3B
Wednesday, February 8, 2017 // The Statement 

FEAR AND CLOTHING AT WAL-MART

BY HARRISON KRINSKY, DAILY ARTS WRITER

COVER DESIGN BY CLAIRE ABDO

ILLUSTRATION BY KATIE SPAK

L

ast Sunday, my friends dropped me off at a 
Wal-Mart in Saline and said, “See you in 12 
hours,” which is a strange thing to say, but 

in this case, it was exactly the right thing to say — I 
was going to be at Wal-Mart for 12 hours.

I was going to be at Wal-Mart for such an absurd 

amount of time for three main reasons. The first: I am 
a man of my word. The second: I came in last place 
in my fantasy football league, and the punishment 
for the person who came in last was to spend 12 
hours in a Wal-Mart. The third and maybe the most 
important (also definitely the most misguided): 
Some part of me thought it would be good for me.

As I walked through the extra-large revolving 

doors at approximately 12:34 p.m., I started 
thinking about a set of different books. This organic 
recollection of literature made me feel pretty good 
about myself because any time I think about a book 
— rather than force myself to think about a book 
— I feel intelligent and cultured. Five minutes into 
Wal-Mart and I’m already thinking about books. 
My hypothesis about the positive side-effects of 
extended Wal-Mart exposure were playing out just 
as I imagined.

The two books I thought of were “A Supposedly Fun 

Thing I’ll Never Do Again” by David Foster Wallace 
and “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” by Hunter 
S. Thompson. After realizing these two books are 
about as stereotypical-pseudo-intellectual-college-
student-starter-pack as it could get, I felt less good 
about myself — but still a little good about myself.

“Fear and Clothing, at Wal-Mart … get it?”
As I began to stroll through the kitchen appliances, 

I imagined myself walking with Dr. Thompson, 
taking mescaline and dancing from department to 
department, extracting truths about Wal-Mart, our 
broken political system and the human condition. 
I imagined the dystopian adventure I’d chronicle, 
going from aisle to aisle, in search of coffee filters 
and the American dream.

As I turned down the chilled aisle lined with 

sodas, I imagined myself with Wallace, scribbling a 
mixture of observations and my own idiosyncrasies 
into some witty transcendent truth. What does a 
30-rack of Mountain Dew do? How does a 30-rack 
of Mountain Dew make me feel, say, about my own 
latent elitism?

I had more humble visions too, as I walked through 

consumer electronics. Somewhere in this Wal-Mart, 
I felt, was an essay that could strike through partisan 
politics and hate and baggage and the 24-hour news 
cycle that makes people really really, really actually 

think.

1:35 p.m. Alas, reality sets in.
There are two Wal-Marts within a six-mile radius 

of my house in Ann Arbor. One of them, the one 
in Saline, is a Wal-Mart Supercenter, whereas the 
Wal-Mart in Ypsilanti is a regular non-super Wal-
Mart. I decided to go with the supercenter because I 
figured that would marginally increase the number 
of potential things I could do to occupy time.

I should have done more research because, while 

supercenters might be better than regular Wal-

Marts when it comes to shopping, they are far worse 
for maintaining sanity. The sensory overload you 
might expect to set in at hour five is scaled up in a 
supercenter. Each aisle of Wal-Mart smells, looks 
and feels distinctly different. The quilted fragrance 
palate bounces from Yankee candles to burnt plastic 
to lavender Febreeze and bleach, to slightly stale 
Subway, to WD-40 and on and on and on as you walk 
from aisle to aisle. The more “super” the Wal-Mart, 
the more smells, the more florescent lights, the more 
man-made microclimates.

There was no cafe attached to this Wal-Mart, only 

a Subway. So I left Wal-Mart and walked across the 
parking lot to a Bruegger’s Bagels. I ordered a coffee 
and some gross, bite-sized donuts and sat down to 

play Candy Crush on my phone. I thought about 
which was worse for my development as a human: an 
hour of binge drinking, or an hour of playing Candy 
Crush. Certainly the conventional answer is Candy 

Crush, but Hunter S. Thompson was an alcoholic 

and David Foster Wallace would have hated Candy 

Crush.

1:55 p.m. I returned to Wal-Mart, again in search 

of profundity and inspiration. No luck. I spent about 

an hour walking around aimlessly, listening to 

political podcasts.

The only thing I discovered was how many 

variations of some food types there are. There were 

like 11 different kinds of Oreos, and overly specific 
snacks I’d never imagined, such as Dunkin’ Donuts 

Vanilla Latte Pop-Tarts or low-fat honey-infused 

Pillsbury biscuits.

2:35 p.m. Defeated, I set up camp in the back-left 

corner of Subway. Wal-Mart has complimentary 

free Wi-Fi, obviously, so I was able to halfheartedly 

do my homework. It was here where I witnessed my 

only Wal-Mart magic.

Excerpt from my Wal-Mart notes:

3:45 to 4:05. Nobody is running the Subway attached 

to Wal-Mart. Long line of polite Midwesterners 

confused but unperturbed by the lack of employees 

at a Subway. One guy investigating. Unsuccessful. 

Employee comes out, line starts moving. No audible 

complaints. Might have just seen a unicorn.

Unfortunately, my only conclusion is that people 

from the Midwest, or at least the people in line at 

that Subway, are nicer than me.

5:00 p.m. I spend the better chunk of the rest of my 

time in Wal-Mart sitting on my computer in Subway. 

Sporadically, I remember Hunter and David and feel 

guilty for not taking advantage of my opportunity to 
explore Wal-Mart. I’d get up and go for a stroll that 
would last five to 10 minutes, before I remembered 
that exploring Wal-Mart the same way someone 
explores a national park makes me a really specific 
type of asshole.

8:30 p.m. I caved. I begged my friends to let me 

come home and they obliged. It was snowing a lot and 
nobody was on the road. We listened to Soulection 
and almost skidded off the road and it’s very, very 
quiet at night in Saline in the snow and that was 
profound. I typed up my notes and wrote this piece, 
which, for better or for worse, might make me that 
really specific type of asshole.

