A Helpful Guide: To Hell and Back

A Helpful Guide: To Hell and Back

         Some say it is a terrifying place, filled to the brim with nothing but pain and suffering. A place where every shred of your innocence and morality are stripped from you along with your soul the moment you step foot inside. The overwhelming presence of the building itself is enough to draw you in, while the unspeakably low occurrences that take place everyday make it so you cannot leave even if you wanted to. Deep down you know what you are doing is wrong, but it cannot be helped, it may be wrong, but it feels so right. I know this place all too well. I know of the pain, I know of the torment and most of all, I know how hard it is to escape without losing your mind.
         In my many travels I often find myself in search of a late night bite, alas living in Lacey Township often puts a damper on my ability to do just that. Three o’clock in the morning is a difficult time to be out looking for food. All of the burger flippers have gone home for the night, leaving me to fend for myself, and I cannot help but think, ‘How selfish of them? Where else can I go? What else can I do? Who else can I depend upon to satisfy this hunger that I doubt even a Snickers bar could tame?’ And that is when it hits. The sudden pit of realization in your stomach when the only option left is the very place you so dearly wanted to avoid in the first place.
         It does not truly matter what time of the day you go to this place of woe, because there is never a time when you will experience the rainbows and butterflies you could only wish for in a shopping experience, but arriving at three o’clock in the morning does not seem to lighten the atmosphere in the slightest. On top of that, when looking for a spot to abandon your last safe house of warmth and comfort it is useless to wish for somewhere close to the door because yes, even at three o’clock in the morning it is difficult to find a good parking spot. Never has there been a time when I have enjoyed stumbling out of my car at three o’clock in the morning more than in the middle of December in New Jersey. There is just something about the cold, dark, almost abysmal night that is just so welcoming. It is almost, but not quite, as welcoming as the previously used sarcasm.
         While drifting towards the entrance and taking in the surroundings, the parking lot filled with wandering souls begins to bear a striking resemblance to purgatory, especially considering hell is waiting less than fifty feet away. With security guards standing at the entrance like hounds, they might as well just replace the large fluorescent logo with a sign that reads, “Abandon all hope, Ye who enter here.” The ominous sliding open of the doors releases the flames from within as a squall of hot air rushes by, almost as if the souls of the customers are escaping from their eternal prison. The distant screams of children can be heard over the generic elevator music that occupies the background, and the only thought that crosses your mind is “Surely, I MUST be in hell.” And then, almost as if on cue, a creature with one arm and a hunched back approaches to reassure your thoughts. “Welcome to Wal-Mart.” He bellows, in a raspy southern drawl, which makes no sense considering this particular Wal-Mart happens to be located in the North East region.
         As the greeter flashes you an “I-hate-my-life” kind of smile, it is only natural to let out a grunt or half-assed smile of your own as acknowledgement while you scurry by attempting to avoid any contact with his eyes, back, or lack of arm. It is also only natural to feel bad afterwards but that guilt quickly subsides as you realize, “He works in Hell… he’s probably used to it.” People are always in and out of this limbo of a lobby and it is best to do the same, it is important to stay focused on any journey, doubly so in such a dangerous place.
The second department of this hell, lust, is not so bad after all. Couples roam through the produce section selecting chocolate covered strawberries and stopping by the bakery to pick up croissants for their loved ones. If you can look past the fact that what keeps them apart is not gusts of wind, but instead their own guts due to lack of love for themselves, it is nice to see that romanticism and chivalry are not dead in Wal-Mart. Even at three o’clock in the morning. As hunger increases being in this section filled with food, but nothing to eat due to the risk of being healthy, your stomach drags you into the next department of Wal-Mart. A far more dangerous department, one filled with temptations of every kind. The candy isle.
         With stacks of candy as far as the eye can see, and bargains only imaginable in your wildest dreams, Willy Wonka himself would be impressed. This is where the gluttonous munchie driven stoners call home. A sober man would be tempted by the wonders of this isle, but for stoners, this is Paradiso. It is only after staying in this department you realize it is truly Inferno. The tantalizing candies may be cheap individually, but once you see one deal, you see another, and another, and another. The stoners swarm, it is chaos in the candy isle and you remember where you are again. You must move on, every part of you tells you to stay, but it is for the greater good. You must move on. As you claw your way out of the isle the stoners mistake you for food and latch on, and now it is certain, you must move on before they drag you down! But not without some Watermelon Sour Patch Kids of course.
         Narrow escape is common in the depths of Wal-Mart, and every situation only leads you out of the pot and into the fire. Wandering into the bulk section in the back to escape any remaining stoners is a devastating mistake. Sudden rationalization sets in and things appear a bit more grim now. The mountains of candy are replaced with continents of paper towels, toilet paper, and decorative hand soaps. Wal-Mart’s greediest have gathered here, and it is not as sweet a sight as the candy isle. Each shopper pushing his own cart full over twice with bargain goods, crashing into one another as they scramble to get to the next best deal. The greater the shopper’s greed, the greater their cart grows. Avoiding contact here is nearly impossible, as you bounce around like a pinball betwixt the onslaught of carts you are almost always spun directly into the most violent of departments.
         Fiery red linens drape the walls, throw pillows lay thrown on the floor, bloodstained bed sheets seem to have been hastily stuffed back in their packaging and the source of the children’s crying and screaming has been found. This department seems to draw the most wrathful of all Wal-Mart shoppers, couples seem ready to explode into fits of rage, and some already have as they argue over which shade of beige best brings out the counter tops, or which scented candles Aunt Linda would prefer. The men do not seem interested enough, while the women seem far too interested. Menopause seems to have turned every middle-aged woman into a complete bitch, and it would appear the Menopause convention is being held at Wal-Mart this year. At three o’clock in the morning.
         Fortunately while the couples are busy clawing at one another, they leave an escape route. Unfortunately it leads into the music section where the angst filled Emo kids hang out to check out which edgy new band they are going to listen to next week. This department is filled with the emotional sighs of depression as they brush the hair out of their eyes and realize they were looking at a Taylor Swift CD. If the utmost care is not taken through this department you could either catch the depression and fall into the same bottomless trend as these Emo slaves to corporate America, or set one of them off like a land mine, and receive a stern but unenthusiastic lecture about how much of a conformist you are and which portion of society you represent, coming from some Emo kid who shops at Wal-Mart none the less. It is a devastating ego deflator, and something nobody should ever have to go through, plus it wastes about twenty minutes of valuable time, and nobody wants to be in Wal-Mart at three-twenty in the morning listening to some Emo kid incoherently babble on about nothing.
         After the hypnotizing Emo mine-field of depression, it is easy enough to avoid contact with the next two departments of this hell. Within the darkened corner of the store, the video game department lies, a place where the violent little children take refuge while their parents shop. They unleash their anger on the poor characters in their games where they act as Assassins, Wizards, and Pimps and assume they are making good use of their lives. While a short distance away lays the automotive department. This is where the fathers who lost their battles in the home décor department come in order to contemplate suicide by anti-freeze, or buying new speakers systems for their cars in order to drown out the sound of both their wives nagging, and their complete misery.
         Upon surviving the first eight departments of this massive hell, all that remains is the ninth, but the worst of all. At the front end lays endless waiting in the eternally frozen lines that lead straight through Satan himself. The Cashier. It is a test of patience and ability to hold your bladder as you wait for these eternal lines to creep along. Seemingly endless amounts of time go by while you wait to pay three dollars for your five pound bag of Watermelon Sour Patch Kids, and yet again you regret your decision to come to this infuriating store in the first place. However while approaching the cashier slower, and slower, as you get closer and closer, something magic happens. You develop the courage. The courage to continue! And so, push forth, onward to victory and proudly walk past the creature at the door as you walk out of hell with your head held high and your soul left as credit for the delicious Watermelon Sour Patch Kids.