Oh Yeah, That Just Happened!

A couple days ago, I went to Wal-mart. I have a love-hate relationship with Wal-mart. There are times that I need horseradish, new underwear, and a car battery all at the same time (but not necessarily for the same project), and Wal-mart is the only place that can make that happen for me. Conversely, I cannot stand the lines, the chaos, the worthless junk, and all of the other pains of the Wal-mart experience. I see it sometimes as a necessary evil.

This particular day was no different. I worked my way through the massive, mindless mob, caught up in this universal consciousness - or at least groupthink - of needing some Axe Body Spray and some tennis balls right now, damn it! I ducked and weaved my way through, and was actually making good time! I was non-plussed, even when the guy at the pharmacy counter informed me that I would have to pay for my Sudafed there (because I am obviously manufacturing methamphetamines, just because of suffering from seasonal allergies and congestion). He then refused to ring up the rest of my items, which nearly cost him his life. Of this reality, he remained blissfully unaware. As I moved around the store, I realized that, if there is an argument for the film “The Matrix” being true and not just some paranoid delusion, Wal-mart is it. I had somehow taken the red pill and was now seeing just how deep the rabbit hole goes.

I got in line at the checkout, and I was excited because of finding a register with only one person in front of me. Of course, my reverie was shattered when I realized that customer was also an off duty Wal-mart employee. The two knew each other and gabbed for what must have been 20 minutes, while the cashier slowly moved the items over the scanner. The person finished by paying for her $200+ in groceries with a combination of WIC, food stamps, cash, traveler’s checks, and, I believe, Deutschmarks. Smoke poured out of the register, but all was made right again with a managerial visit.

It was my turn. Teresa and I were going to make homemade Cuban sandwiches that night for dinner. I got one of Wal-mart’s fresh, warm loaves of French bread. I couldn’t wait to get home to grill those sandwiches on that bread. The cashier was a rather large woman, going in at approximately 350-400 pounds. She had a t-shirt on, covered with remnants of the day’s meals. She was very moist with sweat, and there was a sort of steam rising off of her entire persona and condensing in various places, i.e. her hairy upper lip. I am not mocking this woman, nor am I belittling her. The description is important information for the story.

Side Note: I have food issues. I don’t like people looking at my food, smelling my food, touching my food, or even thinking about my food. As long as I don’t see it, it’s fine. I will eat at the nastiest restaurants on earth, as long as I don’t see them touching or spitting on my food. If I see you near my food, I can’t eat it. It is a neurotic thing I have. This is more important info. That being said as a disclaimer, I will continue with my story.

She was moving the items across the scanner, and I had to help her with many of them, because of her large body and short, dinosaur-like arms. The last item was my loaf of bread. She saw it, and some pheromone or something kicked in, causing more sweat and odor and causing her eyes to widen in delight. She grabbed it (still in the protective foil) and brought it up to her hairy, sweaty upper lip and nose. She actually put her nose into the bag and took a big, deep breath, sighing into the bag and exclaiming, “Ooh, I love the smell of this bread. And, it is so warm and cozy!” At that point, she pulled the warm loaf to her chest between her ample, sagging breasts. She made yummy noises as she hugged my loaf of bread and swayed back and forth with delight. I could hardly see my bread amongst all of that flesh and t-shirt material. I turned and looked at the customer behind me, as he backed out of the lane with his cart in wide-eyed horror. I looked back at her and was about to say, “So, are you gonna get me a new loaf of bread, now?” Instead, a still, small voice told me to just let it go. I smiled as non-strained of a smile as I could muster, mumbled something about how good the bread was, paid for my groceries, and left. This whole thing was a real victory for me, which is the point of the story. You see, I still made the sandwiches and ate them, using the molested loaf of bread. And, you know, I think they were even more delicious than ever before. I think the little bit of love added by my Wal-mart cashier made all the difference.