An awful time today at depressing retail slum Wal-Mart

I have not shopped at a Wal-Mart in over five years, and not because I disagree over the wages they pay to employees or how they manufacture their goods overseas (in fact no-one in my family complains about Wal-Mart and many of them are still working in the sweatshops of Uttar Pradesh). No, I do not shop at Wal-Mart because it is a depressing retail slum!

Mind you, I am no high caste bourgeoisie, but even for me, the appeal of Wal-Mart is a few notches lower than the crowded Mumbai Trivandrum Express train. Today, I went as part of my Sunday errands, just to return a holiday toy and hopefully get a little money. Into the poorly-lit bleak front entrance I went, where piles of damaged and probably useless merchandise were overflowing past the returns desk and into the store (in fact, it was hard to tell where the discard pile ended and the salable merchandise began). An old woman tagged my package and pointed me to wait my place in the queue, which was fifteen people deep and reeked of french-fry oil and thrift store mothballs.

In front of me was a short fat woman with sideburns and her short fat daughter who had taken colored markers and drawn over the bruises up and down her arms. Each of them had a shopping cart with a microwave in it, presumably to tell the returns clerk that the microwave was no good and they'd like to exchange it for an identical microwave which was also no good. Behind me, a restless, heavy-breathing woman who approached the line and asked if I was waiting in line, as if perhaps I was accidentally in line for an Icee or maybe I was just politely holding the next available place for someone like her. And as the line was not moving very quickly —due to the fact that at any one time only one of the four return cash registers was occupied— I had time to myself to ponder the masses of great unwashed entering and exiting this depressing retail slum.

When it was turn for the fat woman to exchange her microwave, I expected a delay. This item of complicated electronics looked like it had fallen off the roof of an apartment building: the box was ripped away from the side, had crushed corners, and no effort was made to mend it. When the returns clerk asked if anything was wrong with it, the fat woman said there was some paint chipped off the side and she wanted to exchange it. She had no receipt, but the tired-looking clerk approved and that was it, done! So I thought it should be easy to return my unopened rubber toy with licenced character face.

As I approached the counter, I offered a hello, but got no reply, and then meekly said I recieved this as a gift and would like to return it, and I do not have a reciept. That's when she looked at me like I was a fool, and asked what was wrong with it. Nothing I say, it is brand new, unused, it is just a toy made of molded polypropelene plastic and an accompanying bottle of bubble bath solution, no moving parts or batteries, nothing is wrong with it, in fact you should be more concerned about that beat-up microwave oven that was just returned than this bathtub spout cover with the face of a cartoon character on it, nothing is wrong with it...

And slowly she opened the register drawer and began fishing for change, as she pushed a receipt across the counter that required my signature, phone number, and address be filled out. Just as I was about to scribble illegibly, I saw that the refund was only $1.47! This must be a mistake, only $1.47 for this brand-new toy? "It's the price when y'all don't have a reciept." Incredulously, I asked "And so what is the price when I DO have a reciept?" But I didn't get an answer, and I wouldn't have waited for one, because I was so holy-rolling mad at wasting twenty-five minutes standing in that returns line —breathing stale air and looking at the backs of heads with greasy dermatological conditions— that I wasnt going to give depressing retail slum Wal-Mart the pleasure of keeping this stupid bathtub toy that they can re-stock then re-sell for full price! I won't be anyones' chump for $1.47!! (Though now I suppose I was a chump anyway, and got nothing for it).

So I told the clerk she can forget it, and stormed away, muttering aloud to myself how much I dislike Wal-Mart for being such a depressing retail slum, damn you Wal-Mart, etc., and an overly-sensitive customer walking into the store stopped and barked at me demanding to know what the hell did I just call him? I got away from there and vowed to never be a patron of depressing retail slum Wal-Mart again.

And because my righteous pride wouldn't let Wal-Mart take advantage of THIS old man, I now have a cartoon face garden hose cover and bubble solution for washing out the garage in the spring…
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