I stand in a line of people eight deep at my local Walgreens. My position puts me right in front of the gaping maw of the Christmas aisle, with all its garlands and tinsel and boxes promising light displays heretofore only dreamed of spewing from its shelves. Now, don't get me wrong. I like my Walgreens. It is a convenient locale for all the little expenditures that get me though workaday life. I even recently signed up for a rewards card. But the Walgreens Christmas aisle is not fooling anyone. It is not a nexus of holiday spirit and cheer; it's not even a reasonably fruitful outpost. It is a corridor of grimly set seasonal determination, last-minute light strings and guilty impulse inflatable Santas. This is not your first option for holiday shopping, this is a last line of defense. Oh hell I'm already here for cigarettes and I told myself I'd put up lights this year...might as well grab some now. But forget that noise. I'm already in the damn line. Which is not moving.
I eventually realize the reason for the holdup, or at least the party attached to it. Two mom-types laugh gaily at the checkout counter, their children mulling about somewhere behind them. They do not seem to realize here that the driving force here is quiet desperation tinged with exhaustion. Their carts are littered with Christmas funthings; every sentence ends in an exclamation point. They have just come from the gym. The outfits are tight to optimize silouette. Their bodies are impeccable, despite the surrounding living testimonies that they have housed and expelled unspeakable pounds of flesh. The women laugh again. The blonde one looks around to survey at the line, where we hold our places quietly. My blank stare does not intersect whatever she sees.
"Ohmigosh" she giggles. "...responsible for the longest line in Walgreens ever!" as the cashier hauls another candy cane across the scanner. "Sorry!" she sings out towards us. She does not sound the least bit remorseful, or even embarrassed. "It's Christmas!" Her compatriot, a false brunette, laughs. Her children are fat. They grasp for the plush Rudolph in her hands.
"Ma'am." I hear a low voice from the photo counter. A clerk I recognize. He makes a furtive come here gesture, and I quickly shuffle over, head down.
I murmur some kind of think you and without making eye contact silently implore him not to judge me for my purchases. A large container of store brand moose tracks ice cream, two caramel & marshmallow Russell Stover santa candies, a similar santa with raspberry cream, and a four dollar bottle of merlot. I think about informing him that it has been a long night, but he either already knows or doesn't care, so I don't bother.
I check out, fumbling my rewards card, and hustle out the store clutching my supplies. On my way to my car I pass the holly jolly double family loading their holiday loot into the inevitable SUV. Probably one of the many festive runs of the season. One fix is never enough for these kinds of people. There is a barking dog in the front seat. The fat children are smiling under their buzz cuts. The mothers are smiling under their fake tans. I wonder if their life is better than mine. I have no conclusion to draw.
Happy holidays let the games begin may the gods & bureaucrats bless us every one.
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