Today, Monday October 13 I lived my own personal hell. Jittery and flustered I stood third in line at the Customer Service desk at Wal-Mart in Ukiah. At first I was hesitant to swing by the mega-store that rolls back prices with a grotesque yellow smiley face as it steamrolls local business but I really had to get rid of a malfunctioning Ipod transmitter that had been lifelessly rotting in my trunk for the past month. My reservations were based upon the fact that a pound of scallops residing in my spacious trunk would soon be decomposing at a exponentially fast rate in the mid-day valley sun. But it had to be done. The purchase it turns out, was on impulse at a strip mall Wal-Mart along highway 80. My musical merry-making device was energetically incapacitated and I was crossing quite possibly the one most physically unappealing states in the country: Nebraska.
Hell, at the time I didn't even know if I had enough money in my checking account to cross the country and I was at the checkout in a Walmart at Strip Center (catchy name) in Lexington, NE buying bread, PB& J and a forty dollar charger/transmitter. To tell the truth, part of me trembled as I began to ponder how much money I had tucked away in my account, but after a "transaction approved" flashed on the screen I breathed a sigh of relief. "Whew," I thought, going on my best Valley girl judgment I concluded that "I must have like at least 300 bucks left. Plenty enough dough to make it to the Sunshine State." Checking your bank account for me feels a lot like going to the dentist for many. I never want to know how much money I have pissed away only to find out that I am verging on the brink of wanton bankruptcy while others don't want to find out that they have eight gaping cavities because they are addicted to dunking Oreos in carbonated beverages laden with high-fructose corn syrup (Just because it's Vegan doesn't make it O.K.) So there I was impulsively buying a product for my trans-Atlantic, well practically, journey across the vast expanses of our proud country. Said store could show us all something about integrity by changing their slogan to "Wal-Mart: Keeping America Rolling with Mass Trash Consumption."
Why did I really need this auto-sensory device? Need is such a strong word. Let's say "had to have." The answer can traced back to my driving coordinates at the time. I was entering mountainous terrain in western Wyoming and Jack-o had warned me the only public radio frequencies available to the public on the way to Jackson Hole focused primarily on contemporary bubble gum crooning country beats and a splotchy NPR station that was erratic at best. My trustworthy Road Master Road Atlas purchased for a mere three-fitty from a Lochness Monster on Niagara Falls Blvd. said it was five hours to Jackson from Hwy 80. Five fucking hours without music?!? How can one truly master the road without a killer trailblazing soundtrack
to accompany my thrill ride on "Why-ohm-mings most dane-jur-us highway," the 191. At least that was the omninous warning I recieved from the colorful folks at the Texaco in Rock Springs. "Big game litter the roads. Lotsa axe-cid-dents and tight curves," cautioned a pimply cashier clad in a Gothic jumpsuit who cordially pointed me toward the free tap water. Yum yum. The taste of blood and iron to wash down a heart palpitating energy beverage.
But seriously I want my Dillenger Four! Who is to deny me my daily dose of Avail, Mirah, Jonny Cash or Billy Bragg. This was indeed the right thing to do. After Wal-Mart I completely gave up on life and headed over to the thruway Starbucks, you know the ones that boast a giant sign atop a linearly reducing metal pole that looks like it sprouted some 100 feet out of the concrete. Yep, that one. At, ahem, Harbucks a bleached bombshell barrista stuck in the Nebraska matrix earnestly filled up my "Safety, it's My Job" mug with a perky smile and I scurried back to the Pontiac with my black death to test out my new toy. Finally, I would be able to surf the radio frequencies unfettered, much like a private loan agencies who deal government securities in the free market, in order to pick out the best channel to broadcast my personal hand-held music collection. Truth be told I already owned a radio transmitter which I had purchased from the French luxury goods store Target, but much to my behest the beastly only allowed me to choose from four different stations in the lower eighties. When I came close to any metropolitan area any stations close to the frequency I had selected would drown out my low-fi, fast paced clamor. Imagine your dismay as you belted out "Run for the Hills" and Ricky Martin's "La Vida Loca" stages a fascist corporate coup in your personal environment. That is the polar opposite of democratic. That's Clear Channel imposing it's playlists on my attempts to buck the system with Apple's advances in modern technology.
"So how did I end up at the customer service line in Ukiah?" you ask, likewise questioning if this rambling tangential discourse will ever come full circle. The answer is the frequency transmitter was a total dud. At first I though the batteries in the package had expired but one attempt and broken head lamp later and I realized nothing short of Taiwanese assembler was going to solve my technical issues. That and returning to Wal-Mart. I fully dreaded the latter option. Walking through the doors of the mega-crap store twice in one day would have broke my spirits for months. Instead I decided to take full advantage of the 30 day guarantee commonly used by poster tour shitworkers and use the charger while it was in my slimy scheming paws.
In the end it was what I had to do. Follow through with the return. So I stood in line at the gates of hell, the suburban boy on the cover of Suffer with Beelzebub perched on my left shoulder laughing maniacally. Three landbeasts were womaning the service counter, piling a landfill of returns behind the Formica blue counter as the cattle aired their displeasure with past purchases. To my left sauntered a heavy mustachioed gent with an Alcatraz Hotel tee accompanied by a barflyish lass, skin stained with years of thick smoke and sun-washed green spiraling tattoos. Ahead of me a scraggly geriatric woman arguing relentlessly over an unknown object of desire. Perspiration began to pierce my skin and omit a raw bouquet at the center of my armpit. The greeter, a Elmer Fudd character with extended flapping upper gums barked out a thick Texan call to newcomers taking time to catch up with regulars. I contemplated running for it. Dropping my package and booking for the doors. Anxiety poured over my being as the parking lot corralled livestock through the doors to be directed through the maze of products ingeniously crafted from the excess stocks of mono-cropped cotton, corn and plantations of pine. Calming myself I stuck it out, staying placidly put in line as the mobs destroyed the racks as beckoned.
Forty-two dollars richer (accredited to my account) I felt the consumer confidence in my pocket and took to the aisles, feverishly looking for dental products and cheap envelopes for my obligatory economic transactions. Flames cascaded down my shoulders and backside as I made a beeline for the register, finding even the express lines queued with as many as 5 to 6 people much to my dismay. I though this was about convenience after all. Making due I eavesdropped on the conversations in line. "Well Sheila's gotta new boyfriend, Mike's 'is name," gabbed a curly hailed middle-ager with a gnarly chipped front tooth. "Yep, she skipped from C to M in the alphabet," she quipped with a squirrely laugh. God save me. I turned to the trashy magazines, the lot of them covered with smiling tanned celebs and sculpted male specimens. I'm immediately taken with Howard Stern's Wedding photos. Craddling my purchases with the left arm I madly peruse the magazine only to find articles about Angelina's weight fluctuations. Holy Shit, I catch myself caught in a void of mindless voyeurism and fling the mag back to the racks. Then the beef jerky is looking me straight in the eye. Oberto's genuine dusty cow-dung covered antibiotic charged feedlot beef jerky is egging me on and I am restraining myself from adding the salty particles to my current pile of bullshit. Exchange of money and I'm out the door swimming in a boxed sports utility vehicle sea of unhappy desperate housewives and frowning princesses.
Thank you Kathy Lee Gifford, you dunce. Sam Walton I'll see you in hell. I'll be the kid at the bar in the Reagan Youth t-shirt drinking Belgian strong ales and talking shit about winter weather.
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