… but I ain’t ever seen nothing like that.
The “that” in question is the surreal experience of the self-checkout line at my local Walmart tonight.
I know what you’re thinking: something like “well, it was Walmart” but I’m a seasoned Walmart veteran. I’ve been in Walmarts across at least two timezones and more states than I could easily tally. And this is my most local of Wallyworlds, the one I probably averaged more than 3 visits a week to for more than a decade back in olden times when things were (relatively) normal. This was something altogether different.
“My” Walmart is generally suburban, located midway between small urban and a lot of rural. And after about fifteen years of visits, I have a pretty good notion what the crowd is going to consist of, right down to the variable demographics at different times of day and days of the week. It’s nothing if not predictable.
So how’n the hell did I bear witness to something that I’d managed to miss in over 50 years on the planet?
A little scene setting might help here. A packed store – not quite Christmas Eve crowded but certainly early December sized. 3-4 registers open, tops. And a line for the 7 (of 8) working self checkout machines that was at least 14 customers deep when I entered the queue. Not just any line of course, oh no, a line of people trying to figure out how to social distance when the line bent back at a 90 degree angle and extended beyond/through the line of the one open register on the grocery side of the store. And, well, it’s self checkout so the machines are at least as wonky as the customers trying to use them. But I literally have ONE ITEM, I rarely use the stupid things but in this case it made more sense.
In front of me, a taller younger version of Shotgun Red (the old country music puppet character) and what I figure was his wife (or his cousin, or both), early 60s I’d guess. In front of them, attempting to use the register nearest the line, the WM archetype of the {ahem} hefty woman plopped on the scooter and what I suspect was her sister (or cousin, or girlfriend, or both), also probably right around 60 years old. Behind me (they’ll contribute to the humor later), a couple of workout focused fraternity guys, waiting to buy their 25 pound tub of Whey Protein.
I notice that there’s trouble at the register. If you’re waiting for me to seem shocked by that it’ll be a long wait cause, well, Walmart. But after enduring the line this long already, I’m barely even processing that. I have no emotional attachment to any of the eight (seven working) checkout stations, any ol’ one is fine by me. A couple more minutes passed and the one halfway down on the left opened up, Mr & Mrs Duck Dynasty start forward … and that’s when things went downhill. Best I can figure is that Mrs. DD said something under her breath, which I missed, at some point. And that led to this exchange:
Scooter companion: “What the f*** did you say? You gon’ say something, say it out loud”
Malnourished Grizzly Adams: “I’ll tell you what the f*** she said, you stupid c***. She said if you’re too f***ing dumb to work the f***ing register, then keep your dumb ass out of f***ing Walmart”
Now what made this all drop into slow motion for me were the following details
1) His hand instinctively going to the decent, though unimpressive, sized knife on his belt
2) His wife’s hand going slowly into her purse
3) Scooter heifer slowly creeping her carriage forward, as though she might just run ’em both over
In my head I hear my own voice “I’m in here to buy one over-the-counter medication worth about $4, I do NOT want to be in y’alls shit.”
Behind me, I hear one young workout fan say to the other “Are you SURE this is worth it?”
The reply was honest and probably accurate “I doubt it’s any better anywhere else, might as well just get it here”
The verbal back and forth continued for another minute or so ACROSS the opposite rows of registers … and I carefully ducked between the verbal salvos to check my one little item at the thankfully vacated register nearest the door and depart the potential Dodge City. Last I saw, Ms. Earnhardt and her pal were finally cleared to leave and exited after me but before Shotgun & Mrs. Red. Incidentally, the weaponry (and suggestion of weaponry) seemed to have been defused earlier as I sideeye saw Mrs. Grizzly remove her hand from her purse and gently push her husband’s hand away from his belt, though she might have just been wanting him to use both hands to bag the items she was scanning.
Remember those county fairs and the goat ropin’ I mentioned at the beginning? I’m not exactly what you’d call sheltered. There aren’t too many forms of random violence I haven’t seen at some point in 53 years. I’ve been in a bar fight or two, I’ve been in a near riot at least once (complete with more firepower on opposing sides than your average National Guard detachment), and I’m from a part of the country where non-lethal violence wasn’t all that noteworthy, much less shocking in any way.
But this? It felt different. I’ve rewound much of the whole thing, back before getting in line even, and figured out what felt off to me and why I left the store legitimately shaken. It was the tension. EVERYWHERE. I know we’re all stressed for a variety of reasons but I’ve been out & about through a good bit of the 2020 hooha, nothing remotely like this.
Everybody in the store brought all their stress with them, you could feel it on every aisle. People were jumpy, suspicious, edgy. Throw in the added stress of interminable lines and little to no coordination for any of it, that amps things up more. Hell, the eight “young adults” (20somethings) standing around the front door outside that appeared to be trying to look intimidating to everyone entering likely put anyone paying attention on higher alert than they were when they parked their car as well. (Hint: if you’re innocently standing around socializing in a group of eight people, normally at least some of the conversations would be face to face, not standing side by side, arms folded over chest, talking sideways. That little scene was strictly for show. I hope me quietly whistling a happy melody as I strolled past managed to annoy them at least a little)
If ever I’ve felt like I was standing in the middle of a powder keg, tonight was it. And everybody in the place had matches, a lighter, and some might have had a handy flint/magnesium kit for good measure. From what I saw tonight, it’s not a matter of if things start getting violent, it’s just a matter of when.
Or maybe they already have. As chance would have it, who walks into the restaurant where I’m picking up my order but one of the employees that clocked out of the self-checkout duty maybe two minutes before things got crazy. You know me, I couldn’t resist a conversation.
To sum it up, she said what I described was every day there, from open til closing. She borrowed my phrase “white trash” and added one of her own “ghetto bangers”, noting that they didn’t really see many customers from the suburban county the store is physically in anymore, that it was “folks from several counties away” (read as “backwoods”) and “folks from the ‘hood in town” (read as “worst parts of Athens proper”). She said, on average, they were dealing with 3-4 similar confrontations a day lately. As we parted, I could only express my sincere sympathy for her working conditions and my advice that “if anything starts, duck, and get away from it. You’re not getting paid enough to break it up”
And here’s what also struck me later. The only ally anyone could count on in the store if things got heated up would be one they brought with ’em. I mean, a near miss of white trash on white trash violence was tonight’s feature presentation, tomorrow might be another demographic, and on Saturday a different one still. It’s not just racial tension, it’s not just lifestyle tension, it’s not just covid tension … it’s ALL of it.
In the end, never have I ever been more concerned that the planet may have truly lost its collective mind than I am tonight.
Keep your heads down my friends … and keep your powder dry.
Jon's Three Cents 