by Ann Barrett
"Tony, hurry! It's almost eight-thirty," I shout.
My husband, still wet from his shower, comes sauntering down the stairs. "If worse comes to worst, we can always go to a movie," he offers, as if this will reassure me.
"Tuck in your shirt and let's go," I growl, but when we finally pull into the parking lot, I know it's too late. Kmart is closed. "Damn!" I shoot Tony a mean "It's your fault" look. "Tony, Sebastian really needs shoelaces."
"Sorry," he mumbles. "What about Wal-Mart? They're open all night, twenty-four hours."
"Marting" is somewhat of a ritual for Tony and me. Every month or so, we compile a shopping list that justifies a trip to one of these mega-marts and prepare for the journey. For some reason, it is usually a Saturday night that finds us in the mood. This is unfortunate, not only because we don't have anything better to do, but also because this seems to be the same night that everyone else gets in the mood. It's either the mart-mood or the mall-mood, and since both mart and mall are located on the same road, the traffic gets pretty impressive.
Wal-Mart on a Saturday night in Asheville, North Carolina: this is a cultural event. The parking lot puts the Los Angeles freeways to shame. Long lines of traffic--pick-up trucks, low-riders and customized vans--snake through the rows of parked cars. Most of the vehicles have been washed and waxed for the occasion, and shades of cool neon radiate out from underneath some of them. Chrome fenders, rims, and hubcaps sparkle in the halogen glow of the overhead stadium lights, and the throb of sub-woofers shakes the ground as the sound of country-western mingles with reggae. The traffic lunges forward, stops suddenly, and reverses as space become available. The stop-and-go motion, combined with the flashing turn signals, brake lights, and music, reminds me of a game of musical chairs.
A satiated shopper comes staggering out of the store. She is drunk with fatigue, having just completed two hours of consumer competition, and she weaves in and out of the lanes as if trying to distinguish her truck from all the other ones with their Confederate flags pasted crookedly onto back bumpers. At last, she approaches her vehicle, but it is not a truck. It is a Mercedes with a pair of sun-withered baby shoes hanging from the rear-view mirror. She guns the engine as she races out of the lot. Tony and I take her space.
*****
The traffic inside the store is in direct proportion to that in the parking lot--there is at least one cart for every car. As Tony and I enter, we are greeted by a woman wearing a red vest--the peasant uniform of this commercial kingdom. Her vest is covered with shiny, metal pins, each one representing some honor bestowed upon her by the management. She pushes a cart towards us. "Howdy! Welcome to Wal-Mart," she shouts as she offers us a handful of coupons and advertisements--Wal-Mart literature.
Tony and I examine the glossy paperwork, trying to determine the direction of our shopping adventure. In most department stores, a shopper can locate the specific section they need simply by following a central aisle, but not in Wal-mart. Here, one section just kind of flows into the next. Because my eyes are not well trained to the difference between Housewares and Hardware, I usually have to travel through the entire store before I find what I need. And things are not always where I expect them. For example, sometimes Q-tips are in the baby section and sometimes they are in the pharmacy, and it varies constantly. As a result, I frequently go into the store looking for one or two things, and come out at least one full cart. In my quest for kitty litter, I discover that I also need a wide assortment of cleaning supplies, animal crackers, a pair of exercise tights, a rake, and a cup holder for my car.
As we pass the sock section, Tony slows down. "Tony, didn't you buy socks the last time we came here?" Every time we go marting, Tony needs socks.
"Yeah, but they're trashed."
I suspect the shoe department is close by and decide to go look for laces for my son's shoes. "I'll be right back," I mumble, leaving Tony bent over a rack of plastic-packed goodies.
But the shoe department has been moved since the last time I was in the store, and I wander through Toys, Office Supplies, and Sporting Goods before reaching my destination. Once there, I find a pair of name-brand sneakers that would look adorable on my two-year old, Dante, and they are only four dollars! After spending twenty minutes trying to find a size that will fit, I resign, settling for a pair that is two sizes too big. He'll grow into them, and this is too good a deal to pass up. I feel victorious.
I start to walk back up the aisle, plagued by the feeling that I have forgotten something, but I can't think. There is a screaming child sitting on the floor at his mother's feet. I instinctively look at my watch, and thank my good luck that I have a teenage stepson who is occasionally mature enough to watch the younger kids. I see Tony passing by, headed for the Electronics department, and I hurry to join him.
Every time Tony goes into the Electronics department, he ends up buying some computer software that's supposed to make our lives one-hundred percent easier. Already, his fossilized computer is so over-loaded that it takes twenty minutes just to bring up a screen. My presence subdues him, though, and instead of software, he puts a year's supply of batteries into the cart. I start to object. "Tony, by the time we need those, they won't be any good."
"They're Duracell," he answers as he points out the dates printed on the packaging. "They won't expire until 2010."
"Do you have a quarter?" I ask.
"No, why?"
"I want to call the kids and make sure everything's okay." I resentfully wonder why I'm the only one who thinks of these things.
"No," Tony answers. "Don't worry."
*****
"Let's get out of here, all right?"
I have run out of steam. All I can think about is whether the kids are okay and how good my bed would feel. Suddenly, my legs get weak and rubbery. Tony reluctantly agrees, and we begin to reverse our path through the store--Shoes, Housewares, Lingerie, Hardware, Automotive, Men's, Children's, Hosiery. Again, I have the feeling that there is something I've neglected. I decide it couldn't be that important. Besides, I have to get out.
Someone behind me runs the wheel of a cart up the back of my foot. "Ouch!" I shout as I turn around to face the culprit. A woman with three kids packed into her cart stands behind me reading a list. She is completely absorbed and has no idea that she has just run into me. "Never mind," I mumble, "It will heal before I die."
A man standing near me thinks that I am talking to myself and gives me a strange look. I turn back towards Tony but he is gone, so I move off quickly, looking down each aisle as I pass. I start to panic. "Where is he?" I wonder to myself. I call his name out loud a couple of times, but he doesn't answer. To hell with him--I decide to go ahead to the checkout. He'll just have to find me.
I move towards the front of the store, but it isn't long before I encounter a traffic jam of angry and exhausted shoppers. The crowd spreads from the checkstands back into the first rows of merchandise. All the register lines look endless. Finally, I spot one that seems a little shorter. My overflowing cart becomes my biggest obstacle as I struggle to squeeze between the narrow aisles and screaming kids. I accidentally bump into someone's heel and as I look up to apologize, I recognize the same woman who ran over me earlier. "Sorry," I smile and shrug innocently.
I look down in my cart and try to assess how important each item is. I grab the oversized pair of shoes and Tony's stockpile of batteries and abandon the rest, leaving the full cart in the middle of the aisle. I can now move easily, and all the shoppers still attached to their carts stare at me with envy as I move toward the express lane.
Off in the distance, I see Tony's head rising above the crowd. He looks back and forth, searching for me. I raise my hand up, trying to catch his attention, and someone familiar waves at me from several rows down--my neighbor, who apparently thinks I'm waving at her, so I smile and wave again. Tony arrives at my side moments later.
"Where's the cart?" he asks accusingly.
"I left it back there," I say. "In the Tupperware aisle."
"Did we need any of it?" He asks, the edge fading from his voice.
"Not as far as I could tell. I kept these." I hold up the batteries and shoes.
"Good," Tony answers.
*****
As I settle myself into the passenger seat, I let out a long, heavy sigh. I still feel frustrated as I try to remember what drove us out on this ill-fated mission in the first place. As Tony pulls out of the parking lot, I lean over and pick up the list that I left in the car when we first arrived. There, scribbled across the paper in Sebastian's juvenile handwriting is the answer that was evading me: shoelaces.
"Damn!" I mutter.
