Clever Magazine, Fall 2010 " I'll meet you at Chicken " (www.clevermag.com)

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I’ll meet you at chicken

by Peter Simons

My wife and I are avid skiers and hikers and, at the risk of shameless bragging, fairly good at both. We have experienced numerous moments of shear exhilaration; making tracks in a foot of fresh powder, hiking into lakes so peaceful you can hear every sound of nature with perfect clarity.

As much as we love those activities it’s hard to compare them to the adrenalin rush I feel when I reach for my wallet, pull out my membership card and walk into our local membership warehouse store. The feel of the wind on my face from the room fan display; the lush green hues from the potted plants department and the smell, oh the smell of fresh baked goods beckon me ever forward.

All right, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but there’s absolutely no doubt about it the hunt is on and there’s game to be hunted. After all, there are ordinary folk and then there are “MEMBERS!”

What is it about being a member of a warehouse store? Is it the urge to be part of an exclusive group or the thrill of getting a great price on 350 rolls of toilet paper? Let me give you a piece of advice; if you find yourself standing in front of the paper towels comparing the “price per sheet” and discussing with your loved one the merits of 2 ply versus 3 ply it’s time to re-evaluate your life and seek counseling. By the way, go with the 2 ply, it’s a better price per sheet and you’re not going to notice the difference.

Maybe we have a gene left over from prehistoric tribal times when only the fastest and the fittest got the best meat. Is this yet another excuse for us to feel superior? No one ever asks, “Do you shop at Saveco.” No, they ask “Are you A MEMBER of Saveco.” Whoever came up with the idea of a membership store was a genius. Membership of a warehouse store AND we pay them an annual fee for the privilege. Boy, with the right marketing we’ll put on a puffy costume and dance around like circus clowns.

When my wife and I enter the store, proudly waving our membership card, we have the same conversation every time. “Now we’re only going to get what’s on the list.” It’s a pledge that has about the same life expectancy as a freshly opened bag of M&M’s.

One doesn’t shop at a warehouse store, one embarks on a quest; It’s something a kin to an Indiana Jones movie. There are a series of challenges to complete each one a little more harrowing than the last. My wife’s first challenge is navigating me past the seductress known as The Electronics Department. I have been seduced by her melodic 7.1 surround sounds and 60 inch LCD display with 2 HDMI inputs before and it has drained my wallet leaving nothing but skeletal remains.

To negotiate these treacherous crumbling cliffs my wife employs two techniques; the “Push and Roll” and the “Interception.” Push and Roll involves an attack from behind nudging me forward with the front of the cart. Interception is a dangerous maneuver and should only be attempted by a highly trained expert with years of experience. It requires precision timing by placing herself and the cart between me and the flat screens thus blocking my pathway.

It’s a perilous journey to the back of the store for our first “list item” negotiating past power tools and leather reclining chairs.

On the subject of “survival of the fittest” here’s a perfect example. My wife, Sandi, is 5’ 2” tall. I’m not dumb enough to tell you her weight, let’s just say petite and leave it at that. To everyone who knows her she is a warm happy person without a mean bone in her body; they haven’t seen the dark side. One time we were carrying out our usual surgical strike on route to the meat cases. We were mortified to discover that where the ground turkey normally resides in magnificent abundance was a vast chasm of empty space. Sitting there all alone at the bottom of the case was the last packet. Poised next to the case was a woman who must have been in her mid-seventies. I watched helplessly as my wife’s face contorted, her eyes grew dark and a low pitched growl emanated from her mouth. Suddenly with her lips drawn back exposing her razor sharp canine teeth she lunged past the unfortunate senior who stood there quivering as she reached into her purse for her blood pressure medication. The poor woman never knew what hit her, Sandi scooped up the remaining four-pack and tossed it into our cart with the skill and agility of an NBA player. “What?” my wife inquired completely un-phased by this shameful episode. “Nothing” I replied nervously “I’m just waiting for your head to stop spinning around.”

We continued relentlessly on our expedition negotiating around women holding up swim suits only their imaginations would fit into and men drooling over 50 piece socket sets. We stop at every free samples station and feel sad for the hapless cooks slaving away over their electric frying pans touting their vegan burgers. Sometimes we’ll even buy a packet of “All Natural Whole Wheat Hot Dog Buns” just to brighten up their day. Our cart is practically full and only half the items were actually on our list, now there’s a shock.

We pride ourselves on being well seasoned professionals; in no time flat we are southbound towards the checkout lines. I hover at the end of the isles while Sandi prowls back and forth scouting out the fastest line. Novices un-schooled in checkout science head directly for the shortest line, ah to be young and naive. There are important nuances to consider; how much stuff do they have in their cart, are they with children hungry for attention which could potentially slow down the cart unload or, heaven forbid, need a sudden bathroom break. Worst of all do they have any items that might need the dreaded price check from hell. You may scoff, but don’t blame me when it happens to you. Don’t blame me when you are behind a person who has their cart three quarters unloaded and suddenly announces to their spouse “darn I forgot the laundry detergent.”

So there we were next in line and just inches away from the belt. I’m taking a last look down the list as I usually do and feeling proud of yet another successful mission. Then I see it, one simple little word at the bottom of the list, a word that turns victory into humiliation. There in parentheses is the word “over”. Slowly I turn over the list and in horror observe two remaining items. Sandi gasps as she looks down. Sheepishly we pull out of line to the subdued snickers of our fellow members, “amateurs, rookies, loser” oh the shame.

Sandi summons up a supportive smile and whispers “you get the Kleenex I’ll meet you at chicken.”