Pay attention to the Wal-Mart greeters..Almost like our aunties
and uncles working their backs off at Macs.
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Feelin' Fat and Sassy in the Wallet
by Luke Stacks
University of Virginia
My uncle, well-meaning but detached from my life, never knows what
to get us kids for the holidays. Luckily, some thoughtful soul,
doubtless possessing a thorough understanding of bad-gift torment,
invented the gift card. They summon us to these meccas of commerce,
huge stores where almost anything may be purchased. In a typical
year, clueless relatives supply me with cards to bookstores and,
every once in a while, one to a Best Buy. I love the gift card
concept. While some might argue that it removes the personal touch
a present should possess, the intention expressed in a gift card is
apparent: this person obviously wants you to be very happy and is
willing to empower your happiness by giving you the choice. When
you get a gift card on Christmas morning, all you have at that
moment is love. That doesn't mean the damn things can't bite you in
the ass. Currently my wallet is stuffed with several cards
containing about a dollar each left to be spent in these
stores.
This year my uncle gave me a card for Wal-Mart, based on the
admittedly bulletproof argument that I would have no trouble
finding one. My hometown of Manassas, Virginia has two. In fact,
the new one, located a mile from my house, is even listed as being
in "East Manassas," which I had no idea even existed! Now my
hometown's geography is split and defined by the Wal-Marts it
contains. So getting to one would obviously pose no significant
problems.
The store, however, scares me beyond tangible reason. Wal-Mart
elicits complicated feelings from me, ones I never even knew
existed. While there are certainly a number of reasons to be
against the company on principle, namely their diabolical global
strategies and notoriously awful treatment of workers, there is
another element to my fear, one that doesn't arise from its peers
like Target. The source of my worries had never been properly
divined; it was something that was simply out there, a phantom I
did not want to touch. But there was no way I wasn't going to get
my free stuff.
My new Wal-Mart had dramatically affected the surrounding roads. We
had several confusing lights and turn lanes. It rose ahead of my
sister and me like a colossus on the horizon. Approaching it in the
parking lot, it just loomed ever larger, consuming my field of
vision. My mission, however, shone like a beacon against the deep
dull blue: I would make my uncle proud. Somewhere in this house of
pain, I would find my happiness. The doors slid open and I jumped
into the breach.
Any large store in the holiday season is an ungodly mess.
Fortunately we have greeters to lift our spirits! I have major
objections to the greeter system in general. When I walk into Best
Buy I try to elude them as best I can, doing my part to fit in with
Georg Simmel's modern society of the alienated. How dare they try
to establish personal contact with me! They utterly fail to put me
in a sunny mood, ready to spend. They mask their basic security
function in pleasantries, and this is an insult to any shopper.
They are judging you as they welcome. Wal-Mart complicates the
problem, because their greeters seem to be almost entirely
comprised of the aged. This should inspire remarkable pity and
sadness. Imagine suffering life's slings and arrows, only to arrive
here, wishing thousands a good day and a happy shopping experience.
If I were ever to become a Wal-Mart greeter, I would know that my
life has been for naught. I've sapped the world of valuable natural
resources. Instead of a summit, this is the pits.
Why are the elderly here? I can think of two possible reasons.
First, some may be unable to retire for financial reasons. Second,
others may see a job as a welcome time-filler. I would hope for
better solutions to either dilemma. Being a greeter requires less
than a person. In that lies the truth about Wal-Mart. The company
doesn't even try. I have seen customers herded in like cattle, and
they bray accordingly. The aforementioned blueness of the store
does not flatter it. They peddle in banality. At Target, you
receive the sensation that the store might be trying to pull a fast
one, stunning customers through its bright, flashy design. Wal-Mart
exposes everything, including the pipes on the ceiling. Smoke and
mirrors keep the customers from seeing what they really are, but at
Wal-Mart this becomes all too clear. It's like seeing the Matrix
code: numbers everywhere being shifted around. As long as there is
movement, everything is fine. Wal-Mart has risen above the need to
cater to the customer. The blandness of color, the smiley face
logo, are merely signs that their customers need no convincing;
they are resigned to an ordinary life, filled with unstylish,
ordinary things and five-dollar Hulk Hogan movies in the bargain
bin. The company does not aim for a false exclusivity or hipness.
It just exists and forces you to accept it.
My happiness did lie inside: a copy of Pulp Fiction. A work of
flash and brilliance trapped in a box, buying this felt like a
prison breakout. I waited in one line, which decided to close. Then
I moved to another. At that moment, less patient customers than I
revolted, addressing the employees and calling them names. Wal-Mart
sat back and laughed. It realized we had no choice.
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