In the Belly of the Beast
Yesterday, a Sunday, was going to be a productive day. All Sundays start out that way. Knowing my tendencies to start with high hopes and get nothing accomplished, whittled it down to one prime objective that, even if I did nothing else but this task, the day would not be a waste.
My left rear tire of my van had disintegrated before my eyes. Large sections of tread had peeled away from the tire like leftover sunburn. There were no more notches left in this steel-belted radial. An exposed patch of the metal bindings was surrounded by fibrous metal teeth set in rubbery jaws. I almost sliced my hand open as the wheel hungrily tried to gnaw on a few of my probing fingers. I needed a new tire fast-but not too fast, as any undue use of speed could cause a four-car-pileup-inducing blowout on the highway. As it was a Sunday my choices were limited. Consulting Mapquest, I set course for the Wal-Mart Supercenter on Lem Turner Road.
Utilizing the “Avoid Highways” feature, I plotted a route that let me see a side of Jacksonville I had never seen before. The Northside. This scenic route led me through detours, stoplights, and about five wrong turns. Forty minutes later the sign stood like a beacon in the . . . bright afternoon sun, I guess. My tire had miraculously held. I made for the automotive wing.
Waiting in line at the tire counter, a leathery gentleman who I think may have been Diamond Dallas Page shamelessly hit on the woman behind the counter. “I know you like cars, you oughta take a ride in my Mustang!” She expertly sidestepped his advances. “Right now I don’t really have time for someone in my life. I’m just focusing on my career at this point.” After picking out my tire, they told me it would probably be an hour and a half until it was ready. Outstanding. Now I have time to marvel at the sleaziness of the man, and to decide if I was an asshole for silently scoffing at the woman for concentrating on a career in managing the Wal-Mart tire center. But I was not about to waste ninety-plus minutes in that oily alcove. It was time to absorb some local culture.
The heart of the American South, Wal-Mart is a fascinating and oftentimes horrifying glimpse into lower-middle class America. The populace of the store was about evenly divided between black and white. I’m not racist, but being a white kid from the Midwest, the cultural difference was palpable. But I felt far more alienated among the white people there. Though some would chart America’s White Trash Renaissance as mirroring the rise and fall of Kid Rock, I know that it is still very much alive in some sectors. A look around showed short tempers and long mustaches as far as the eye could see. I stepped with caution to avoid getting run over by Cart Behemoths, gargantuan women whose legs were in jeopardy of being crushed under the unjust bulk they were asked to carry, as they careened through the aisles in electric carts. Their unwashed idiot children orbited them and smashed into passersby like tiny asteroids who all screech that they want an Xbox.
I set to wandering about to kill some time. Though electronics seemed fun at first, the swarming kids who vultured around the PlayStation 2 demo system was too much to contend with. For the same reason, the toy aisles were out of the question as well. I bought some socks to kill time, but I still had another forty-five minutes. The built-in McDonald’s was infested with loud families, and compressed the terror into a smaller area. I needed a quiet place. At last I found refuge in the magazine aisle. The magazine section, and the Wal-Mart literature section in general, was by and large deserted. Was this a sign of a culture-deficiency on the part of Wal-Mart patrons, or just a lucky break for a weary tire shopper? The correct answer was, “I don’t care.” I just read my Guitar World and shut up until my van was ready.
My left rear tire of my van had disintegrated before my eyes. Large sections of tread had peeled away from the tire like leftover sunburn. There were no more notches left in this steel-belted radial. An exposed patch of the metal bindings was surrounded by fibrous metal teeth set in rubbery jaws. I almost sliced my hand open as the wheel hungrily tried to gnaw on a few of my probing fingers. I needed a new tire fast-but not too fast, as any undue use of speed could cause a four-car-pileup-inducing blowout on the highway. As it was a Sunday my choices were limited. Consulting Mapquest, I set course for the Wal-Mart Supercenter on Lem Turner Road.
Utilizing the “Avoid Highways” feature, I plotted a route that let me see a side of Jacksonville I had never seen before. The Northside. This scenic route led me through detours, stoplights, and about five wrong turns. Forty minutes later the sign stood like a beacon in the . . . bright afternoon sun, I guess. My tire had miraculously held. I made for the automotive wing.
Waiting in line at the tire counter, a leathery gentleman who I think may have been Diamond Dallas Page shamelessly hit on the woman behind the counter. “I know you like cars, you oughta take a ride in my Mustang!” She expertly sidestepped his advances. “Right now I don’t really have time for someone in my life. I’m just focusing on my career at this point.” After picking out my tire, they told me it would probably be an hour and a half until it was ready. Outstanding. Now I have time to marvel at the sleaziness of the man, and to decide if I was an asshole for silently scoffing at the woman for concentrating on a career in managing the Wal-Mart tire center. But I was not about to waste ninety-plus minutes in that oily alcove. It was time to absorb some local culture.
The heart of the American South, Wal-Mart is a fascinating and oftentimes horrifying glimpse into lower-middle class America. The populace of the store was about evenly divided between black and white. I’m not racist, but being a white kid from the Midwest, the cultural difference was palpable. But I felt far more alienated among the white people there. Though some would chart America’s White Trash Renaissance as mirroring the rise and fall of Kid Rock, I know that it is still very much alive in some sectors. A look around showed short tempers and long mustaches as far as the eye could see. I stepped with caution to avoid getting run over by Cart Behemoths, gargantuan women whose legs were in jeopardy of being crushed under the unjust bulk they were asked to carry, as they careened through the aisles in electric carts. Their unwashed idiot children orbited them and smashed into passersby like tiny asteroids who all screech that they want an Xbox.
I set to wandering about to kill some time. Though electronics seemed fun at first, the swarming kids who vultured around the PlayStation 2 demo system was too much to contend with. For the same reason, the toy aisles were out of the question as well. I bought some socks to kill time, but I still had another forty-five minutes. The built-in McDonald’s was infested with loud families, and compressed the terror into a smaller area. I needed a quiet place. At last I found refuge in the magazine aisle. The magazine section, and the Wal-Mart literature section in general, was by and large deserted. Was this a sign of a culture-deficiency on the part of Wal-Mart patrons, or just a lucky break for a weary tire shopper? The correct answer was, “I don’t care.” I just read my Guitar World and shut up until my van was ready.