The Things You Hear at Wal-Mart (A Short)

I recently read an article about a 16 year old boy who infiltrated Wal-Mart’s PA system. He said, “Attention Wal-Mart customers, all the black people leave the store now.”

Of course this comment caused instantaneous backlash from the African American patrons and prompted a media circus to descend upon the Jersey based store.

Since I’m African American, you’d think I’d immediately become angry, call up Al Sharpton and march potholes into the storefront pavement. But anger was not my initial reaction. My first thought was,

“You hear the damnest things at Wal-Mart.”

***

Several years ago, Val and I rented a U-Haul and spent an entire Saturday moving into our new, two bedroom townhome. We were young, energetic and ecstatic to be out of his parent’s home. By 2 am we unloaded the last cardboard box.

Covered in a sticky film of sweat, dust and exhaustion, Val said, “Babe, I need a shower.”

“Me too, but we don’t have a shower curtain,” I replied.

We decided there was only one place you can buy a shower curtain at 2 am. Wal-Mart.

Besides a few men buffing the linoleum and a couple of blue smocked employees, the store was fairly empty.

We passed the glass jewelry case and the laundry baskets. I held Val’s hand and steered him away from the kitchen appliance aisle. (Val was obsessed with infomercials and had pleaded his case for a Vidalia onion slicer) when suddenly above our heads we heard the buzz of the intercom system. There was a long pause before the man spoke in a panicked, Southern drawl,

--I need a CSM to the warehouse please.

--Need a CSM to the warehouse!

--Forklift is on fire!

When the PA system buzzes on, you expect to hear, “clean up on aisle 8, license plate XYZ, you left your lights on,” never do you expect to hear the word “FIRE” in the middle of deciding between skirt steak or lamb chops.

So Wal-Mart shoppers, beware. You never know what you’re going to hear.

By the way, anyone got Sharpton’s phone number?

Gratitude

Today is my birthday. I am 34 years old today and I am ecstatic. I am an unabashed birthday fanatic! Usually, I make a list of 1000 things that I make Val troll the city in search of. One year it was a silver watch with a blue face, lol. Oh! don't feel sorry for him. We don't exchange gifts on any other holiday, not even our wedding anniversary. We screwed that up on the first pass by completely forgetting and spending the day watching Scarface. Totally romantic, I know. Don't be jealous. 

Anyway, there is no list this year. I am simply grateful to be here.

Thanks Mom!

Letter for St. James

Occasionally, I come across a situation where I’d like to say something. Oftentimes what I’d like to talk about though, is really none of my business. For example, you see a woman and your mind says,

“Girl, why on earth are you wearing orange, Spandex to the grocery store?”

But honestly, that’s really none of your business. Mine either. So, in those situations, I write letters. Wait, wait. Now before you get your crayons and scratch paper out. Let me qualify that by saying, I don’t mail the letters. I just write.

This week’s letter:

Dear St. James Catholic School,

Each morning between taking my son to daycare and arriving at my job, I pass by your school. First let me commend you on the stone, bell steeple. I believe bells are always a nice, traditional touch at religious institutions. I also adore the well manicured school grounds, which are always teeming with smiling children, dressed in plaid, knee socks and wearing their backpacks like turtle shells. I often over hear them yelling niceties to their friends. They are not playing the dozens, as I was at their age, which suggests that your school is probably a fine teaching establishment. All of which brings me to the point of my letter, your school name, St. James, the Less.

Saint James was nicknamed, “Less” so he would not be confused with the other, more famous James. That James, happens to have his own book in the Bible and I’m sure he didn’t want anyone confusing the two and messing up his rep. Understandable.

But in my opinion, unless we’re talking about drugs, drama or acne, less is not all that good. So why in the world would you name your school after the lesser James? Don’t you teach the children to strive for the top? Be the best they can be?

Why didn’t you go full throttle and name the school after Big Daddy St. James?

No one would have blamed you.

Now, I’m a bit rusty on my Catholic history and I haven’t spent a single day in CCD but I do believe Catholics and ONLY Catholics canonize people as saints. So I’m pretty sure that you all, not necessarily you Mr. Principal, canonized St. James, the Less with that moniker.

Can you imagine what that did to that man’s self esteem?

Just in case you were unaware, let me share this with you.

St. James (the Less) was a virgin, never shaved or cut his hair, never drank any wine or other strong liquor (that means no Mad Dog, no Boones Farm, not even Bud Light). Even more importantly, he never took a bath.

Mr. Principal, this does not sound like a happy man?

I hope this proves to you and the saint naming crew that you cannot get a girl, a job or one ounce of street credit if your name is followed by “the Less.”

So in the future, I hope that you will use more care in naming both your school and your saints.

Sincerely,

Holli McCall Gordon
http://www.stjames.cdeducation.org/

Testimony

I spent part of my childhood in Burlington, North Carolina. In Burlington, there was no shortage of textile mills, tobacco fields or storefront churches. God must give out awards for the most original church name because there were names like Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Double Dipped in Baptismal Water church and Jesus was Resurrected Here-Church of God in Christ. The two largest churches in town were New Covenant and Beth Salem. My parents were members of Beth Salem; therefore, I was forced to attend.

And I hated it.

We sang tired, old hymnal tunes like, “Go Tell It On the Mountain,” and “Amazing Grace.” Children were ushered, like baby ducks, from the Sunday school rooms into the sanctuary while the congregation sang, “Jesus Loves the Little Children.” We huddled together on the front pew while a church mother, dressed in thick, soled nurse shoes and compression pantyhose told us about Jonah and Whale for the 155th time. At this point, I hoped that the whale would just bite Jonah in half so we could move along to something new.

Our pastor, Rev. Gates stuck to the tried and true scriptures of honoring parents and the Lord being our shepherd. Not once did he ever try implementing 90’s R&B songs into his sermons, like “Jesus Christ will make you Jump ,Jump” (to the tune of Kris Kross). Things like that only happened at New Covenant.

New Covenant was the young, hip church. Their choir swayed from side to side as they marched, donned in purple monogrammed robes, rocking the latest Kirk Franklin remix. Church ladies wore fluted hats with feathers that flared out like peacocks. Men wore spit shined, gold tipped shoes with matching fedoras. And after church, the entire congregation met at Golden Corral where they had tables partitioned off with red, velvet rope, like VIPs.

At Beth Salem we dined in the musty basement, eating macaroni & cheese and ham out of aluminum tins. I begged my father to go to New Covenant but it was always an adamant, “no.” We were to stay loyal to our home church.

During the summer that I turned 12 my parents went out of town for the funeral of distant relative. I bargained to stay with my friend, Reva for the weekend. The rules were- obey her parents and attend church on Sunday. Reva’s parents attended New Covenant and since my dad didn’t say “which” church, I took this as my one and possibly only, chance. Though it was the middle of June, I packed my velvet paneled, Christmas dress with red stockings and black patent leathers. Even if I died of heat stroke, I was determined to look my best.

After the choir selections but before the actual sermon, New Covenant had Testimony. My church did not have this so I was instantly intrigued. During testimony people were encouraged to stand in front of the congregation and share how God had done something miraculous in their life. The first person to offer testimony was a man, dressed in a dark brown pin stripe suit. His hair was slicked back like Billy Dee Williams on that Colt 45 commercial. He confessed that he was once a drug addict. He gave us accounts of how he’d stolen pearls from his wife’s jewelry box to fund his habit. I was both horrified and captivated. There weren’t any drug addicts at my church, not even recovering ones. The man went through scenario after scenario of drug stupors and petty theft. And then he shouted, “But let me tell you what God did!”

The organ player revved up a chord, while the women in feathered hats jumped up and waved their handkerchiefs, shouting the words, “tell it” and “preach.” The man confessed that the Lord had delivered him and the entire church broke out in shouts. Completely entranced, I was the only one still sitting but boy, I was in love with this church.

After a while the congregation calmed and the preacher asked, “Anyone else got a testimony?” No one moved. I sat very still trying to telepathically force someone get up to and speak. I was not ready for this end. The minister repeated, “Does anyone else want to tell about the goodness of God.” And just when I thought my secret, 12 year old, mind control had failed me, a lady stood. Could she have been a drug addict too? Or even better a prostitute?

She was a short, round woman with a French roll so big it was surely stuffed with a tube sock. She introduced herself as Miss Gayle and began her testimony,

“You all know, I’ve been doing hair out of my house for 10, long years. I just didn’t ever think I would pass my test to get my cosmetology license. But I took it to the Lord in prayer and went on and finished my classes. Every day I’d walk out to the mailbox expecting to see my license but every day there was nothing. I was starting to lose all hope. But Friday morning when I opened the mailbox, praise Jesus… “

And before she could finish her sentence or the organist could rev up the celebration music, her full set of dentures fell clean out of her mouth.

I laughed so hard I thought my lungs would burst. I was still laughing when the usher promptly escorted me out into the lobby and laughing all the more when I was asked to leave building…permanently.

I never returned to New Covenant. I stayed with my family at Beth Salem until I was an adult but whenever the sermon got stale or Jonah found himself in whale’s mouth, again, I’d just think of Miss Gayle and her testimony teeth.

Saw-"itis"

My husband, Val can build cabinets, cook four star meals, replace car brakes and do a mean load of laundry. I didn’t marry into money but by my standards; I hit the husband jackpot. Now ladies, before you become Kelly green with envy, let me explain. Val is an only child, which in his case, is a birth defect. The medical term is called selfishness-itis. The disease is highly incurable and symptoms begin to appear in early childhood.


Val and I recently bought a home and I staked my claim on one of the bedrooms. It is a cozy room with Pepto pink walls, brown shag carpet and curtains that were violently attacked by cats. Despite its initial, shoddy appearance, this space is the future home of my reading/writing room. My decorative vision includes one desk, one daybed and all the books I can fit into its four corners. It will be a place to relax and call my own.

Enter, my husband.

Val is chock full of ideas to help me decorate this space. He suggests building a unique, corner desk, stripes along the walls, one yellow accent wall and words written in cursive, Times New Roman with green clovers, blue diamonds and purple horseshoes. I swallow hard and simply state,“I want the room calm and soothing.”
There is one idea that I’ve held onto though, he offered to build my desk. Val sketches a plain desktop held onto the wall with brackets. To cover the wood edges, he suggests a basic, wood trim. The desk will be simple, sentimental and above all inexpensive.

Armed with a plan, we pace the lumber aisles of Home Depot. The wood is stacked high like pancakes on planked pallets. Fingers outstretched, I run my palm along each top sheet, checking for bows and knots. I choose a piece of birch for the desktop. It is the color of beach sand and is perfectly level. Val nods his approval. He recommends a trim with an elegant, leaf inlay. I nod my approval. I waffle between a painted or stained wood finish so I proceed to the paint department to speak with Ryan, the paint guy.

—Yes, I know him by name. He loves chili and is a culinary student by day. DIY Commandment #31-Know Thy Paint Guy.—

Anticipating coffee ring stains and pen streaks, Ryan mixes up a crisp, white paint and primer semi-gloss. He swears, on his orange apron, that the glossy finish will always wipe clean.

With the paint tucked firmly under my arm, I look for Val. I find him in the tool aisle.

“Babe, I need a saw to cut your desk and trim pieces,” he says.

“Can’t one of the guys here just cut it for us? It’s cheaper.”

Val does not respond. Instead, his face contorts into obtuse angles and his eyelids shutter like vintage cameras. Is he having a seizure? Should I shove a spoon in his mouth so he doesn’t bite his tongue in two? But with one look into his eyes and I can see that it is NOT a life threatening emergency. It’s just the –“selfishness-itis” completely short circuiting my husband’s brain. Under the guise of building a desk, I realize the true purpose this trip.

The saws are on display, lined up like foster children awaiting their forever home. There is Ryobi, DeWalt, Porter-Cable, and Milwaukee. Val introduces me to them all. One saw has a sliding fence, the other a laser guide, a diamond blade, a place for your iPod, underwear and secret compartment for your Twinkies.

“If you let me buy a saw, I can make a toy chest for Ian, a platform bed frame or bookcases,” he says as he counts off the projects on his fingers. The pitch in his voice heightens as the list grows. I prepare for him to say that the fate of mankind rests on the purchase of this saw. But just as I start to say “no” his closing arguments include how “I” desperately need this desk for my barren, little room with its cat curtains and 1950’s carpet.

In the end, the –itis won. Although I’m not sure whose selfishness should take the blame?

So with great pleasure and a spoonful of guilt, I welcome our new addition to the family, Ryobi Compound Miter Saw -Gordon (Twinkies not included).

~h