I've Been To The End Of The World. I Bought A Toaster

 

I went to Costco for the very first time. 

 

I'm five foot one. I mention this for a reason. As an adult, my height has never been an issue until I set foot into Costco and saw a bag of potato chips that would have fit comfortably into a pair of my jeans. This is not the type of shopping I had been used to my entire life. 

 

When I was two, I would sit in the front of the shopping cart, tiny legs doing their best to dangle, while my mother pushed me in and out of the aisles at the Pioneer Supermarket on Bleecker Street, searching for the most affordable necessities. I'm 60, and if I was a bit more bendy, I could have sat myself in the front of a Costco shopping cart, legs still dangling. Everything is five times the size it needs to be. I've never golfed, but I imagine pushing a Costco shopping cart is no less of a struggle than pushing a golf cart across the green. Some women were dragging ten foot by ten foot dollies! What the hell was on their shopping list? 

 

What I witnessed on this Sunday morning had little resemblance to a peaceful Sunday morning in church. Not that I've been to a Sunday service in the last 50 years, but my usual Sunday mornings with coffee and a jazz or southern gospel record is my own kind of church and wonderfully satisfying, unlike this brand of insanity. Though after just two minutes of trying to navigate the aisles of sky high toilet paper towers and Zipcar-sized egg cartons holding 72 eggs, I was wishing for a New Testament death, either by crucifixion or being stoned in a public square. Either seemed better than being in the middle of thousands of reckless lunatics, scrambling and screaming for their 12-pack of almond butter.

 

72 eggs? In one carton? Unless you cook in an army barracks or own a diner, this is uncalled for. I assumed that somewhere in this vast hellhole there was an aisle with donkey-sized bottles of Lipitor, if only to help these egg freaks, or the elderly Asian lady I saw standing on the checkout line with her petite arms wrapped around an oil drum of pork rinds.

I understand the idea behind Costco...sorta. 

 

It's a warehouse with floor to ceiling palettes of everything from coffee and yoga pants to Hi-Def TVs and Cheez-Its. This coincidentally happens to be just like a recurring dream I used to have in the early 80's, only mine also featured Elizabeth Montgomery.

Costco makes sense. If you are a family of five who basically lives to eat and shit, Costco has got you covered and you can save some money. But aside from the apocalypse, or some lousy stretch of bad snowy conditions when you just don't feel like getting off the couch, stocking up on industrial sized anything doesn't really make much sense unless you are the caretaker at The Overlook.

Question: anyone know what the expiration date on a tub of Nestle's Quik the size of Mickey Rooney might be?

Have I mentioned the people, or what I think were people? 

It was a parade of shopping carts that stretched from the parking lot to the front doors which opened at 10AM. Once inside, this airplane hangar full of clothing, food, electronics and rude and impatient shoppers, was as loud as a bullfight. One heavy set woman in her cute, fucking mobility scooter, was doing 35 as she headed for the rotisserie chickens. She almost took my toe off. Carts were everywhere, bumping into each other, clipping knees and heels in the process. It was a din of demented screaming, clanking and profanity, while grocery lists were being shouted across checkout lanes. I had an anxiety attack in the seltzer aisle.

"Do we need toilet paper?"
"No, not 144 rolls."
"Do we need orange juice?"
"Yes, but I can't lift the 6 gallon bottle into the cart."

You have to be Bronko Nagurski to shop here.

We checked out after 20 minutes with only a few items. I couldn't stand it any longer. I was happy to find a new $69 Cuisinart toaster for $40, and a 15 count, Irish Pub Pack, made exclusively for Costco, which included 5 cans of Guinness, 5 cans of Smithwick Red Ale and 5 cans of Harp. I love Harp in a 14.9 oz. can. 

Once outside, thinking I was home free, I toppled head over heels onto the concrete as I mad-dashed to our Uber ride while carrying 40 rolls of Bounty on my shoulder. Nothing broke, except my blood pressure, which by now, had to have hit the low 200s. 

 Our driver Hector said, "Are you okay, papi? You need to slow down. Did you get hurt?"
"Only my dignity," I replied.
"How much for that Bounty? My wife pays $38 at B.J.'s."
"Uh...$20. Home, Hector."
 "Wow. Good. $20."

Hector also pointed out how it wasn't as crowded as usual, and that there seemed to be very few people outside. I said, "That's because there's no one left outside! All of Astoria Queens is inside on the rotisserie chicken line."