Well, I have reached my Walmart limit – not because of anything Walmart did, but because of my own addled self.
Walmart in Franklin is not a large store. People complain about that all of the time. The aisles are too narrow and the selection is limited. The checkout lines are too long, etc., etc.
The Walmart parking lot is not the largest by any means, but I have given up trying to ever get a close parking space; and, instead, I park in the same row — the flag row — every time. That way, I don’t have to keep trying to remember where I’ve parked. There are a zillion white SUVs in the parking lot, mine being one of them, so there’s no use in thinking mine stands out in any way.
As a side note, my SUV is a Honda Pilot and I’m thinking about a proper name for it, vacillating between “Amelia” for Amelia Earhart or “Charles” for Charles Lindbergh. If I name it, maybe it will flash lights, beep the horn, or even come when I call it.
One particular day, I parked in the usual row. I distinctly remember looking out the passenger window and seeing the flag. I grabbed my list and my pocketbook, fetched a cart, and headed into the store. What a pleasant day it was. So nice and warm; I really could have done without the sweatshirt.
I loaded up my cart, checked out, and headed for my car. I went to the flag row, pushing my cart, thinking the car would appear at just any moment. I came to the end of the row, but no car. I pushed the cart back up the row. No car. I went back down the row again, this time activating the panic button on the key fob, but no noise and no car.
By this time my sweatshirt was being true to its name. I sat down on the little rock wall where workers sit and smoke and pondered my options. I called my dear, precious husband, who did not answer, to tell him our car had been stolen.
With no support forthcoming, I faced the grim truth that it was up to me to find that car or perish in Walmart parking lot. I knew that cart had spent all the time with me that I wanted it to, so I pushed it to the entrance and explained the situation to the lady at the door.
I’m so glad a lady was there instead of a teenager who had never been tried by the world and its circumstances. She agreed to keep an eye on my stuff while I set off again. My name’s not Hunter for nothing.
Back to the flag row, pushing that panic button every step of the way. It never worked. Finally, after much searching, I found him/her one row over and wanted to cry and slap his/her face all at the same time. And, yes, the flag was visible out the passenger window, even though the car was not in the flag row.
I drove back to the entrance, parked in the fire lane, and retrieved my stuff. The lady told me four stories about losing her car, God love her! She wanted to console me.
I was still so addled that I told a rank stranger at my next stop, Ingles, what trauma I had just endured. She had two lost car stories herself.
There are times when I think a better last name would be Finder, even if Hunter is more appropriate.