Ten O'Clock Sunday evening, in a WalMart.
Ten O'Clock Sunday evening, in a WalMart.
I sit in the McDonald's that they built here, drinking an iced tea. I'm here because I forgot bandages. Again. But, when I walked in I remembered that I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast. Again. Don't know how I remain so fat when I keep not eating. Scratch that. I know the answer.
Beyond the stainless rail that divides the dining area from the walking dead, I can see this community's cross-section drift in and out.
The Hispanic couple with more kids than I have fingers, and their train of full baskets.
The girl with the asymmetric purple and black hair and her generously pierced and inked boyfriend, who regard my mid forties balding and paunching personage with palpable disdain as they walk by me. I can almost hear her, "never seen anything like me, old man," in her mind as she looks back. This makes me smile a little. I do look a little normal.
The twenty-somethings, roommates looking to restock the beer fridge.
The thirty-somethings, married, looking to restock the baby formula and Lego supply.
The ladies of all ages, who all seem to have outgrown a bra at the same time. I wonder briefly, after looking at all of these women, if I will need a bra as some sort of secret admission ticket to the checkout line here.
Listening, I can hear the clicks, snicks, and clangs of the carts in and out of the store, and the vaguely metallic sound of the hangers on their racks, being searched endlessly for just the right thing, or maybe just something that can be afforded. These are the sounds of the mechanics of life in this corner of the world.
Sipping on my tea (which tastes suspiciously like the tea that my aunt brewed for me as a kid, but has the dirty overtones of the endless string of focus groups that were needed to arrive at Exactly This Flavor), I look around and notice the clientele has not changed here since probably well before I arrived. No new orders. No trips to the waste cans. Just a few old Asian guys and a couple of ladies. Lots of single tables, and lots of small cups of coffee. And a lot of staring into the store looking at nothing in particular.
A fleeting question materializes in my head, wondering just how bad your homelife must be to spend a Sunday evening alone in a Wal-Mart McDonald's just letting the world run down around you.
I whisk the question away, and take another sip of my tea, and stare back out at the cogs in this human machine. In Wal-Mart. Alone. On a Sunday evening.
I sit in the McDonald's that they built here, drinking an iced tea. I'm here because I forgot bandages. Again. But, when I walked in I remembered that I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast. Again. Don't know how I remain so fat when I keep not eating. Scratch that. I know the answer.
Beyond the stainless rail that divides the dining area from the walking dead, I can see this community's cross-section drift in and out.
The Hispanic couple with more kids than I have fingers, and their train of full baskets.
The girl with the asymmetric purple and black hair and her generously pierced and inked boyfriend, who regard my mid forties balding and paunching personage with palpable disdain as they walk by me. I can almost hear her, "never seen anything like me, old man," in her mind as she looks back. This makes me smile a little. I do look a little normal.
The twenty-somethings, roommates looking to restock the beer fridge.
The thirty-somethings, married, looking to restock the baby formula and Lego supply.
The ladies of all ages, who all seem to have outgrown a bra at the same time. I wonder briefly, after looking at all of these women, if I will need a bra as some sort of secret admission ticket to the checkout line here.
Listening, I can hear the clicks, snicks, and clangs of the carts in and out of the store, and the vaguely metallic sound of the hangers on their racks, being searched endlessly for just the right thing, or maybe just something that can be afforded. These are the sounds of the mechanics of life in this corner of the world.
Sipping on my tea (which tastes suspiciously like the tea that my aunt brewed for me as a kid, but has the dirty overtones of the endless string of focus groups that were needed to arrive at Exactly This Flavor), I look around and notice the clientele has not changed here since probably well before I arrived. No new orders. No trips to the waste cans. Just a few old Asian guys and a couple of ladies. Lots of single tables, and lots of small cups of coffee. And a lot of staring into the store looking at nothing in particular.
A fleeting question materializes in my head, wondering just how bad your homelife must be to spend a Sunday evening alone in a Wal-Mart McDonald's just letting the world run down around you.
I whisk the question away, and take another sip of my tea, and stare back out at the cogs in this human machine. In Wal-Mart. Alone. On a Sunday evening.
posted by Mark of NOLA at 11:01 AM
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