In the distance, unattended children zigzagged through the aisles as an obese couple – probably related by dubious consanguinity – argued in the underwear department. He wanted something sexy. She wanted something her butt crack wouldn’t devour. I just wanted peace, quiet, and a tranquilizer. I avoided eye contact and shuffled past.
My one goal was to buy a hypoallergenic mattress cover. Thanks to the rabid pollination in my neighborhood, my sinuses have franchised to the size of golf balls. If cars ran on snot, I’d be a millionaire and I wouldn’t be shopping in purgatory’s Petri dish. But as of yet, my productive snout remains underappreciated, and I needed something to stem its fertility.
The bedding section was littered with SpongeBob Squarepants sheets and Scoobie Doo Pillows. Not just in twin- and full-sized offerings. There were quite a few queens and kings in the bunch, which led me to believe there were adults who had actually purchased cartoon bedding. Do these people get laid? If the rampant spawn scrambling around me were any indication, apparently yes. I must be doing something wrong. Perhaps my dubious nasal drippings were to blame.
When I finally located the snot-reducing items I’d come for, they were, of course, located on the top shelf of a wirelike rack system.
I’m five-foot-two. Not that I’m afraid to climb to the peak of any cage like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, I just don’t want to get caught doing it. I’m clumsy, and I’d eaten a hearty lunch. This could get undignified.
The first two shelves weren’t a problem. Thanks to opposable thumbs, I clung to the rim and edged my way up. I only had one level left to go when I heard … creeeaakkk! The ledge began to bend. I looked down. The ground was farther away than I would have liked, but seeing no other choice, I jumped before the rack bucked under my butt. My knees held, albeit wobbling a bit, but unfortunately, I’d failed to obtain the coveted snot-reduction device I’d come for.
I was almost ready to give up when I spotted a portly woman with a cane waddling my way. Perhaps the natives could be of use after all…
Like a monkey that wants its banana, I’d found my tool. And thankfully, she came wielding a cane and was willing to share.
Brandishing the wooden hook with all the grace of a drunken dueler, I hopped up and down, punctuating each movement with a swipe at the bedding. One, two, three … splat! The desired treat finally fell from the wire tree and hit the linoleum. Score one for Drippy Nose.
Flushed with success, I relinquished the device to the fat woman and headed for the checkout stand. It was packed. Long lines of women with screaming babies and irritated husbands choked the area. My heart sank. Would I never get out of this place?
When an additional light flickered two stands over, I scrambled into position and slid behind a family of five. All three kids were under seven. All three were loud. The youngest plugged a finger up her nose and smiled at me. When she took it back out and pointed, a booger hung from the appendage. I almost said, “No thanks. That’s what I’m here to get rid of,” but I managed to keep my antisocial tendencies in check. It’s a daily battle.
For a good ten minutes we shuffled like dazed cattle through the line, and as I waited to pay my toll and be released back into the wild, I realized that if I visited the world of Walmart again, I’d better come prepared. Next time, I’d bring my own tool and I’d arrive a little later at night, some time when fewer natives lurked among the aisles.
****
