Waylaid at Wal-Mart

To paraphrase my previous blog, it's Sunday in late August -- although it could have been any day in this or any other year -- and my wife and I are in Wilmington, N.C., visiting our daughter, Adrienne. In the midst of such pleasant outings, usually after a meal has been completed and future dining options have been thoroughly vetted, which business can absorb the greater part, but, unfortunately, not the whole part, of a day, invariably the conversation turns to that activity upon which so many females of our species depend for sustenance and invigoration and so many males, including myself, cast their most intense aspersion -- shopping.

It's not the idea of spending money that irritates me. I am blessed with a wonderful wife, among whose many attributes is a feverish frugality, most often expressed in proud purchases of stylish, flattering clothes at bargain prices. Rather it is the interminable, indeterminate nature of the enterprise -- browsing racks and shelves, examining, touching, trying on, modeling, seeking approval or rejection -- which I find analogous to strategic planning sessions -- which I also despise and which consume untold hours generating problematic prescriptions seldom practiced.

In addition, I would much prefer to avoid physically forking over the funds, and, instead, pay the bill blindly when it arrives in the mail months later, thereby assuming that every item contained therein is a necessity and not the result of some frivolous impulse (or non-impulse).

If the inevitable decision to shop wasn't grievous enough, the emporium chosen was even more troubling. Somehow I was persuaded, cajoled, or enticed with the possibility of future rewards, to abandon all rationality, risk the equilibrium of a cheery vacation day, and brave the jungle of a Wal-Mart Supercenter. Why is it that, when we are away from home, we gravitate to the maw of the beast?

Now, I've been to Wal-Mart before, but, for a 59-year-old man, I believe my scorecard of infrequent visits -- less than ten -- must be close to a record. I acknowledge two perfunctory and satisfactory morning excursions to our local Wards Road store to purchase desperately needed items -- folding lawn chairs and crude sign materials -- and to nighttime grocery shopping in Myrtle Beach--two time periods when the crowds, though certainly sizable, were at least manageable, thus leaving me completely unprepared for what I was to confront that Sunday afternoon.

Our first obstacle -- not easily overcome if you are from out of town -- was finding the store. Oh, we could see it all right, but getting there was a different matter. Apparently, the Wilmington Wal-Mart is located off a side street connecting two busy thoroughfares, and the access from this street is all but invisible to foreigners. We circled our object at least once before sneaking up on it from the rear--whereupon we were immediately confronted by our second daunting Wal-Mart challenge: the parking lot.

I believe the entire ministry in Wilmington, N.C., must have preached the same sermon that Sunday morning: "May God bless you, my congregants. Now, go forth and shop." Not only was every parking space occupied, but the connecting arteries were clogged with vehicles (not to mention the isolated shopping cart carelessly abandoned in the roadway), mostly pick-up trucks and SUV's (in my opinion, a totally gratuitous and wasteful mode of transportation in a place where the temperature never drops below 40 degrees), entering, leaving, or greedily seeking an opening close to the building.

There we were, stranded in a parking lot traffic jam. We might spot a space a row or two away, only to watch helplessly while it evaporated in the shimmering heat. When, after about ten minutes of anxious hunting, we did find a place to park, of course we were facing the wrong direction, and had to creep past it and, in a delicate but rapid manuever, dart in backwards, lest it be cruelly snatched from us in the interim.

To me, Wal-Marts are the concrete and steel manifestations of the current era's weirdly inverted economic realities. They are our modern-day factories: expansive, enclosed arenas with broad, straight aisles, exposed beams overhead, and bleached fluorescent lighting, seething with a contained energy robotically propelling finished consumer goods out the door, differing from their precurors only in the fact that the merchandise has arrived in house already perfected, having been produced in mirror-image, if less pristine, structures on distant continents.

Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly sales statistics are tabulated instantaneously by an incessant blip-blip-blip which greets us -- and all visitors -- immediately upon our entrance: the sound of purchases being swiped across a bar code machine and audible evidence that customers are buying at a frantic pace, luring the newly-arrived to join the party.

At this point, I must confess that my wife and I were not so demented as to brazen Wal-Mart without an objective in our sights: a bicycle for our daughter, which objective promptly became obscured in the frenzy which attacked us like an epileptic seizure when we strolled through the inviting automatic retracting doors. Actually, those doors seemed permanently locked in the retracted position, so constant was the traffic passing to and fro.

"Honey, I believe I'll look around," said my wife, words guaranteed to spark fear in the heart of any obedient husband, frightening enough when spoken in a traditional department or clothing store, but particularly terrifying when echoing through a cavernous Wal-Mart. "Sure, honey," was the only meek response I could muster. "I guess I'll look around, too."

"Look around at what?" I muttered to myself, as my wife merrily disappeared into the bowels of this organic building, leaving me to my own meager resources. When I go into a store, there are only three areas I am even minimally interested in scoping out: mens clothing, books, and furniture. And Wal-Mart's inventory in each of these categories is understandably bleak and quickly dispensed with. What passes for a mens department is shelf after shelf of blue jeans and slacks (also mostly blue); the only books on hand are the top twenty hardback and paperback bestsellers and a worthy assortment of Bibles; and the furniture display is confined to one short aisle of ready-to-assemble desks, television stands, and bookcases, for which I should be eternally grateful.

But what an array of other delectable material is spread out before us patrons -- like a Golden Corral buffet in front of a homeless man: rack after rack of apparel, for women and children, anchoring the center of the store, surrounded by: paper, paper, and more paper; detergents and cleaners; small appliances of every make and model; cookware; dinnerware; bath and bed furnishings; lamps and lighting; shoes and boots (male and female); rugs, blinds, and shades; rolls of fabric; electronics and DVD's; tires, batteries, and motor oil; sporting goods; camping, fishing, and hunting supplies; tools; bath and kitchen decor; health and beauty aids; lawn and garden equipment; jewelry; and of course, groceries, fresh, frozen, canned, cooked, processed, and packaged -- none of which held any attraction for me. Yes, there I was, cast adrift in a sea of delights upon which normal folks would engorge themselves, yet which to me tasted only of salt.

I was struck by one undeniable phenomenon: the prices, as best I could judge, based on my limited shopping experience, were, as advertised, consistently low. I do buy some articles of clothing on occasion, but this was virgin territory: $9.84, $10.76, $11.92, $12.67. I hardly see how they can transport the stuff from Bangladesh for much less than that. And even commodities like gum, candy, and bottled water I found to be 20 to 30 per cent less than what I have paid in other places.

Say what you want about Wal-Mart -- its underpricing and undermining of local retailers; its transformation of green fields and farmland into asphalt and big boxes; its dumbing down of service sector wage rates and benefit packages; and its embracing of offshore sourcing, regardless of the consequences, in a relentless quest for lower costs -- it is raising the American consumer's standard of living by saving him money.

Suddenly, my contemplation -- and boredom -- were interrupted by an unfamiliar (to me, that is) sound: my cell phone was ringing. Yes, I had it with me, turned on, even, for how else was I to reconnect with my wife in this supersized labyrinth, both of us wandering aimlessly.

After we exchanged obligatory "Where are you's," ("I'm in Wal-Mart. Where are you?") she abruptly summoned me to the vicinity of the toy department, reminding me of our putative purpose: a bicycle for our daughter.

Of course, since I stubbornly refused to ask directions (Is that really necessary in a store?), it took me more than a few minutes to navigate the packed aisles and dodge the ubiquitous shopping carts, hazards for which one must constantly be on the alert, thus making it even more difficult for me to locate and reach my goal.

If you think modern marketers obsessed with proliferating choices have made selecting a tube of toothpaste confusing, try looking at bicycles. Upon my encountering two long rows of spokes and wheels, one stacked on top of the other -- and basically out of reach -- perplexity and panic set in. Well, we knew we wanted a girl's model, but should it 24 or 36 inches; a roadster, speedster, coaster, or mountain climber; three-speed, five-speed, ten-speed, or twenty-speed; and, the most important question, what color?

After some discussion and surprisingly little disagreement, my wife and I settled on a 26-inch ten-speed, violet roadster with a quirky rear-wheel kickstand, which was securely lodged on the upper level. We managed to corral a horsey-looking store employee, distinguishable from hordes of shoppers only by an apron and his name tag, who grimly pried our newest fixation from its moorings and manipulated it to the floor.

Since we were concerned about fitting the bicycle in our car, I asked the fellow if he could detach the front wheel. "Company policy won't let me," he replied, sincerely apologetic. "But you can buy a wrench in the tool department and do it yourself," he offered, exhibiting add-on salesmanship of the highest order. Following his directions, I stumbled upon bin after bin of fixed and adjustable iterations ("So many wrenches, so little time," to paraphrase a famous wench herself), before deciding on one of each, at the disposable price of $1.19.

I was about to wheel the bicycle to the front of the store when my wife spoke up: "Honey, would you take this?" I looked around in bewilderment for a few seconds, before my gaze came to rest upon a surfeited shopping cart parked innocently on the sidelines, which I had assumed belonged to someone else.

"What this?" I asked, with an obsequious grin. "Just a few supplies for Adrienne's new apartment. Since we were here, I thought I might as well help her out," she replied, thus validating the seductive power of those blip-blip-blips and row after row of irresistible, inexpensive merchandise.

Either the cart was too unwieldy for her, or she wanted me to demonstrate uncharacteristic gentlemanly chivalry and run interference for her on the way to the checkout counter, more aware of the pitfalls of the course than I was. Looking back, I would submit that the vehicular aisles in Wal-Mart in Wilmington, N.C., on a Sunday afternoon are about as congested as I-81 between Roanoke and Blacksburg and just as perilous.

Since I did not see an octagonal sign at the end of the bicycle aisle, I did not stop and look both ways before entering moving traffic, upon which I was rudely and resoundingly struck by speeding shopping carts (or reckless drivers, depending on one's point of view), first on my left and then on my right. Other than the shock which reverberated up through my hands grasping the cart handles to my shoulder blades, little harm was done, all three of us embarrassed cart-mishandlers exchanging polite "Excuse me's."

From that point, I carefully made my way to the checkout counter -- its blip-blip-blips growing progressively louder like a metal detector striking gold -- my eyes peeled for wayward carts and self-absorbed shoppers. I danced between two counters, trying to ascertain the shortest line, and eventually sidled up to a register, where a young lady -- the factory conveyor belt's last stop -- routinely swiped every item, including the bicycle, and took my payment. I finally got to experience all those blip-blip-blips up close and personal.

I blasted through the retractable doors, joyous at escaping the insatiable beast, only to realize that one is not Wal-Mart free until one has exited the parking lot -- no easy task. Oh, our car was where we had left it; we just weren't sure exactly where that was. And once we found it and loaded it with our newest most cherished possessions, we still had to extricate ourselves from the same traffic jam we had barely escaped two hours earlier.

As we pulled onto the main road, I breathed a welcome sigh of relief -- until my wife commented that we needed a few more things for Adrienne's apartment and, on a wing and a prayer, serenely directed me to our next destination: Target.

To add insult to injury, we later determined that the bicycle's front brakes were defective and returned it to Wal-Mart for credit.

All in all, I'd rather run ten miles.