Order Amidst Chaos

Lessons From the Check-Out Line

If you encountered the me from forty years ago in a check-out line, my best advice would be “run”. Nothing pushed me to the edge of Postal behavior like being stuck in line behind a herd of absent-minded goobers.

Call it age-related testosterone loss or just lack of precipitance, but these days, standing in a line full of strangers ignites my imagination and evokes my inner Sherlock Holmes. I look at people and I see stories — admittedly, stories tainted by my intrinsic biases but likely stories with a kernel of truth to them.

On a recent Friday afternoon, I stopped by my friendly neighborhood Walmart for a pack of 12-ounce Gatorades and here’s what I encountered. Either because some news outlet accidentally broadcast that a hurricane was about to hit Dallas, or because nine of Walmart’s twelve time-saving automated checkout stations were on the blink, there was a bit of a line.

Chaos

Two people ahead of me, the fat lady wearing a pink double-knit exercise get-up with stretchy knee length shorts and a matching sleeveless top, was pushing a cart piled high with essentials and one screaming two-year-old. I assume she was deaf because she seemed oblivious to the escalating wails that could only have been due to a scorpion in that kid’s diaper.

She was escorted by two additional rugrats of indeterminate age who were intent on pulling each type of candy from the nearby shelf and presenting it to her in hopes of wearing down her resistance to purchasing them a treat.

The Sherlock in me noticed two details — the fist-full of coupons she was inspecting and the barely hidden bruise on her left shoulder. Obviously, she was shopping at Walmart for the low prices and not their stellar customer service, but was she in danger of her debit card not covering the cost of groceries? And that bruise — was it caused by an abusive spouse who refused to believe how much groceries cost?

As much pity as I felt for fat lady, I initially felt irritation at redneck man immediately ahead of me. He was mid-thirties with greasy hair, a four-day beard, dirty white t-shirt with the sleeves torn completely off, and worn-out work boots, one of which was untied but apparently not important enough to re-tie. He also had a case of BO that would repulse a homeless person. Redneck man’s only grocery item was a 24-pack of Bud Light.

Guilt bit me when I realized the sloppy handmade jail tattoo on his left arm meant redneck was likely an ex-con toiling for a pittance at some thankless manual labor job, and that he was probably splurging all of his expendable income on that case of beer which would at least make his Friday night, spent watching Wrestlemania on tv, more tolerable.

Business dude was in line right behind me so I had to employ some stealth to inventory both him and his shopping cart without being noticed. He was wearing a high-quality sports coat over his shirt and tie, as well as a watch that was either a Rolex or a good knock-off. Did I mention his expensive Italian loafers? His cart contained two bottles of wine (I’m no wine connoisseur, so I couldn’t judge their quality, but they were from Walmart….). He also had six tv dinners, and six tins of what appeared to be cat food.

Sherlock in my head asked, “One: What’s a successful captain of industry doing at Walmart on a Friday afternoon instead of sending his own personal shopper? Two: Why the tv dinners unless he doesn’t have a significant other to share meals with? And, Three: What self-respecting middle-aged man would own a cat?” This guy could be a story all by himself!

Order

At the end of the day between the time those three people’s heads hit their pillows and the time their brains finally turn off, they have to be asking some questions. “How the Hell did I get to this point? Is this all there is to life? Is that mole on my butt-cheek cancer?” Don’t laugh! You probably asked yourself the same questions last night.

I have a good friend who has spent time photographing villages in Africa. He’s taken photos of malnourished groups of kids, all wearing tattered clothes that even Goodwill wouldn’t resell, and playing some game that includes kicking a rock back and forth like a socker ball. The really weird thing: Every one of those kids is grinning from ear to ear and having a good time.

What do those kids have to smile about? Do you realize how staggered they would be to see the amount of money that redneck guy spent on beer, or to taste the candy bar that fat lady’s kid snuck into his hip pocket, or to even have a pair of shoes, much less a thousand-dollar pair of Italian loafers?

When those kids lay down to sleep at night, I’m guessing they might have more pressing questions, like where their next meal will come from, or which wild animal’s next meal they might become. But based on those faces that are smiling in the midst of adversity, I’m guessing they’ve discovered that there is some underlying order in this screwed up universe — some order that remains hidden behind all the weapons of mass distraction you and I fill our days with.

Sherlock agrees.

A meeting of great minds who think alike