Post by Captain Benjamin Maxwell on Jun 11, 2005 13:35:50 GMT -5
It's 10:30 PM on Friday night. So...what do young, energetic, respectable young folks do for entertainment on a night like this in the bustling harbor of Hampton Roads?
In Newport News, where I live, they cower in closets and fallout shelters, fearing for their lives as the gang wars start. Or, they go downtown and watch the bum fights.
But apparently, in neighboring Yorktown, they meet at the community center.
That's right - the po'dunk county of York has a community center. And it's not just any community center...it's a FRANCHISED community center. In fact, you may have one, or two, or even three in your town! Their presence in the area may have caused small businesses to implode, children to cry, and small animals to run away in terror.
That's right, I'm talking about...
You guessed it. The red and blue giant. The all-encompassing SuperCenter. The twenty-four hour mecca to which Bertha and Jimmy Ray make their pilgrimages when the supplies of Jack Daniels and pork rinds run out at 2 AM.
And apparently, the sole source of entertainment for the denizens of York County when the Friday Night Fights (read: domestic disputes) draw to a drunken close.
I kid you not. As we rolled into the parking lot, there wasn't a pickup in sight that didn't have at least one sticker on it reminding me why I should be 'proud' to be an American.
Ah, yes. Hunting and fishing. Two faiths that I simply cannot be an American without practicing. As I lowered my camera and repented to the twin deities of Smith and Wesson for abandoning their religion, the sound of a beer bottle smashing to the ground, followed by a rootn', tootin' hillbilly yell echoing across the jam-packed parking lot, served as a sign from the gods that all had been forgiven.
As we made our way into the three-ring circus that was Wal-Mart Yorktown, a blindingly bright sign seared a reminder into our brains that this store ALWAYS has low prices.
ALWAYS
Now, most Wal-Marts I've been to tend to have a kindly elderly gentleman manning the store's entrance, cheerfully greeting incoming customers and frisking outgoing patrons for stolen merchandise. Not so here. Aside from a disillusioned-looking cart-pusher wearing the requisite blue smock and smiley button, and a drunken fellow who staggered up to us and yelled something on the order of "GOO GEH GA JOOB!" before passing out in a puddle of his own urine, the only true acknowledgment of our presence in the store during the entire visit came in the form of this bulletin board:
Besides being adorned with a few missing child alerts from the early '80s, the board was plastered with notices to shoppers that HEAVY surveillance was being employed, and that shoplifters would be dragged into the street and shot.
There was also a handwritten advertisement reading 'WANT SELL BOAT FAST GREAT DEAL U BUY 4 GOODT PRICE.'
The place was packed. This picture doesn't adequately convey the sheer crush of people who had ventured out to this local haven for some funnin' and gunnin'. Apparently, nobody in York County shops earlier than 10:00 PM. On a Friday night. Ever.
The store was your typical Wal-Mart. With merchandise haphazardly scattered everywhere, horrific music blaring across the store's PA system, shoppers screaming into their cell phones, and stressed-out mothers flying high on their children's' Ritalin tearing down the store's overcrowded aisles, there could be no doubt that I was living the Walton Family Legacy.
We're Not in Newport News Anymore, Toto.
Now, when I pay a visit to the war zone that is Wal-Mart Newport News, the CDs on most prominent display tend to lean heavily toward music by gangsta rap artists, R & B crooners, and Top 20 performers. Not so, here.
As we rounded the corner to the spectacle of graphics and sound that was the electronics department, I was immediately assaulted with the sight of a massive display of York County's favorite redneck:
That's right. Move aside, Britney Spears and Outkast. Larry the Cable Guy's yer new best friend.
GIT-R-DONE!
So who held the coveted Number Two place of prominence in this backwater zoo of trailer-park glory? Surely it was someone with recognition. Someone that had some manner of marketability aside from dark corners of smoke-filled bars and construction site outhouses. Someone so globally recognizable that their image alone is enough to end poverty and stop armies form obliterating each other.
Negative, Speed Racer.
Yes, you saw right! Nashville's Greatest Country Hits - Karaoke Style! The display for this one looked like it had been ravaged by a pack of wolves, and only two copies remained on the cardboard stand that reminded me that I'm Still The One. I almost bought a copy of this one, but then I remembered that I didn't have a CD player in my pickup. And that I didn't own a pickup.
We wandered about aimlessly a bit more, stopping to marvel over the piles of busted lawn furniture and stained La-Z-Boys that made up the 'home interiors' section. I didn't take any pictures. If you've ever been to a thrift store, you'll know what it looked like.
On the way up to the register, I finally found one piece of merchandise that stood out from the rest. An item so singular in its class and refinement that it beckoned to distinguishing shoppers from its shelf space, luring them in with the promise of a better life...
You got it. Trump Cologne. For a mere $34.86, you, too, can smell like an overweight, ill-tempered tycoon with bad hair. The ladies'll love it.
As a side note, the package was covered with "For Him" stickers. And here I thought the stuff would make a great gift for Mom.
Next came the hunt for a checkout line that wasn't a quarter mile long. The folks already waiting to pay were pretty territorial about their spots in line. The man in the brown pants even reached into his pocket for a pistol when he thought we were getting too close to the Krispy Kreme display. At least, I think that's what he was reaching for.
We finally found a spot right behind this lady, who clutched an oversized plastic pool to her body protectively. She kept carrying on about how 'Rashad' had better appreciate what she went through to get the thing. I guess plastic pools are hard to come by.
I don't even remember WHY we needed a checkout line. I guess we bought something. I hope it was good.
We finally made it to the head of the line, where we were grunted at by the cashier, and sent on our way. The experience was over. As we passed through the vaulted sliding doors into the night, I wiped a single tear for my eye as I stepped over the still-sleeping drunk. I would miss him.
