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The choir screams out in shock, 'What the hell did he say?!' I know, it's hard to believe, such a sweet ol' guy like me abhors our national pastime. Actually, that's a bit understated, I 'hate' to shop is more to the point. It gives me the same physical response as the thought of having to visit the dentist; sinking stomach, hot flashes, headache, fear of my fellow man in a frenzy (you don't know my dentist!). I realize that in this day and age to voice such a thought like that is downright un-American. In a country where both men and women find shopping to be a form of sport or recreation, I'm afraid I have better things to do with my time, even if it's only taking a nap. I find shopping in any form to be an exercise in frustration, irritation, or insanity at best. I might not be so negative if shopping was still done in the little mom and pop shops of yesterday, but these days I'm confronted with massive stores with miles of aisles, clogged with the wandering masses of the gibbering lost and drooling confused. The intercom blares specials, price checks, assistance at the register as well as the employee calls for a 'clean up in aisle four-hundred and twelve!' or 'old man down, old man down, get his wallet and call 911!' or a personal favorite, 'irritating clerk in the parking lot, send back-up, take him down, repeat, take him down!' Most of the time these hellish excursions are like running an obstacle course; dodging carts, piles of stock, and the mindlessly obtuse shopper. I'm sorry, but I like it simple, a place where I can get in and get out in less than 10 minutes. Somewhere I don't have to pack a lunch and a change of clothes just to get what I came for. Is it too much to ask for a little simplicity and humanity in my life? I find in most 'superstores' it takes 10 minutes just to walk from your car to the front door of these retail mazes. Which means you can suffer a heat stroke in the summer, soaking rains in the stormy season, and the bluster of winter winds that can all lead to a trip to your local emergency room. Many times I've found myself having to step over the bodies of the desperate and fallen in order to get out of my truck. They have to pull carts in front the parking lot on occasion so you'd think they could pick up the wounded and deceased when they do! When you finally get to the store you need a map for directions, but no such luck. If you try to memorize landmarks or product displays, within the maze of paint, putty, Portland cement, and racks of questionable lumber products, you can forget it. Whether it be a mega-home center, department monolith, or your neighborhood supermarket, they all have a perpetual crew of slave labor moving and changing everything in their path, like a flowing swath of Army Ants on an Amazon rain forest floor. Close behind is Pharaoh's overseer cracking the whip and lubricating the giant flats of goods with human blood, sweat, and tears; it's not pretty my friend, not pretty at all. I've come into these labyrinths on many occasions, made note of a display, and when I came back later to check it out, it had disappeared. This is supposed to make the shopping experience more interesting for the shopper and lucrative for the company. I fancy it's much like changing the maze on a lab rat; eventually the animal is going to go mad. Don't be surprised if we rats bite! I also hate to make excursions into the depths of retail hell, because of the lifeless employees that seem to populate them. You know the ones, they have that glassy-eyed stare, emotionless expression, retail working zombies. They're obviously just 'thrilled to be there' making $7.50 and hour with no benefits. They work all the major holidays, sometimes their shift and someone else's who decided to stay home and nurse a hangover or a divorce. More often than not, they've found somewhere in a corner to hide in order to ride out their shift with a minimum of attention. In my experience, you couldn't find them to save your life. If that's not the case, you get one that's all hyped up and won't leave you alone for a second; it makes me want to hang a 'no-pest strip' around my neck. I have to wonder if there is a universal manual for retail salespeople. Something designed to instruct them on how to drive you nuts (Scientologists could write these). Or it's possible they just may be a special breed of person chosen for their inherent ability to irritate the general public. In either case, we all lose. I could go on, but I'm only 'pummeling the proverbial deceased equine.' I'm also making the 16th circle of the parking lot at my local Target looking for an empty parking spot. The gas is about gone so I'm now confronted with whether to quit and go home (use the money to pay a bill) or continue circling in hopes a spot will open up (while hoping the gas holds out until I do). At $4.00 a gallon I should just go home and take a nap…but then what would I complain about, right? (chuckle). Happy shopping you poor misguided lemmings of the world. Your faithful reporter
- RCat Who is this Guy RCat? Currently, his duties include acting as the head of a family consisting of an overworked wife, a vibrating teenaged son, and an over stimulated housecat. An elder daughter resides at some distance with her own family; a husband, two sons, and a daughter. As head of this merry band of pranksters, the illusionary aspects of his carefree life are played out on the stage of daily routine. RCat is a self described "survivor," having lived through the "flower power" promises of the 1960's with the goals of world peace, universal brotherhood, free-love, and the legalization of certain organic herbs. Contrary to what others might say, he can still remember parts of it quite vividly. Sadly, those cosmic issues have now been reduced to the cliché. He now, more realistically, understands the world has gone quite mad and no longer cares to be a part of the continuing descent into oblivion. The thought of putting on a loincloth to venture forth and live out his days meditating in a tall tree in a distant forest sounds appealing. Of course, he isn't kidding himself. Chances are a noisy bunch of cretins will quickly invade the tree next to him. Ah well, such is the way of this planet we call home. In the meantime, he scribbles poetry, short stories, and essays, as well as a choppy stream of drawings, cartoons and works of art. All done with a grin as meditative mental therapy in an effort to hold onto what little remains of his sanity. Enjoy him while you can, he is the quintessential endangered species.
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Cheshire Cat
Songs of
Guess what folks? I don't like to shop.
R.
C. Arquette, "RCat" to friends and fellow writers,
is an aging hippie and practicing curmudgeon. He was dragged
into the world, kicking and screaming, back in the middle of
the last century; 1950 to be exact. His outburst clearly showed
his disdain for reality at the earliest of stages. He grew up
living in the sub-tropical splendor of the "Sunshine State,"
Florida, US of A, where he attended Jr. College and after twenty
years received his AA degree; what can I say, life kept getting
in the way.
