K-Mart is going out of business.
(Or: How I Spend My Friday Nights)
They’ve been saying it for months but it still continues to happen. It’s a very long transient state. The first time I went to rubberneck, about 6 or 8 months ago, nothing was really on sale. Marked up 20 percent, then marked down 20 percent. I went on to Target or Katy Mills Outlet Mall. The second time we went to engage in the scheudenfraude (ha ha I can’t spell that and you can’t make me) about a month ago, it was only because we happened to be thirsty and near a K-Mart anyway. Out of Talbot’s Outlet, into one of the nicest K-Marts the city has to offer. Oh my god, it was crazy-ass bedlam.
“There’s no toilet paper in any of the bathroom stalls,” I said to the Customer Service denizens, my voice raising archly to cover the embarassment of the fact that I am mundane enough to urinate.
“That’s ’cause they been stealing it,” the Custodial Specialist told me. The Manager of the Moment ran to mediate another register-side disagreement, then ran for another four-pack of Charmin.
The local yokels wandered around open mouthed and belching, using their carts to hold their children and their snacks, trampling fallen merchandise while they surveyed the scene like it was a free downtown festival or lowrider show. I hadn’t seen the likes of it since I shopped at the Wal-Mart near Leander, Texas, so many moons ago. My hours of tunneling through clothing and opening smushed lipsticks ended up in a long check-out line wait with only three items in my hand. I thought about setting them down and walking away, getting into my car wiser and more jaded for the experience. But I knew that if I abandoned the task then, my cousin Randy would burst into tears at my side. We soaked in humanity til the very end, then escaped to greener fields.
My cousin Helen said the K-Mart near the Galleria told the same tale. She witnessed shoppers opening packages of “the good razors”, pocketing said razors, and melting back into the crowds. Polyester and plastic all over the place, all of it underfoot. We shook our heads over the fact that going-out-of-business sales apparently bring out the criminal/riotous element in a good deal of our fair city’s population.
The K-Mart nearest my apartment is the most ghetto K-Mart I’ve ever known — the one we shopped at all eighteen years of my youth. Pre-bankruptcy, I stopped by to pick up bed sheets or shower curtain rods once every two months or so. It remained the same as ever. Popcorn machine by the door, Camaros revving past junkers in the parking lot. But now everybody talked on their cell phones. Including me.
Last night Sylvia and I were supposed to go to the movies but the timing turned out to be a big pain in the ass. So we unsuccessfully shopped for shoes. Then we tried on Easter hats at T.J. Maxx. (I look stunning in hats. Especially black and red hats with feathers.) We ate Vietnamese at Mai’s, where the waitress was unfriendlier than the standard and only got a 10% tip. Then we pretended we’d go to a bar, but instead ended up at Value Village thrift store. After half an hour of laughing at sequined sweaters made us hyperventilate on the old-clothes smell, (goddamn Value Village — they don’t have their vintage clothing rack anymore,) Sylvia asked if I’d mind going to K-Mart for a shoe rack.
“K-Mart on 19th?” I said. “Oh, no… No.” I explained my experiences with the enterprise’s failure so far. I explained that, as the most ghetto K-Mart in my acquaintance, the K-Mart on 19th was most likely unvisitable.
“C’mon,” said Sylvia. “Let’s just check it out.”
Just walking through the automatic doors showed me how wrong I was. All the cheap merchandise lay before us in neat rows, everything topped with an Easter bunny. (No, I didn’t see any Easter baskets with soldiers instead of chocolate rabbits — but then again, I was mesmerized by the all the violence in the toy aisle and didn’t have time to peruse the seasonal displays.)
This time things were actually on sale. Here is what I bought:
- a pair of jeans for me for $13
- a bottle of Hawaiian Ginger lotion – $2 at 50% off
- a leopard-print bra and a package of non-leopard-print panties (You can’t have it all.)
- two backpacks for next year – saved $7 on each
- 4 kids’ books at $1.43 each
- 3 Star Wars/Clone Wars action figures, two with gymnastic capabilities, for $15 total (They had a new-to-me Tuskan Raider Mom and Child, but I didn’t buy that set since I remember how they end up in the movie)
- Coppertone glitter sunscreen, 30 spf
- formerly expensive, scented, liquid soap for $1.49
- Okay, that’s all. No, I did not buy Metamucil for 20% off, because my digestive system has not aged at all.
As we shopped, K-Mart on 19th played a very special mix of music designed for Baby Boomers and Generation X People to share. I sang quietly and walked with a little sway to my step until stuffy white men looked at me and caused me to stop. But then, nearer to closing time, I just let go. I danced sultrily through the aisles and sang out loud. By then, no one else cared. They were mesmerized by the merchandise calling siren songs under bright signs. I danced the “lasso’ing someone to you” motions and sang, “Whenever I’m with you… something insi-ide…” to the back of a dark-haired man in an untucked Western shirt. “Stop it!” Sylvia laughed. But saying “stop it” while you laugh only makes me go on longer.
There was a bigger, lighter, louder woman than me roaming the store. Her kid would utter a little cry and she’d bellow, “CODY, STOP IT RIGHT NOW! DO YOU HEAR ME?!?” Then, later, “HURRY UP, CODY! WE ONLY HAVE THIRTY MINUTES!!” It turned out that she was shopping with the man who had unconsciously been seduced by my song at the lightbulb aisle.
A few hundred aisles later (I told Sylvia I was as ready to leave as she was, but then I sneakily ran to look at housewares while she cursed my energy and searched for me in vain), the nasally dulcet braying of the Loudspeaker Associate informed us that we had 15 minutes left to shop. Only one register was open, although two register lights were on. The empty-register checker told us she was waiting for a woman to retrieve her forgotten credit card from her car. I looked at the checker and said, “C’mon… you know she’s not coming back, right?” The checker was tranquilly stoic.
Sylvia went to pay for her five items or less at Customer Service. I hovered near the empty lane, knowing logic would eventually prevail. One of the checker’s peers came to lend administrative support. They quietly discussed the situation. “You know she’s not gonna come back and pay for that stuff,” I told them again. They glanced at me dolefully and waited a little while more.
The loud childbirth-regretting woman rushed in with an empty shopping cart and without her family, bellowing all the way from the door. “I’M SORRY. I COULDN’T FIND IT. COULD YOU JUST PUT THOSE THINGS ON HOLD FOR ME?” indicating the already rung-up and bagged merchandise on the counter.
The cashier quietly said, “What about the toy your child walked out with?”
“I CAN’T FIND MY CREDIT CARD. I MUST HAVE LEFT IT IN MY OTHER PURSE AT HOME. CAN YOU PLEASE PUT THESE ITEMS ON HOLD FOR ME? I’LL COME BACK FIRST THING TOMORROW..” The woman bellowed on and on, explaining that she had to attend a bridal shower the next day, how she’d come to choose the lamp on the counter for the appropriate gift, where her credit card might be, how long it would take for her to go out to her truck and look for it again, etc., etc.
I don’t know if she believed that her loud blather was dazzling anyone into overlooking the fact that she was raising her child to be a shoplifter. From the looks on the cashiers’ faces, it was obvious that they were aware of her theft, but too tired and close to quitting time to care. Eventually the woman went away.
I told the cashier, “You know she’s not gonna come back tomorrow.” Not unpolitely, she completely ignored me and rang up my stuff.
