It was my first time in a grocery warehouse. My eyes were caught by the top of the gaping maw that was the shutter doors, bumping into my dad from behind during my moment of distraction. I just could not believe that a door with THIS much traffic would be THIS big. Granted, I was still a teen then too, but that’s besides the point.
He turned and smiled, then gestured forward. We approached the door greeter, dad presented a card, and we were welcomed in. I asked about the card; dad said that only members were allowed to shop here. I was curious about how he joined, for only a second, before the warehouse opened up before us. My gaze couldn’t be left to linger for more than a few seconds; although they weren’t necessarily products I was interested in, the sheer amount and quantity was mind blowing. And the size of the warehouse itself impressed me most of all - stretching out above us and all the other shoppers, like a night sky over the grand bazaar. The shelves alone acted like skyscrapers, and the place was just as bustling as any other city I knew.
Dad called my name for me to hurry along, not wanting to lose me in the crowds. I caught up and kept in pace with the cart, following down each passage between the shelving units and other shoppers. As we were stopped while dad decided between a jumbo pack of batteries and an extra-jumbo pack, I couldn’t help but watch in awe at a woman on the opposite side of the aisle. She was next to a selection of butter chicken curries, and her arm was cleaving across the ledge, knocking a truly inordinate amount of the sauce into her oversized cart, next to the kid who was letting out ear piercing screeches. She paid the kid no mind, however, as she blankly marched forward and knocked another selection of instant juice mix into her hoard.
As the boxes knocked against pounds of meat that carpeted the bottom of her cart, the thuds they made pulsed in rhythm, like a heartbeat. Actually.. The sound wasn’t from this woman alone. Every customer, every item, dropping and landing in sync, pounding like the beat of an ancient beast.
A hand gently shook my shoulder to break me from my trance. “It’s rude to stare like that,” dad said, dropping the extra-jumbo batteries into our own cart and pointing forward to our next stop. That was the conflict of feelings that bombarded me as we advanced through the warehouse - complete and utter astonishment at how many goods was available for purchase, and at such reasonable prices too… which was easily washed away by the disgust and concern I felt seeing countless people shoving unnecessary products into their already swelling carts as they shoved more free samples down their gullets. Their consumption repulsed me.
We weren’t even halfway through the store, and already I was sick of watching other people. So my gaze returned to the infrastructure, trying to understand how such a large operation ran, and struggling to grasp just how many systems were at play within this one building. For example, how did they get items onto the top of these shelves safely? I could’ve fallen from the roof of my house and still hit the ground sooner.
But the thing that actually stood out to me - where were the pipes? Surely, there had to be water and heat and ventilation in this place; even in school, there were plenty of noticeable pipes I would stare at instead of getting work done. Only when I looked straight up, past the glaring fluorescent lights, did I finally see a giant spinning fan. It was so difficult to notice, as the entire ceiling blended into itself. And from the fan, my eyes followed the length of a pipe. A tube. A box where several other tubes and pipes sprung off from, leading to more boxes and more pipes that came down and were painted to match the walls so that I hadn’t even noticed the other four tubes coming out of the refrigeration unit.
I pointed this discovery out to my dad, and he nodded. “Yeah, it’s quite something, huh?”
“How come I didn’t notice it sooner?”
“It’s called uh… flat paint. They use it in stores like this and other places to hide the mechanical stuff, since it absorbs more light.”
“Huh… why’s that?”
“Something to do with making the atmosphere more comfortable for customers. If this place felt AND looked like a massive factory, you probably would feel off shopping about in it. But since the paint doesn’t reflect as well, your eyes aren’t drawn to it, and instead you focus on stuff like this.” He stopped next to a mega box of assorted cookies and grinned. “Should we get one?”
I nodded quietly, though not fully paying attention. Now that I’d noticed it, I realized just how deep the machines ran throughout this place. The systems were there, but they were blocked out between brilliant lights and flat paints. I could hear their sounds, their whirring language, but it was buried under the torrent of footsteps and mass murmurs.
And beneath all of that, deeper than all the thudding and grumblings of this cult of consumerism…
I was certain this time. I heard a heartbeat.
I looked at the pipes, past the paint. It might have been the fan passing over, or the light bending my sight, but I saw them bulge.
I didn’t want to come back, even with my dad trying to sell me on their cheap burgers. And I didn’t. I stayed home on any trips to that place, and for a while I tried to avoid going to our usual hometown stores. I couldn't help but stare past the flat paint above, watching those pipes. One time, I got quite the scolding from some old fart for standing in the middle of the frozen section, instead of moving along. Moving along and buying, spending money, consuming.
That was years ago. I have a family of my own now, and while it’s been tough with the current cost of living, I’m very proud of what we’ve built together.
This past Christmas, my dad sent me a card with his gift included, something to help out with the expenses. It was a membership card for that same store. An open invitation into that gaping hole of gluttony.
I still haven’t used it yet… but the temptation only strengthens with each passing day.
Written by RedNovaTyrant
Content is available under CC BY-SA