The tale of The Walmart Waltz

The road to Walmart is fraught with danger and excitement.

The other day, I received a text message from the pharmacy informing me that I had two prescriptions ready to pick up. So, I donned one of my best go-to-town shopping frocks, a freshly styled beehive wig adorned with a fabulous say-something-hat complete with a purple feather and a black lace veil which could cover my eyes in the unlikely event that my mascara would run. I jumped (stumbled) into Queertanic, my land yacht, and headed off to The Walmart.

Upon parking the car in the handicap “Princess Parking” space, I was overjoyed because there, right next to the car, was one of those motorized shopping carts. In the past, I’ve tried shopping while driving Queerteeny, my personal mobility scooter, but alas, Queerteeny’s basket is barely large enough to carry a bottle of glitter and a dozen cookies. I gladly mounted the scooter cart and headed into the store.

As I approached the automatic doors with the bravado of a soap opera matriarch ala Alexis Carrington, the wheels on the cart began squealing in protest about the heavy load they were carrying. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting an unflattering glow upon my feathered hat and the matching sequined purse I insist is “vintage.” The Walmart air was electrified with the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the faint scent of automotive aisle rubber. I glided past the towers of cereal boxes, waving regally at the astounded muggles — well, an older woman wearing a housecoat with curlers in her hair, and a door greeter adjusting his badge.

I paused dramatically at the pharmacy counter, where a display of lip balm attempted to seduce me with promises of “irresistible shimmer.” The pharmacist, professional yet clearly delighted by my ensemble, handed over my prescriptions as if bestowing a royal scepter, perfect for this queen. With my medication and treasures securely in the basket, I set course for adventure through the home goods section, prepared to battle the temptations of rhinestone toilet brush holders and velvet storage bins. But my true mission: to locate the world’s largest value pack of under-eye concealer and perhaps, if fate allowed, a pair of novelty socks featuring dancing flamingos.

Between the luggage and the laundry aisle, disaster struck. I spied with my little eye a very handsome store employee. The blue Walmart vest stunningly accentuated his piercingly brilliant blue eyes under his casually tossed mop of blond hair. Just as I began to get close enough to be able to read ‘Glen’ on his name tag, he disappeared around the corner. My old park cruising instincts kicked in, and therefore, I followed as fast as this clunking scooter could. As I rounded the corner, there was another customer in my way, and I was forced to cut the corner too sharply. The rear wheel of my scooter got caught under the shelves, and my scooter screeched to a halt.  

Unfazed, I pressed on. I hit the accelerator, hoping the scooter could break free of the shelving unit. Then I tried to reverse, but the wheel groaned, refusing to budge from its metal embrace. The housecoat lady shuffled by, offering the sort of look reserved for televised train wrecks, and Glen, the Adonis in question, was nowhere to be found. I debated waving for help, but dignity prevailed, barely. Reaching into my sequined purse, I produced a neon-pink lipstick, just in case rescue required a dazzling distraction.

Then all hell broke loose as the scooter suddenly lurched forward, bringing the entire shelving unit crashing to the floor, dumping its contents of shampoos and moisturizers all over the place. With queenly poise in my predicament, I considered the three options before me: call for assistance, perform a daring sideways dismount, or simply declare my sovereignty over Aisle Twelve and await a loyal subject to come to my aid. As fate, or perhaps karma, would have it, the kerfuffle had sent a can of “Extreme Hold” hair spray tumbling off the shelf and onto my lap. Never one to ignore the whims of fortune, I took it as a sign: this was no moment for retreat. With a deep breath and a flick of my wrist (careful not to smudge my eyeliner), I gave the accelerator one last, dramatic push. The scooter lurched, shrieked, and finally broke free in a maneuver I can only describe as the Walmart Waltz.

I sped off with a confidence that bordered on Thelma and Louise.

With barely a moment to compose myself, I glanced up to see a small child pointing at me with the awed reverence usually reserved for circus elephants and minor celebrities. I gave a regal nod, reapplied my neon-pink lipstick, and decided there would be no shame in limping toward the exit with whatever dignity I could salvage.

I never did find Glen, though the legend of his dazzling blue eyes would linger long after the last beep of the scooter faded. As I maneuvered toward the check-out, dreams of novelty socks and rhinestone toilet brush holders undiminished, I made a mental note to add “emergency hazard lights” to Queerteeny’s wish list, just in case destiny called for another adventure among the fluorescent-lit aisles of possibility.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1.    Do I need to take mobility scooter driving lessons?

2.    Does Walmart offer a “glamorous escape artist” certification, complete with glittering merit badges and a sash worthy of a pageant queen?

3.    Is there a secret handshake for those who’ve survived the shampoo avalanche of Aisle Twelve?

4.    What’s the etiquette for tipping a door greeter who witnessed my most dramatic exit since that time I mistook the seafood freezer for a karaoke stage?

5.    Was Glen real, or was he a figment conjured by a combination of antihistamines and Extreme Hold hair spray?

These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.