Welcome to Wal-Mart
And so it was a bitter old
Shmolnick who slowly dragged himself out of bed that morning to prepare
for another four-hour shift as a Wal-Mart greeter.
It took the old man longer
to get ready these days. There were all the prescriptions he had to
take for a variety of ailments; the paltry medical benefits he received
from his employer were the main reason he had to keep working. Then
there were all the aches and pains that plagued him each morning: the
lower back, the shoulder, the knee, the hip. Depending on the weather
pattern, any one or more of these symptoms helped Shmolnick greet the
day.
The old man looked at himself
in the mirror expressionless. “Shoulda definitely eaten a gun decades
ago,” he said, dispirited.
In truth, old Shmolnick
really didn’t look all that bad for his seventy-four years. He still
had all his hair, now turned thin and silver by age, and his face was
reasonably unwrinkled. He had the familiar paunch, which despite his
best efforts, he’d never been able to eliminate. His teeth were his
own as well, another lucky break. But he felt old and went through this
last part of his life without much hope.
“One foot in front of the
other, Shmolnick,” he told himself, and forced himself to shower, shave
and clean up. A bowl of Tastee Bran for Seniors served as a filling
but unsatisfying meal as the Computavision blared the morning White
House briefing that served as news. More war, more job cuts, more tax
cuts for the wealthy, a pattern established long ago under the second
of four Bush presidents.
He knew well enough to turn
the annoying box off though, before he felt his blood pressure rise
to dangerous levels. In truth, old Shmolnick no longer cared. He was
just going through the motions. He farted several times as he painfully
dressed, frowning with dissatisfaction at the homely blue Wal-Mart vest
he was forced to wear.
“So this is what I’ve come
to,” he thought.
His sense of impatience,
always strong, had grown stronger with the bitterness of old age. At
the bus stop, the old man checked his watch several times and paced
back and forth muttering angrily at the failure of public transportation
to meet even the simplest of scheduling requirements, much to the amusement
of the younger passengers.
The late bus deposited Shmolnick
at Wal-Mart, his place of employment these last two years. Of course,
he clocked in five minutes late. Carmelita Lopez, the pretty but abrasive
twenty-two year old assistant manager who was his immediate supervisor,
watched the old man clock in.
“Yo Shmolnick, you’re late
again. I’m goeen to have to dock your pay,” she said, secretly delighting
in harrassing the old white man. Carmelita hated white people and frequently
took her anger out on the old fools who worked as store greeters. Carmelita
could get away with this abusive style of management because she’d been
sleeping with Todd, the store manager, for six months now. She was protected.
And anyway, store greeters
were a dime a dozen. “Remember old man,” she said quietly with a sneer,
“I could get a fuckeen monkey to do your job.” She jabbed a painted
nail at the old man for emphasis.
“Yes Ms. Lopez,” replied
Shmolnick, gritting his teeth to keep his own anger in check. He needed
this job. “Sorry about being late, it won’t happen again.”
“It better not, you stupit
ol’ man.” She laughed and walked away, off to start a conversation about
the latest party she’d attended with a female co-worker.
Shmolnick frowned and reported to his post at the front of the store.
Five minutes to opening time. “God I hate this job,” he thought, smoothing
his blue vest.
He took up his familiar
station at the front of the giant retail store and waited for the doors
to open to the throngs of shoppers looking to save twenty-five cents
on some useless household item.
“Welcome to Wal-Mart,” he
muttered to himself bitterly.
