Volume CXXXII, Number 9 November 15, 2002 f

Wasting my time at Wal-Mart
ACADIA SENESE
COLUMNIST

I waste more time in my life wandering the aisles of Wal-Mart than anything else. I hate the store; it sucks me into the vortex of blue bags and yellow smiley faces and doesn't let me leave until I've seen every Maine character imaginable and purchased some irrelevant 99 cent item.

Wal-Mart is the complete manifestation of both American consumerism and Maine culture in one conveniently located place. Not only does an enormous American flag greet us as we enter the store-made from colored plastic bins from an Asian country-but the store bombards us through all walks of life. Even people who never go out, who never see the light of day, who never interact with others, must go to Wal-Mart. They must get their Christmas decorations the day after Halloween; they must get the discount garden supplies even though it's snowing; and they must buy cheap discount soda because Wal-Mart tells them they should.

There are five kinds of people at Wal-Mart. The first are large families-herds if you will. There's usually a mother, and a father-smaller and frailer than the woman-lagging somewhat behind. The mother leads the way, with three kids clutching the carriage. She insists that they check out the home goods section, and the husband, too whipped to object, secretly wants to check out the hunting weapons. The kids cry for toys, but it's only dishtowels and laundry detergent for them today.

There are tough men-men that just rolled out from under a car after having completed their tenth oil change of the day. These men wear orange vests, go directly to where the orange vests can be found, talk only to other men wearing orange vests, and make no remark to the checkout lady who says Bambi is cute. They drive pick-up trucks, and could care less if Wal-Mart, and all its workers, fell off the face of the earth. There are other places to get orange vests.

There are really old people-people that not only need a carriage to hold things, but to hold them up. These people go really slowly, check out every price that ends in eleven cents, and hold up the aisles ad infinitum. They can care less if they run your heals over. They're seasoned Wal-Mart shoppers and nothing gets between them and their discounts. They know the store inside and out, and are better to ask than Wal-Mart workers if you need to find something.

There are Bowdoin students. Yes, plenty of Bowdoin students. Stuck up and too good for Wal-Mart, they try feverishly to rush through the place. They don't interact with Mainers, but like to think they can joke around with the checkout lady. They're really only there because 1) they can't afford to shop elsewhere and 2) they really need some silly outfit or an upcoming party. They like to be politically correct and say that Wal-Mart is a bad thing, but they shop there nonetheless. Bowdoin students are the Wal-Mart hypocrites.

And then there is the lost sole. Alone, meandering, confused, frustrated, angry, and searching for a breath of fresh air, this person entered Wal-Mart with the intention of buying only a single item, but after a maze of aisles, and pushing through crowds, they soon forgot why the hell they came to Wal-Mart in the first place. By the time they get to the check out they have everything but what they came for. As they wait in a long line, they breathe deeply, trying to find the oxygen they unwillingly checked at the door. They swear under their breath, and promise they'll never, ever return. But they'll be back. Everyone comes back.

I am that lost soul, and I hate every minute of being in Wal-Mart. I always swear I'll never come back, that I won't allow Wal-Mart to throw a plastic American flag in my face and claim to be patriotic, that I won't allow some crazy old lady to run over my heels, nor will I allow the screaming kids attached to the carriage drive me nuts. But as I stand in line behind a hunter, and try to count how many Bowdoin kids I just ran into, I realize that yes, I too am the Bowdoin hypocrite. And damn the fact that I shop at Wal-Mart because, business ethics aside, I'm no yellow smiley face by the time I escape the store.