Breakfast with the Beatles

Strawberry Fields

I went into the local, brand-spankin’ new Wal-Mart and fell in love with the employees; they were honest, or else didn’t view me as threatening.

Needing only 4 items, I looked for a hand cart.  Finding none, I asked two employees if they even had any; while the 50-ish woman retrieved one hidden behind the register, the young man said,

“We don’t have too many of those.”

“They want us to fill up the carts.”

“Yup.”

Looking for a particular cereal, I asked a 60-ish woman stocking shelves nearby.   Chatty Cathy kicked in (me), and she offered to take me, but I said I didn’t mind going myself.  Truth be told, I find it a bit annoying to be all-but strong-armed to whatever I’m inquiring about.  I guess they want to make sure we walk out with our item in short order, but they forget some of us enjoy dawdling along the way; we’d probably pick up more if we were allowed to search for ourselves.  Just tell me the aisle, for C’s sake.

“Really, that’s OK," I tried; "I have lots of time.”

“So do I.”  There’d be no arguing with her.

“You want to get away from what you’re doing.”

“Right.”

So we walked and chatted some more.  As she returned to her boxes, I said I was sorry.

At the register, the energetic young lady asked how everything was.  Fine, fine, how ‘bout you?

“I’m so frickin’  happy, thanks!”  I couldn’t help laughing; a gal after my own heart.

I’m just glad she didn’t call me Honey, Dear or some other over-endearment my relatives don’t even use.  That’s one of my pet-peeves, so rather than develop an ulcer I just respond, practically with a Southern drawl,

“I’m just fine, Cutie-Pie,” Sweetie-Darling or whatever, which usually stops the conversation dead in its tracks.  When did that kind of informality come about?  Why do strangers of all ages find it acceptable to automatically call me by my first name?  I don’t even refer to my Aunts and Uncles without their titles.

I was surprised by their reactions, not that they had them, but that they expressed them publicly in the world of Wal-Mart. Several of my former neighbors work for WM; I considered it myself when I first arrived in town, but after some of their stories I was happy I didn't.

Dismissed without formal charges, one terrified 20-something, who helps his hard working, house-cleaning Mom with the bills, got himself a new set of clothes at Goodwill to meet with the next person up the chain of command.  He hoped his explanation of the events, along with 2 years of satisfactory performance plus humility, would help his case.  Trust me, this was not some ‘punk’.

They dangled their proverbial carrot:  he returned wide-eyed, promised that if he was good and kept his mouth shut (i.e., no further grievance), MAYBE he would be brought back in 6 months.  I tried conveying there was a world outside of WM, but it was too late; he was already indoctrinated.

As I was leaving the still-pristine parking lot, I noticed certain signs posted all over:

NO OVERNIGHT PARKING, with the accompanying threat of towing.

Now that’s the first I’ve seen, or heard, of that polidy in a Wal-Mart.  Even my friends with means have parked overnight on occasion when they were in a pinch.  I always joked that I knew every W-M location in Southern Oregon, since everyone knows, at least people with RV’s do, that Wal-Mart, despite their corporate-ness, has provided a safe haven for travelers in need for a single night in their giant parking lots.  They get it back in purchases, but now I wonder if this is a new policy everywhere, or just local.

If you haven’t read My Karma ran over My Dogma, it’s relative in two ways.  Happiness, or un, in businesses flows from the top down.  Unfortunately, Wal-Mart’s greatness does not seem to extend to caring for its employees; if it was, we’d all see it.  Personally, I’d rather work for peanuts for old Fezziwig.

But it’s Saturday, the hot air balloon festival started this morning with a great show, and I’m enjoying my cereal with Breakfast with the Beatles; Eleanor Rigby.  How poetic.