Drive for a mere hour and a half in New Jersey and you might encounter corn fields, or sheep and cows grazing, or a red pick-up truck with a not-so-fierce-looking hound hanging out the back. You might see a car show being held at some local, old-fashioned, drive-in burger joint. You might even stumble upon a Wal-Mart and be excited because, well, you've never been to a Wal-Mart. You've never even seen a Wal-Mart. As you suddenly spy a sly fox weaving its way in and out of parking spaces with its clever pointed steps, you might ask yourself if every Wal-Mart has a fox roaming around its parking lot in the middle of the day. Then, as you sneak past the fox, you might actually find yourself inside Wal-Mart, only to find that it is, in fact, like a giant, cluttered garage...before one might wisely decide to either throw everything away or, naturally, have a garage sale. Thus, you might be overwhelmingly disappointed with Wal-Mart.
Still, with a dizziness inspired by the very determined fluorescent lighting, you might stagger along the wide linoleum aisles in your three inch heels and oversized sunglasses wondering why every last sign in the store needs to be that awful shade of blue, and why you're the only person wearing all black. You might go on to survey the other shoppers and notice how nearly all the men are wearing shirts with their sleeves cut off. You might also notice how nearly all of their wives are wearing white or hot pink shorts that are way too tight. Finally, given the distinctive sound echoing from their feet, you might notice that, as they shop, the lot of them are slapping behind their gray carts in flip flops.
At this point you might be wondering how you look within the context of Wal-Mart, but you will not find one mirror on the walls of Wal-Mart. This might annoy you. You might even pout a little in front of the long stretch of shelves stocked with American flags. Then, as you wander into the children's section that is in all kinds of disarray, a Wal-Mart employee donning a rather unfortunate blue vest might come up to you and ask, in a gasping-for-breath kind of way, if you're finding everything you need. You might wonder about her rural spin on a New Jersey accent and think this woman needs to quit smoking, but you might say, thank you, yes, and then make a snide remark about the prosti-tot children's clothing for sale, as you hold up a size 6x push-up bra bikini top for her to witness. She might shake her head at the garment and agree with you about its scandalous nature. You might like her.
This Wal-Mart employee might be named Sheila, and, soon enough, she might start talking to you about how much her 8-year-old daughter's not-so-innocent taste in clothing has been costing her lately, both in terms of money, and in terms of her relationship with her daughter...because they fight all the time. Hearing this, you might lift your sunglasses off of your face and onto your head as Sheila might mindlessly start folding shirts, telling you about how hard the divorce has been on her daughter. "He just left," she might rurally wheeze of her former husband.
Then, as Sheila might be talking, you might (with your big black bag slung over your shoulder, and your big black sunglasses atop your head) start folding shirts, too. At first, you might not even notice you are folding shirts. And then, after some time, you and Sheila might both notice that all the shirts you are folding are either Hannah Montana, High School Musical, or Jonas Brothers shirts. So, Sheila might take this opportunity to tell you how absolutely sick of the Jonas Brothers she is. Then, as you smooth out the sleeves on one of the shirts, you might make a joke about how, even though you don't hate the Jonas Brothers music per se, you still can't seem to resist the urge to make a Jonas-Brothers-Kabob of them by searing each mini-man through his middle with an oversized knitting needle: Kevin-Joe-Nick.
At this, Sheila might laugh so hard that another Wal-Mart employee might come over to ask what was so funny. Sheila might repeat what you said and then both Wal-Mart employees dressed in their Smurfy vests might laugh. Then, as you fold your last High School Musical shirt and get ready to say goodbye, Sheila might reach out to you, put her hand on your shoulder and thank you for making her day. Likewise, you might say, as you exit and head back into the Wal-Mart parking lot, wholly expecting to find that clever fox, but only finding that not-so-fierce-looking hound hanging out the back of a red pick-up truck.
Still, with a dizziness inspired by the very determined fluorescent lighting, you might stagger along the wide linoleum aisles in your three inch heels and oversized sunglasses wondering why every last sign in the store needs to be that awful shade of blue, and why you're the only person wearing all black. You might go on to survey the other shoppers and notice how nearly all the men are wearing shirts with their sleeves cut off. You might also notice how nearly all of their wives are wearing white or hot pink shorts that are way too tight. Finally, given the distinctive sound echoing from their feet, you might notice that, as they shop, the lot of them are slapping behind their gray carts in flip flops.
At this point you might be wondering how you look within the context of Wal-Mart, but you will not find one mirror on the walls of Wal-Mart. This might annoy you. You might even pout a little in front of the long stretch of shelves stocked with American flags. Then, as you wander into the children's section that is in all kinds of disarray, a Wal-Mart employee donning a rather unfortunate blue vest might come up to you and ask, in a gasping-for-breath kind of way, if you're finding everything you need. You might wonder about her rural spin on a New Jersey accent and think this woman needs to quit smoking, but you might say, thank you, yes, and then make a snide remark about the prosti-tot children's clothing for sale, as you hold up a size 6x push-up bra bikini top for her to witness. She might shake her head at the garment and agree with you about its scandalous nature. You might like her.
This Wal-Mart employee might be named Sheila, and, soon enough, she might start talking to you about how much her 8-year-old daughter's not-so-innocent taste in clothing has been costing her lately, both in terms of money, and in terms of her relationship with her daughter...because they fight all the time. Hearing this, you might lift your sunglasses off of your face and onto your head as Sheila might mindlessly start folding shirts, telling you about how hard the divorce has been on her daughter. "He just left," she might rurally wheeze of her former husband.
Then, as Sheila might be talking, you might (with your big black bag slung over your shoulder, and your big black sunglasses atop your head) start folding shirts, too. At first, you might not even notice you are folding shirts. And then, after some time, you and Sheila might both notice that all the shirts you are folding are either Hannah Montana, High School Musical, or Jonas Brothers shirts. So, Sheila might take this opportunity to tell you how absolutely sick of the Jonas Brothers she is. Then, as you smooth out the sleeves on one of the shirts, you might make a joke about how, even though you don't hate the Jonas Brothers music per se, you still can't seem to resist the urge to make a Jonas-Brothers-Kabob of them by searing each mini-man through his middle with an oversized knitting needle: Kevin-Joe-Nick.
At this, Sheila might laugh so hard that another Wal-Mart employee might come over to ask what was so funny. Sheila might repeat what you said and then both Wal-Mart employees dressed in their Smurfy vests might laugh. Then, as you fold your last High School Musical shirt and get ready to say goodbye, Sheila might reach out to you, put her hand on your shoulder and thank you for making her day. Likewise, you might say, as you exit and head back into the Wal-Mart parking lot, wholly expecting to find that clever fox, but only finding that not-so-fierce-looking hound hanging out the back of a red pick-up truck.
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