Shopped out

Being Frank, by Frank Ameduri

One of the little side benefits of my marriage was that I didn't have to do much shopping. Now that I'm back out on my own, I'm once again an active consumer. I don't like shopping. When I lived in bigger cities going to the mall was an actual thing to do. You didn't have to need anything -- you just went, like you might go to a movie or a park. "Wanna go to the mall?" I didn't.

Working for Honeywell, I made several trips to Minneapolis, where our headquarters were. When I traveled with a Minneapolis newbie, it became my duty to take the rookie to The Mall of the Americas. It's the world's biggest mall, or at least that's what people tell me. To me that was like going to the world's longest root canal.

"You really can't do that mall right in just one day," one giddy shopper once told me. "Yeah, I hear Hell is like that, too," I said. Fortunately, the damned have eternity to work with, so at least they don't have to feel rushed. I think that's what has always scared me off from shopping. It's the rush. And more than the rush, it's the fact that people who are shopping these days are scary. It doesn't matter how large or small your town is, it seems. Shopping is a rude business these days. Chivalry may not be completely dead, but courtesy has left the

building.

It starts when you hit the parking lot. That transition from road to parking lot is a lot like turning off of Main Street at Disneyland and finding yourself in the middle of Col. Kurtz' camp in Apocalypse Now. I thought parking spaces were arranged in rows so that people could drive between them -- kind of like there are roads there, or something. It's dangerous to enter a store's parking lot with that misconception, though. While I'm busy looking for a spot, other drivers are darting across the open parking spaces. I don't think those people are even there to shop -- I've never seen one stop. I think they just go to the store to frighten inexperienced shoppers.

My heart usually leaps when I get near the end of an aisle and I spot what looks like a prime spot. An up-fronter! By this time I'm moving at 40 or 50 mph, to keep the aisle crossers at bay. I whip the wheel toward the spot while simultaneously pulling up on the parking brake at the same time to initiate a Starsky and Hutch power slide into the spot. Unfortunately, there's always a reason why an up-front spot is available. It's usually because six shopping carts are congregating there. In fact, abandoned carts are strewn all over the lot. A lot of them occupy prime spots, but others are squeezed in between cars, and a few are actually snuggling up to vehicles.

All these years I thought those big metal corrals at the end of aisles were a place to return your cart. It turns out they're really just there to fill up prime parking spots. Apparently, the proper technique is to empty your goods into your trunk and then slip your cart up next to a neighboring vehicle or to shove it into open spots to present an interesting challenge for aisle crossers. In truth, I think abandoning a shopping cart should be a class-B felony. Instead of greeters, stores should employ people who can handcuff shoppers to their carts. Unless you can fit it in your car, you'll have to bring it back where you got it to be set free.

Inside the store the real fun begins. Sally, Mary-Jo and Linda-Bell apparently haven't seen each other in 20 years. They just happened to bump into one another just inside the door, and they've got a lot of catching up to do. There's no way you can get past with the cart you've rescued from the parking lot. They all have a hearing disability that allows them to hear all the latest gossip, but they can't hear the words "Excuse me." You have to bull your way past, and you'll get a trio of dirty looks in the process, and maybe a good welt on the shin from Linda-Bell's umbrella.

In aisle seven Bart and Ethel and the seven little Foys are spread out across the entire aisle trying to decide between the cornbread and the herbed stuffing. Bart's a big boy, and he probably didn't get that scar in a fluke badminton incident, so you bite your lip and wait for them to vote the stuffing down in favor of the family-sized can of corned beef hash instead.

Finally, when you've managed to navigate the obstacle course and get the pizza rolls and chips for the big game, you head for the checkout. Unfortunately, the lady with the beehive hairdo has decided to take the picnic table and six chairs through the express lane, and it's the only one that doesn't have a UPC tag on it. The checker has to call someone in the corporate office in Wisconsin to get the price. The Foys have now pulled in behind you, so you're stuck. You'll have to eat the chips in line since you're going to miss the game anyway.

It's then that you decide to open an Internet pizza roll business. That's it, you think. I'm leaving my cart in the first open spot I can find!

Frank Ameduri is managing editor of Frontiersman