I really hate Wal-Mart. And there is just really no way to explain my hatred without sounding like a elitist jerkface. But whatever. I'm going to do it anyway. I've come to terms with my feelings and will explain them in the story that follows. If you love Wal-Mart, don't continue reading. You'll just be offended.
Other people will tell you how Wal-Mart is destroying the world by exploiting 3rd world labor and screwing over their employees. That's fantastic reasoning, but my reasons are far less altruistic. I hate Wal-Mart because every time I walk in, I feel like I'm at some trailer park expo and that makes me uncomfortable. Maybe it's just the one in my city, but frankly, I don't think so. Seas of worn out Nascar shirts, mullets, and rat tails greet you upon entering. Awkward facial hair (on both men and women), a conspicuous lack of dental work, and obesity surround you from all sides. I sound pretentious, but listen, I was just there. And I've been there 4 times in the last 5 days and I tell you, I am just observing what I saw. I could go into more detail, but frankly, I don't want to. The images haunt me.
So let me explain why exactly I was there 4 times in the past 5 days. You are probably wondering why on earth I would go so much if I hated it as much as I here allege. Well, Wal-Mart seduces the masses with their insanely cheap prices and must admit that in a weak moment, I gave into temptation and took my photos to be developed at what would prove the most incompetent photo lab I have ever encountered.
With about 160 photos to develop and a whopping 20 cents a pop at most places, I was pleased to find a place that advertised prints at 15 cents each. That is significant savings, kids. And please remember that I live on a couch.
So I decide that I can handle two trips to Wal-Mart to secure such fantastic savings. In and then out. However, that was not to be given the special little photo lab that I before mentioned. I go in, order my photos, get a little slip that tells me they will be ready on the next Tuesday, and then get the heck out of there. That was last Saturday. So I go in on Tuesday. Cringing all the way the back (which takes about 15 minutes given the enormity of these places) I arrive and wait in line only to find that my photos were not there. Come back later, they say. There is an order coming from the lab in a few hours. So, I leave and repeat the before-mentioned actions later that evening.
Well, when I get back to the lab, I am met by one slovenly dressed guy in his twenties, his shirt buttoned up with the buttons in the wrong holes. His hair was sticking straight up on one side like he had just woken up from a nap. His eyes were at half mast and he had a sort of dazed look upon his face. He was either really tired or high. Can't be sure. In any case, I show my slip and ask for my photos and the guy can't find a dang thing. He goes through the drawers where the photos are kept and upon not finding them, proceeds to search around the disorganized photo lab as though he was looking for a misplaced set of keys. Boxes were strewn across the dirty floor and various bags and papers covered the counter-tops.He was looking beneath the rubbish on the counters, then proceeded to fumble through the pencil drawers, peer behind the trash can and under the boxes that decorated the floor.
I was so confused. Does he normally find misplaced photos under the crumpled bag from McDonalds? Are sometimes the prints placed alongside the stapler in the drawer by the register? Or perhaps under the battered and empty box on the floor? Why not hide some photos there?
After about 10 minutes of this, my sedated little friend comes to me and declares that he just can't find them. I should call back tomorrow and see if they show up. Perhaps my pictures were misplaced in the little employee fridge in the back or maybe even someone took them home absent-mindedly in their purse. Only time would tell, he assured me.
So I call Wal-Mart two days later and ask for the photo lab. The phone rings for 4 minutes and I call back. Three times I repeat this until I finally tell the operator, completely exasperated, that my photos have been lost, I'd like to find them and I'd really like to talk to a human being that can help me with my issue over the phone because I like to avoid unnecessary trips to their store like I avoid crack-whores and dirty needles in dark alleys.
Well, to make a long story a bit shorter, my photos were never made and they had to re-run my order. I braved the toothless masses and went in one final time to pick up my photos with an even more reduced price, thanks to the lady I encountered at the register, who had helped me over the phone on my 4th call.
Shirley was surprisingly pleasant and able. One half of her face had been paralyzed one reason or another and her left eye lid remained shut though the other moved about normally. She smiled warmly as I mentioned my name and assured me my photos were just fine and that she personally completed the order after our call. As she went back to find and pull my photos from the drawer in which she had knowingly placed them a couple hours earlier, I imagined the horrible things this kind lady probably had to endure. Stares, cruel words, mocking. I didn't know exactly. It made me realize that I was completely out of line. Who was I to be such a bigoted a-hole.
I began to reflect inward, and felt a sting as I recognized what a jerk I had been. As I stood before this woman, I'd been forced to recognize my own pretension, and in doing so realized that I needed to change my attitude and stop being a complete moron. I really hate that feeling. I still feel like a jackass.
Which, frankly, is all the more reason to hate Wal-mart.
