Walmart. Trenton, NJ. 8:40 pm

Going to Walmart is most often like going to another dimension. The harsh fluorescent light and indefatigable search for the cheap make it feel like commodity porn. The many languages in use make it feel like America. In the best sense.

Got there within 20 minutes of closing, rushed to grab my few items (bike rack for me [29.88!], fire engine shaped electric toothbrush for Graham [$4.96 with batteries!]). Got right into line.

In front of me was a guy with a tattoo of a naked, big-titted Wonder Woman (could tell by tiara) on the inside of his forearm. The express line took forever. Aniela, at the cash register, couldn't for life of her figure out how to hand enter photos. Literally 10 minutes ringing up one thing. Everybody was getting angry and stood with their eyes trained on their feet or otherwise away from her, attempting to maintain stoic cool. But we were all there for the same reason: to shop as cheaply as possible, and we were getting what we paid for: bad service, drawn from the bottom of the labor pool.

And what's more, I had never seen a store where one could order McDonalds at the store register and pick up one's order on the way out. I passed.