Redneck Shopping Olympics

Every year I do Thanksgiving with my old neighbors from WV. Since the dad, Mr. Bill*, is the only person who appreciates the magic of Black Friday as much as I do, we go out as a team every year. We get up at the crack of dawn. Get dressed. I'm wearing my usual jean skirt, boots (flats for the Walmart run; the heels come out later when I hit the malls with my 6 foot tall friend), and a sweater. Mr. Bill, a rather beefy 50 year old with a round, cheerful face, is wearing saggy jeans, a t-shirt with holes, and a wind breaker from the 1980s. After a breakfast of day-old doughnuts, we head out. We climb into his green truck, circa 1970, and bounce up and down the back country roads blasting Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash, and other old-time country legends.

As always, the Walmart parking lot is packed. People have been camped out all night to get the greatest Black Friday deals. We join the line, our hearts beating rapidly. Mr. Bill is anxious to get his hands on the 32in LCD HD flatscreen for a mere $250, but we're pretty far back, so he's twisting his advertisement, mentally preparing himself for the dangers ahead. Tickets are passed out to those in the front of the line. The campers get to go in first. We wait. I sharpen my elbows. As the doors open for the rest of us, we rush inside. Mr. Bill tries to use his size to his advantage, pushing his way through the crowd like an ogre, intent on the electronics department. I also use my size, slipping under elbows and dodging carts, racing to get Mr. Bill's TV. I beat him to the pile.

Shoppers with carts are already milling around, yelling at each other and grabbing for TVs. I dive into the pile amid the screaming, shoving rednecks. A cart slams into my side. I ignore the pain and kick out, sending the cart slamming back into my greedy attacker. Knowing that I'm too weak to lift a box and carry it through the mob, I pull one out of the pile and sit on it, yelling for Mr. Bill. He pushes his way through, grabs the TV and muscles it out of reach of the bitter crowd. Once safely in the check out line, we high-five and slap each other on the back.

We emerge from the store victorious, both having gotten that for which we came: a cheap TV for my host and, for myself, the entertainment that comes with what I have dubbed the Redneck Shopping Olympics. We return to the house to celebrate our success. I wake my friend Anne*, change into my heels, and drag her out to Target, where the relatively sane people shop and I feel less dirty spending my money.

The Walmart experience, however, is incomparable. I go not for the deals but as a test of my athleticism, ingenuity, and West Virginian roots. I imagine it is somewhat comparable to the Running of the Bulls. Are we crazy to risk being trampled for so slight a prize as a low-end television? Perhaps, but it is the thrill of danger that is the battle's true reward.

Happy Thanksgiving y'all.

*Names have been changed