The Line at Register 19

With unerring accuracy, the black dog had located a pinprick snag in the comforter. She worked this patiently and from the look of the now 5" hole, had worked all night, with a tenacity of purpose that would've made any breeder proud. She sat at the end of the bed with bits of stuffing still at the corners of her mouth and looked at me with a pleased expression. Knowing the futility of scolding her and the impracticality of strangling her, I swept up what I could and then retrieved the vacuum cleaner for the remainder. I was a quarter way through when it stopped dead and no amount of cord manipulation or rest or clearing the container would revive it.

And so it was that I came to find myself at the dreaded Walmart on a chilly Sunday afternoon, bad tempered to begin with and and disgusted that the $34.99 Dirt Devil was not in stock. I fought my way through the pet section for cat and dog food, threw in 40 pounds of kitty litter for good measure, picked out a comforter and headed for the checkout. The line at register 19 seemed the most promising - only two carts ahead of me and neither obscenely overloaded - so I joined the line and tried to make the best of the situation. It was crowded and loud, suffocatingly hot. The couple behind me were arguing over the best way to corral their ragamuffin children without losing their place, the mother ahead of me was having second thoughts about her purchases and removing items from her cart, then taking them back, all the while muttering about coupons and screeching at her own child to behave. The line didn't appear to be moving in the slightest and I coud feel sweat between my shoulders and running down my face. The loud speaker whistled shrilly and then an inarticulate and bored voice began announcing specials, lost children, and store hours. I could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on and began to wonder what in heavens name had made me think this was a workable idea when a runaway shopping cart blindsided me, overturned my own cart and sent a dozen cans of Special Kitty and Mighty Dog clattering to the floor. A sullen and angry young man appeared out of nowhere, grabbed the child who had propelled the cart by his overall straps and delivered several good smacks to his denim covered bottom. The child immediately began flailing in mid air and screaming for his mother in a voice that could've shattered glass. The young man said something to my general direction that might've been "Sorry" and walked off, swinging the child at his side like a sack of potatoes and cursing. An older and weary looking man from the next checkout line righted my cart and helped me gather up the cans of petfood - we silently agreed to let the bag of litter (torn open and generously spilled) lie. And still the line seemed stagnant and unmoving.

About the time I was considering the possibility that if hell was the fire and brimstone that we were all taught, then register 19 was the waiting area, a woman waving her freshly painted nails in the air pushed by me in pursuit of another child run wild. Come back here! she yelled, Come back here, you ...you....you miserable little .....URCHIN!
The little boy easily out manuvered her and to a round of applause, ducked adeptly into the nail salon and took shelter behind a display of glitzy nail polish. While this small drama played out, the cart ahead of me suddenly surged forward and to my surprise, I found myself at the actual edge of the checkout counter. A tiny spark of hope flared but was almost immediately extinguished as I watched the cashier pick up each item, examine it carefully with both hands and a curious expression, then ever so deliberately and slowly scan it before placing it in a plastic bag, moving with the dazed speed of molasses flowing uphill. Good God, the husband behind me demanded of no one in particular, Where do they find these people? Hey, you! ( this directed at the slow motion cashier), While I'm still young! This had no effect on the cashier who I now suspected might be a mole for Target, put in place to sabotage helpless Walmart shoppers and drive them to the very brink of retail rage.

Finally, I escaped to the parking lot, cooler air, and relative quiet. A measure of sanity returned as I steered my cart toward my car and gave thanks for surviving intact, for aspirin, and for being childless.