Waltzing My Way Through the Big K

I went to Kmart today. I almost drowned in sweet, sweet memories. I worked there for nigh on to two years, you see. I decided I really needed a microwave. I had coffee for breakfast and decided I wanted some leftovers from a tasty place for lunch, but I didn't want cold leftovers from a tasty place. Hence the microwave.

I drove around Logan, Utah for a while; I had just filled my car up with gas. Speaking of which, it was two dollars per gallon! That's highway robbery! When has it ever been so high? I was about to stop at Walmart, Rollback capital of the world, when I decided to quash the white trash tendencies bubbling up from deep within my soul (I get it from my mother). So I drove on. And stopped at the Big Kmart. There's a classy joint, if I do say so myself--which I do.

I got a little gray cart. Ah, I remember pushing those things into the doors. I usually pushed around eight. You could still maneuver them that way. If it was just a straight shot, though, I could manage about 14. Impressed? I am. Getting all hot and bothered, in fact. I'd do me.

The Logan store is a bit flipped around. I could still find my way, however. I worked at the Woods Cross store for about 2 years. All I had to do was pretend that I had just walked through a mirror, and the Logan K felt just like my K. I made my way to the microwaves. The cheapest one had dials on it. What the fuck? Who uses dials anymore? Who even knows how to use them? Maybe old ladies with TV's labeled VHF--UHF for all the channels above 14 or something--and fish and brownie Banquet suppers stacked up in their freezers. And that's a definite maybe. I looked at the next-cheapest one. It was black, sexy. There was a Kitchenaid there too. It was red, and it was on a mail-in rebate deal. It would be cool to have a red microwave. I could pretend I was a vampire, everything in my blood-red microwave hemoglobin-based. Alas, I don't trust mail-in rebates, so I had to put my hemophage phantasies on hold. I got the sexy blackrowave.

Here's the embarassing part of this tale. I was smiling the entire time. I hated that damn job, yet all I could scrounge up was nostalgia. It was like being back there: filling out hunting licenses by hand, talking to the Samoan lady who taught me how to say "stupid" correctly, and learning how to swear from Will, the jaded, part-time tollbooth operator who liked to straighten the boxes of tampons. I saw the layaway sign and remembered watching a lady fill out a check for her final payment. Then I told her we didn't accept checks for final layaway payments. I wonder if she ever visited us again.

That's enough of this. I hate working, but I remember all my past jobs with a certain fondness. Weird.