Wal*Mart(insville): The Low Cost of High Fun

My first experience and taste of Martinsville, Virginia was the local Wal*Mart Supercenter. While in other towns the designation of “supercenter” means very little beyond “big-ass store where you can buy anything,” in Martinsville it takes on special significance. Not only is the story truly super, in size and powers to draw masses of people, but also it seems to be the center of life to people in Martinsville. I doubt this can be argued against -- it was, after all, the first place that I was taken upon arriving. There is a NASCAR racetrack in town, Martinsville Speedway, that I’m sure some would say is the cultural center of the town -- but this is hardly worth saying, nor does it refute my point. I think we can all agree that NASCAR, racetrack, and Wal*Mart all have the same meaning in cultural terms. They are practically interchangeable.

As we entered the store through the Garden Cetnter door we were greeted by a huge-ass inflatable snow globe, which encased Santa Claus and, I think, a snowman. Not even in the doors yet and already I could have gone home completely fulfilled and entertained for the evening. But then we went inside.

And it was packed -- packed "like a can of sardines," I bet some of them would say. But not with little fish; indeed, there was hardly anything little about these folks. They were moving from aisle to aisle, well-practiced in the art of avoiding each other, filling their carts with all things imaginable (such as Jeff Gordon cologne), and of course, at low-low prices. Whatever language they spoke, I could barely make it out as some derivative of broken English, but the children, the "lil-uns" as I heard them called, were fluent in it. To call it an accent or a dialect seems to diminish the beauty and autonomy of this truly wondrous communication they’ve no doubt worked so hard to develop.

Every one we came into contact with, child and adult alike, looked either half-drunk or completely pissed off. And all of them were wearing camo-coveralls and big red fluffy Dale, Jr. jackets -- all of them. One of the kids, running backwards down the main aisle of the store, almost ran into me, after which his mom yelled at him, “Kenny, you turn youself around and stop playing like a fool.” My response to this: “Kenny! His name is actually Kenny!” People here name their kids Kenny, folks.

As we left we came across the plastic and light-up figures with which people arrange nativity scenes in their front lawns, and we paid our respects to baby Jesus. And just to be sure, we gave equal respect to both the white and African-American baby Jesuses.

I know a lot of people have problems with Wal*Mart, and they want to shut down the huge mega-corporation for all the evils that it afflicts on both the local and global economies of the world. And I’m pretty cool with that, for the most part. But if they are ever successful at beating the beast that is Wal*Mart, I hope that they will consider allowing the Martinsville Super Center to remain open -- it is a cultural icon and national treasure. They could charge admission, or set up viewing booths to watch the locals in their natural habitat -- kinda like Colonial Williamsburg, but with camouflage and hard liquor.

I know I’d visit. At least twice a year.