Wal-Mart has never been a big deal to me. There is one only a few miles from my house, but for me, and most Long Islanders, it was always just the place where every one wore flannel, no one wore deodorant, and everything was kinda-sorta-definitely-maybe-vaguely wet. I’m not talking about drenched or even damp in most cases, but that odd and somewhat slimey feeling you sometimes get when you hold hands with someone who uses too much moisturizer. Needless to say, this was not the type of store that I would rank at the top of my list for a weekend family outing or even a quick shopping trip. Maybe I would stop in if my hair was on fire and I was in dire need of a fire extinguisher, but even at that, I’d probably try the adjacent Olive Garden first.

This all changed when I went to school in Syracuse, however. Suddenly, Wal-Mart was not the place where a friend’s cousin’s daughter’s son (or something like that) got flashed by a guy who looked like Mr. Bean, but rather a cool and interesting place to go at night. It was no longer “Wal-Mart” either, but rather WM, The Wal, The Mart, and, most commonly, The Store.

I shouldn’t criticize the last of these nicknames too much because back home we also throw that term around, but it was understood to refer to a grocery store, clothing store or book store, in the context of the conversation. The problem, for me at least, was that the Syracuse incarnation of Wal-Mart was all of these things plus a fast food restaurant, a beer distributor, and a gun trader. When someone would ask me if I wanted to go to “the store” with them, I never knew whether we were going on a quick food run or starting to gather arms for a revolution.

The first time I went to the East Syracuse Wal-Mart I was immediately overwhelmed by the…how to put this nicely…unique sights and sounds. As usual, we were greeted by a senior citizen upon walking through the air-lock-esque front entrance.

         “HellowelcometoWalMart” mumbled a surly-looking woman whose nametag ironically read “Agnes J.”

Under normal circumstances, the smiley face directly next to her name would have a been a nice touch, especially considering the happy-bouncy-whistling-price-cutting mascot, but the only thing pleasant about Agnes was that her puffy, seventy-something cheeks were covered in so much blush that they looked like little apples. I guess I can’t fault her too much, though; after all, this was not exactly the most desirable job in the world, right?

Surprisingly, I learned pretty quickly that working at The Mart was actually a really popular job for the young and the old alike. So sought-after were these jobs that, apparently, one of my friends from the illustrious 4th Floor Nelligan was not qualified to work there. Looking to make some extra money, he went and applied just before our Christmas break figuring that they would be desperate for someone to stock shelves, unload trucks, and hose down the preteens teaching themselves about the birds and bees in the women’s fitting room.

In hindsight, he was probably in trouble right from the written application, on which he indicated that his desired rate of pay was “at least minimum wage.” Even with this on his application, however, he was called for an interview a few days later. Now, I have always been taught that you should arrive at a job interview dressed as if you were ready to start the job that day. You know how it goes: white collar guys should wear a shirt and tie, blue collar guys neat work clothes and boots, secret agent tuxedo and top hat, and so forth. While I think we can all agree that The Wal is definitely at the low end of the blue collar market, something tells me that my friend’s choice of a zip-up hoodie barely covering a “Beer Pong Champion” t-shit was probably strike two.

Strike three, by my estimation, came in the actual interview, which he recounted to me completely oblivious as to why the management didn’t hire him. Things were going well, he thought, when the interviewer dropped the dreaded “why do you want to work here?” on him. Thinking that honesty was the best policy, my friend explained that he spent a lot more money than he thought this semester partying and that he wanted a job where he could make a little money without overextending himself. He probably would have been better off saying that he thought he would look really sharp in the electric blue vest.

Agnes out of sight and out of mind, we headed to the clothing department to see what gems we might find among the t-shirts. I started to ruffle through a pile, but my attention was more focused on the rather loud conversation occurring between two guys across the aisle in intimate apparel:

         “… a lot of other shit too. Like if you tell him you want him to play Silent Night you can get shit laced with sleeping pills for the chick and if you think you’re gonna need a, you know, jumpstart, ask him to play God Save the Queen.”

         “Huh?”

         “You know, to make you stand up; it’s got Viagra or some shit in it.”

At this point, the five of us decided to split up and get what we needed to, agreeing to meet at the car in a half an hour or so. I was actually kind of disappointed to miss the rest of the intimates’ conversation, but we did need to head over and get my friend her fish. She was back to get her third fish of the year, actually. I’m not sure if the FBI tracks these kinds of things, but if they did, I’m pretty sure my friend would be one of the most prolific serial killers of marine life. One of the first conversations I remember having with her was about how, during high school, she had lost two hermit crabs (dog ate them) and three goldfish (had put them in a tank with a bigger fish that ate them). Her first fish of the Le Moyne years, perhaps sensing his certain demise, made a desperate leap for freedom from his bowl while she was at class and died on the floor in a pile of dirty socks. Her next fish, a really neat navy blue beta, met his maker when she got stuck in a huge traffic jam going home for Thanksgiving and he froze to death in the trunk; poor little fishcicle never had a chance.

No sooner had we left the group, my friend felt a sudden need to look at new coffee makers, despite the fact that – by her own admission – drinking coffee in the morning made her have to pee every fifteen feet. I said I would look at the camping supplies; I figured I might as well embrace the fact that tents were considered a big-ticket item here. Sure enough, when I wandered back to the coffee makers, no friend, only a Korean man looking very intently at Senseo machine that was missing its lid.

         “Excuse, have you seen a blonde girl wearing a Hungry-Hungry-Hippos t-shirt?”

         “(something in Korean)”

         “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you speak English?”

         “Ahhh…yes. Yes.”

         “Ok. Did you see a girl in a pink shirt here?”

         “Easy near French fry.”

Easy near French fry. Just like that. No hint of punctuation. Not “Easy (PAUSE) near French fry.”

Nope. Just “Easy near French Fry.” There was a McDonald’s near the front of the store, so on the off chance that I had spoken to some kind of Korean Rain Man, I started in that direction. Sure enough, there she was, waiting on line behind one of the guys from the intimates section.

         “What happened to looking at coffee makers?”

“It made me want coffee now.”

Over-priced, over-done coffees in hand, we accidentally wandered into the toy department and were nearly run over by a poorly-coordinated kid trying out a bike before finally stumbling into the pets section. We walked over to the tanks to look for her next victim when we heard a voice behind us: “Can I, like, help you dudes?” I turned around and only noticed the top of a head. I looked down about eight inches to see a gnome-ish young man standing there with a donut in hand that was only about half as glazed-over as his eyes.

         “Yeah, hi, can we get one of these betas here…” my friend said pointing at the tank.

         “Nah, dude, I think I’m supposed to take them out of the tank for you. I dunno though, this isn’t like, really my job.”

         “What do you mean it’s not your job?”

         “Well, I like, work over in toys but the guy who like, normally works here is like, sick or something and I’m over here. I like, didn’t think anyone would come over so I didn’t like, ask anyone how to do stuff. But I can like, try though.”

With this, the Gnome, whose name probably wasn’t really David but I definitely remember it being David, filled up a flimsy plastic bag with water from the sink and grabbed the net. He reached into the tank and made a few poorly-aimed swipes at the betas; “Wiggly little fuckers, aren’t they?” he said. After about two minutes of flailing around in the tank, the Gnome managed to snag one. He plopped it in the bag and started to walk toward the counter when I noticed our fish was belly-up in the bag.

         “Ummm, I think the fish died.”

         “Really dude?” he said holding up the bag. “You sure he’s not like, resting?”

         “Uhhh, no,” I said through slight laughter.

         “Shit dude, I’m sorry. Do you like, want another one?”

         “That would be good, yes.”

         “You got it bud. Let me try like, try using the stuff that says ‘fish water’ this time; maybe that’ll like, not kill the little guy.”

After another few minutes of hopping around the tank uttering muffled profanities, the Gnome lifted another beta from the tank, dropped him into the bag, and handed it to us. We waited around for a bit, lest this fish, which my friend had already dubbed ‘Jeeves’ after her favorite search engine mascot, also go belly-up before he had a chance to go base-jumping from his bowl.

As we got to the front of the store, we noticed only two lanes open. Left with the option of either getting on the line closest to us but behind the spastic kid and his mother, we chose the further line where a tall, middle-aged guy in overalls was buying only two items: a box of extra-large condoms and a shotgun. If this doesn’t prove that you really can buy anything at Wal-Mart, I don’t know what does.

We hesitantly got in the line and watched the cashier, a twenty-something, overweight brunette with a pinched face resembling a blowfish, scan the box of condoms while holding them away from her body by the uppermost corner like a snot-infused handkerchief. “Thirty-nine eighty-five,” Blowfish said to the man.

He opened his wallet, in which I noticed thirty-two dollars, a half-chewed piece of gum, and an unused, regular size condom, “Guess it’ll just be the gun today, missy.”

         “You should have offered him a few dollars,” my friend said, elbowing me in the ribs.

         “Don’t worry,” I replied, “I think he was just flattering himself anyway.”

Blowfish rang us up without incident and we started back toward the air lock, where Agnes J was holding a flailing girl of about-thirteen by the arm and screaming for security.

         “Let me go! You smell like death, bitch.”

         “SECURITY!”

         “Wait ‘til they get here, I’m gonna tell them you called me a whore and then you’re gonna lose your shitty little job, bitch.”

“SECURITY! And listen here honey bunny, if you’re going to tell them anything, get it right; I called you a thieving little whore. Now gimme that got-dang lipstick and stand still. SECURITY!”