Loyalty vanquished

I’m very sad to report that my local Kmart lost a loyal customer yesterday. For decades the store served as a haven from the noisy, stressful environment of Walmart, whose constant blaring of music and shrieking announcement of staff members always left me in a sour mood. My dislike of my local Walmart even begins at the parking lot, the design of which is like navigating through the various circles of hell. I believe firmly that a happy couple could enter Walmart’s automatic doors, but be on the verge of divorce by the time they reach aisle 6.

My local Kmart always rose above the impossibly narrow parking spaces, suspicious-looking greeters, loud music, and blaring announcements from the service desk. That was…until yesterday.

I had a migraine by the time I left and I was hovering close to the edge of becoming one of those mothers you see screaming at her children for what appears to be no apparent reason.

While searching through the bins of school supplies for paper and glue that is actually made in USA (grumbling with failure), I was trying to instruct my oldest with the task of walking around the corner for another brand of gluestick when the shrieking voice of someone needing “Tracy” at her register blared from the speaker somewhere above me. The announcement was so loud that it robbed me of my ability to speak, as if all the air in the store were taken into the lungs of the customer service girl, who used it to her full advantage.

Just when I thought it was safe to speak, another announcement sounded above me, this one even longer than the first. I held my tongue and waited for it to end, holding up my index finger in a signal for my son to wait for the moment when I wouldn’t have to shout my request.

Minutes seemed to tick by while I waited for the ringing in my ears to stop. A song that I’ve never heard before began somewhere after the beginning, the music swelling as the male singer voiced his longing for a woman he couldn’t wait to have in his arms again. From the pinched, yet raspy sound of his voice, I’d say he must have waited too long already, either that or he frightened the woman off (and perhaps she shot him before she left, hence the long guttural groans).

Gathering my, now limited, patience (see previous posts), I made it to checkout 12, where the girl behind the counter rolls her eyes and announces to the long line of ready-to-goers that it will be a while before her computer comes online again. 7, the only other lane open, is already curved into the center aisle. Another announcement is blared from overhead that there is no waiting at the service desk.

With two people in front of me and four behind me, there is no way I’m getting to the service desk before they are. So I hang tight.

After a minute or two, the computer comes up and my checkout girl is back in business. She rings me up and gives me the total. She watches while I write my check and then she takes it, runs it through the register and asks me to sign a slip of paper. Since I just wrote a check and didn’t use a credit card, I look at her. She smiles and cheerily states that they now have “electronic check.” I of course know what electronic check is. I hate electronic check. I don’t want my check back after I took the time to write it. To me, this is just one more thing I have to put through the shredder. And who came up with electronic check in the first place? (grumbling)

Up until this point my local Kmart did not have it. So, I stare at my smiling checkout girl and wonder why she didn’t tell me about the electronic check feature while she watched me write out the check. After all, if I’d have known I would have used my debit card instead. Yet stupidly I was trying to keep better track of my purchases by writing a check instead of using my debit card, then stuffing my receipt into my checkbook and hoping to remember to write it down later. Because when I use a debit card, I feel the need to rush. I feel that there isn’t a grace period at the checkout counter for me to write the amount in my check register. Most of the time, the cashier is already ringing up the next customer’s items before I’ve zipped my purse.

Not that any of it matters any more. I’m well out of Kmart. My heart rate has long since slowed to a calmer, albeit sadder, beat. I will miss my local Kmart. For a long while it stood out as quiet reprieve from the demonic labyrinth across the street. But no more. Sadly, no more.