck. So, I piled into my car, covered my entire body with hand sanitizer, said three Hail Marys (but I ain't Catholic) and made the trek. As I meandered down I-75, I glanced in my rearview and saw my own reflection. I shook my head and said "Judas Iscariot Stephens." I felt like a traitor.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I could not help but notice the 1,278 random shopping carts strewn all about the parking lot. Some were upside down. Some were rammed into each other.  Others were nestled against vehicles. I notice this at every Wal-Mart parking lot I ever pass by. They even have those motorized carriers that push the carts back to the store for them, but it does not seem to matter. I park about six miles from the front door so my car does not get T-Boned by a stray cart. I navigate through the carts, the trash, 235 oil puddles and two beggars wondering the parking lot who simultaneously ran out of gas and needed a couple of bucks. As I approach the front door, I notice the cart boys standing around, smoking and talking about their new barbed wire tattoo that has their new baby's name intertwined in it. "Oh great, you procreated," I thought.

I walk by the arcade area, which is full of kids, at 1 AM. One child, who couldn't have been more than ten years old was feeding the crane machine like Rosie O'Donnell at a Krispy Kreme happy hour. Every time the crane would drop the prize, the kid would blaspheme, and then feed it another quarter. Hope springs eternal at this Wal-Mart. I pass by a woman, who field dressed at 375 lbs (in a midriff no less), with a cart full of Orange Fanta, potato chips and Chips Ahoy cookies. One guy sneezed all over the apples in the produce section, three employees went on break and lit up cigarettes before they got out the door and the greeter, obviously doing her best Ben Stein impression, says "Good Evening, welcome to Wal-Mart." Thank God they pay her.

I get to the hardware section. I need a toilet repair kit, which is a very obvious, very common piece of plumbing equipment. The employee assigned to this particular area saw me, rolled her eyes, hung up her cell phone, and walked over to me. I use "walk" very loosely here. It was more of a slither/shuffle (sliffle). She looked half dead. She somehow mustered a "Kin ah hep you?" I wanted to say, "No, actually you can't. You need to go buy some floaties because you are drowning in the shallow end of the gene pool." What good would it have done? "I don't know nobody named Gene Poole" is what she probably would have said. I told her I needed a toilet repair kit. "Uh whuuuut?" was the reply. The waves of the gene pool are splashing against my legs now. She "sliffles" over to the little red phone and calls a manager.

The manager was probably about 20 years old. He was holding his pants up with his left hand as he walked toward me. He has a neck tattoo. Nothing says "I don't give a damn about a career" like a neck tattoo, unless your into MMA. He is equally clueless. He takes me to the plumbing aisle, which is a plus. "It's probly in nair somewhar" he mutters as he retreats back to his post. An unattended six year old darts by us with a fishing rod in hand chased by another child riding one of the bikes he took off the rack. I peruse the shelves until I find what I need and hustle to the cashier lines.

There are 47 cashier stations. There are 12 self checkouts. Only two registers are open, so I am in line, at 1:15 AM. Of course, I get behind the typical future Harvard honor graduates:

1) The overweight woman in house shoes and a tanktop, cart overflowing with three kids who pick up every piece of candy on the racks, and Momma smacks their hands EVERY time and says, "Cody! Shane! Y'all quit that before I whup y'alls butt!";

2) The old man who writes a paper check for $4.37 and does not pull out the checkbook and start writing until the cashier has already told him the price;

3) Two teenagers out too late, talking and texting on their Iphone without hesitation, using a debit card to pay for a Kit Kat. Of course, it gets denied three times before a manager gets called.

I survey the landscape for a way out. All register lights are off. Tumbleweed blows across the way and I see the imps from the ice cream cooler at the store. They are doing the "Cabbage Patch" over in layaway, pointing and laughing. After twenty minutes, it's finally my turn. The extremely friendly cashier (with three apostrophes in her name), who frowned so hard that I thought her lower jaw would come off, whipped the box across the scanner, $10.13. I hand her a twenty dollar bill. She inputs the information and the register makes an odd noise. It cannot calculate the amount of change that is due. You should have seen the look of panic on her face. Miss America's brain throws a rod right then and there. Another manager call. "It's $9.87" I say quickly. This does nothing for Miss America. When the debacle finally gets sorted out, it's 1:45 AM. I fixed the toilet in four minutes and went to bed.

Every experience I had in a Wal-Mart was similar to that one. This is the business that killed off the little man? People who knew your name, knew your whole family, cared about your opinion of their service, and greeted you with a smile....replaced by the cess pool of Southern humanity and hospitality. As for me, I'm never going back to Wal-Mart. I'm letting the toilet leak next time and I'll wait for Mom n' Pop to open up.