We’ve all been there, we all hate it, but
somehow in spite of the overwhelming feeling of dread we get at the very
thought of it, it keeps drawing us back time and time again. I am of course talking about the
Hell-on-Earth known as Costco.
From the moment you arrive in the jam
packed parking lot, you know the next two hours of your life are going to be completely
miserable. There is no such thing
as a “quick” trip to Costco. During
your quarter-mile hike from your car to the entrance, you scramble to find an
oversized shopping cart, before finally reaching the long line up of people
waiting to funnel into the building.
But they don’t just let anybody in, oh no, you have to be a confirmed
member, part of the exclusive club that is granted the esteemed privilege of
shopping at this store. With a
secret handshake, a knowing nod of the head, and a quick flash of your
membership card, you are herded through the doors like cattle, and handed a
flyer with today’s list of sale items.
The bumper cart derby begins immediately as
you make your way past the televisions and electronics section, just trying to
get away from the masses so that you can take a moment to strategize, figure
out where you need to go, and how best to get there. Alas, there is no relief. You look to your left, then to your right. There are people in every direction, a
sea of humanity all in search of a bargain. Adding to the ever-present congestion, some idiot executive decided
to place food sample counters at the end of each aisle, where hoards of shoppers park their shopping carts and plunk themselves down as though
waiting for their sandwich at a deli.
This isn’t lunch people!!
Take your tiny cup of yogurt, and move along!!! Images of taking a running start and ploughing
your cart through the crowd fill your head as you decide whether a single
tortellini on a toothpick is worth the wait, or whether it is best to just
continue on before you lose it on the lady that keeps stepping
in front of you.
You begin to fill the cart with your bulk
items of choice, all the while scoping out others as they do the same. You judge others based on the items
they have selected, and wonder what could possibly motivate someone to buy a
100 pack of toilet paper, until you see the food items they’ve buried beneath,
and gain the understanding you were searching for. Aisle after aisle you dodge and weave your way through the
crowds. By the time you are
halfway through the store you are so filled with rage that it takes all your
strength not to abandon your cart and just run far, far away, but then you
arrive at the baked good section, and it smells delicious. A momentary oasis in a jungle of
hate. You ask yourself whether you
can realistically get through all 84 bran muffins before the expiry date 4 days
from now. There’s no denying that
the price is right, so you and three others each grab a corner, and bending at
the knees, lift the box into your cart.
Challenge accepted.
The temporary bakery buzz quickly subsides
though, and your voice becomes hoarse from yelling “excuse me!” As much as you’d love to wet your
whistle with a shot of that peach juice they’re handing out samples of over
there, the large family that has been seemingly following you since the
moment you arrived has somehow pushed their way through and set up camp at the
front of the line. You decide to
go for it anyway, temporarily leave your cart aside, and bounce shoulder to
shoulder through the food sample mosh pit. As you get closer, your eyes focused on the single remaining
tiny paper cup, you see the hairy arm of the father reach in to grasp it,
before gulping back his third helping.
Noooooooooooo!!! You son-of-a-bitch!!!!!!!!
Defeated and juiceless, you return to your
cart, desperately just wanting to get this whole misadventure over with. Having long since lost your last
remaining ounce of patience way back in the furniture section, you use your
cart to nudge children and the elderly out of your way, clearing a path just
wide enough to squeeze your cart through.
You skip the remaining aisles, choosing instead to just head towards the
cashier section so that you can get the hell out of there. Somehow though, you end up in the
pharmaceutical area, unknowingly having taken a wrong turn somewhere along the
way. A sea of heads all around
you, you climb up onto the skid of adult diaper boxes to survey the lay of the land,
and realign yourself in the direction of the exit. When you finally arrive, a mass of people with overloaded
shopping carts surround the cashiers.
In the absence of anything resembling an orderly line, you place
yourself at the mercy of those in front of you, praying that they are in the
check-out line, and not the line to purchase an overcooked hot dog from the nearby
Costco restaurant. A wall of
granola bar and snack mix boxes behind you eliminates any thoughts of retreat. There is nothing more you can do, but
wait.
30 minutes later, your will to live nearing extinction, you empty the contents of your shopping cart onto the conveyor
belt. The extra large cashier in
the medium size Costco shirt, greets you.
“Hi, how are you today? Did
you find everything you were looking for?” she asks. Rather than demonstrate your proficient use of four-letter
words and express how you really feel, you simply reply “Yes, thank you”. We are Canadian afterall. She swipes each item along the
electronic scanner, waits for the audible “beep”, then places each item back
into the cart, each time exposing a portion of her tramp-stamp tattoo. You don’t want to look, but you can’t
help it. You try to figure out
what it says, but the combination of her too-tight shirt and muffin-top body squeezes
out just enough skin to make the distorted writing very difficult to read, at
least while she’s moving around like that. It doesn’t matter.
All that matters is that this nightmare is almost over.
Having successfully completed the
transaction, you frustratingly find yourself once again separated from the exit
by another long line of people. As
you shuffle along, you get a closer look at those over-cooked hot dogs, and the
people that enjoy them. You see
that same large family from earlier cutting back into the food service
line to argue with the counter staff over the amount of french fries that were
included in their combo, while leaving their cart directly in the way of those
trying to get out, oblivious to the dirty looks aimed in their direction. As you get closer to the exit you are
approached by part-time wannabe Customs Agents, demanding to see your
receipt. They scan through your
cart as through you’re a criminal, looking for something to nail you on. Finding that everything is in order, they
seem disappointed as they stamp your passport and allow you out of the People’s
Republic of Costco.
Several steps later you are
free, and an overwhelming feeling of relief overtakes your body as you breathe
in that fresh air. You pause to
take several deep inhalations. The
birds sing, and the sun gently caresses your face. The quarter mile walk back to your car albeit long, is a
pleasant one. As you walk in the
opposite direction of another wave of slouching zombies making their way
towards the entrance. You stand
tall. You stand proud. For you have been to Hell and back, and lived to tell about it.