• Andrew Who?

    My first name is Cashier. My last name is Andrew. I’d like to tell you a little about myself, the

    last four digits of my social security number are 4735 and if I can not be properly identified by my

    first and last name, then you can call me Andrew Who. “Who” is the first three letters of my

    original last name, the one I sacrificed when I became part of my new family, my Wal Mart


    Assimilation into what I like to think of as the “Wal Mart Collective” was simple. The interview

    consisted of two questions: Would you die for Wal Mart and more importantly would you kill for

    Wal Mart? Answering yes to both with little hesitation was unheard of; I believe that my response

    is what made me different. Upon answering, I was handed a crying baby and a handgun and

    given no instructions. Holding the weapon to the head of the baby I squeezed the trigger without

    faltering, though nothing happened. Trickery, the gun was not loaded; it was a test, one I

    unfortunately passed.

    Part two of the hiring process involved pissing in a cup at a small clinic downtown. This was

    substantially more difficult, like the first test, my target was small and shaking as I nervously

    clutched the cup in my unprotected hand. Trying to avoid hitting my hand with my golden stream

    of impurity was difficult; I had an erratic tremor like Michel J. Fox. Brainstorming, I decided to

    start pissing on the floor and adjust my aim into the cup midstream, the floor was my victim, but

    I was safe. Sacrifices must be made.

    Apparently Wal Mart doesn’t search for paint thinner in its drug screenings and I was spared.

    Returning to Wal Mart a man in a dark velvet cape with a long, white beard approached me. He

    was Training Coordinator Joseph, and demanded I refer to him as, “Beloved leader”. He

    instructed me to head to the Training Room for what he referred to as “Reeducation”. I knew that

    I was embarking on a strange journey, one that I’d never experienced before. I was not fearful;

    instead I maintained a heightened sense of awareness. There was once a time that I used my

    date of birth for my perspective of time. Now there is just life before Wal Mart, and life after.

    Walking towards the Training Room, I observed many strange creatures, with predictable, yet

    highly peculiar behaviors. Wal Mart customers are similar to real people, they’re just more

    obese. They seem to graze primarily on organic substitutes for regular food and a strange liquid

    sugar. Despite organic foods costing more, thus mollifying the bargains offered at Wal Mart, they

    seem quite popular. I approached a young woman wearing a hooded sweatshirt and shorts,

    which apparently is the state mandated uniform of pretentious assholes. I asked why she was

    purchasing organic Oreos. She claimed that despite the increase of cost, “organic foods are

    good for you!” I didn’t know what to disagree with first, her outfit or the concept that an organic

    Oreo won’t make you fat. Wal Mart consumers seem to enjoy believing in logical fallacies.

    Instead of drinking water, they consume a dark brown, liquid sugar. It has the appearance and

    viscosity of motor fluid; presumably it tastes similar as well. Purchased in mass quantities, the

    average serving seems to be two liters. Most have no actual nutritional content; however the

    package claims the beverage to be “hydrating”. I’m sure if you ask Kevin Costner, he wouldn’t

    drink piss again, even if it is hydrating. However, some of the liquids did contain some form of

    nutrition. A seemingly popular example is Pepsi Max, despite having more caffeine and sugar

    then regular Pepsi, it contains various degrees of minerals and vitamins, therefore I concluded

    that it must be healthy. I was becoming one of them.

    Wal Mart customers come in three primarily distinguishable groups. The hierarchy is established

    as follows: the cyborgs, adults and the younglings. The cyborgs are slow moving beast of

    immense size. They are similar to the form of humans; however their figure is obscured by

    massive amounts of excess flesh. They are affixed to an odd wheeled device that is powered by

    a small rechargeable battery in the rear of the mechanism. Similar to the spacecrafts in War of

    the Worlds, they use long arms to reach out and capture substance which they secure inside a

    cage in the front of the apparatus.

    The adults are very fleshy and large as well; however they are still able to stagger by their own

    means of propulsion. They attempt to maintain control of the younglings with erratic shouts of

    unintelligible speech, while the younglings typically respond with loud crying or screaming. Many

    of the younglings are propelled by a concealed wheel; they careen at great speeds down the

    aisles by shifting their weight to their heel in the midst of a full speed run.

    After 25 minutes of walking at a continuous pace, I reached the back of the store. Passing

    through the “Associates Only” doors, I made my way to the training room. Upon arrival, Beloved

    Leader was waiting for me. Beloved leader baton’d a thick packet to me and instructed me to

    read, it was the available positions along with their job description. I was immediately intrigued at

    the prospect of working in the lingerie department. After a moment of fantasizing, I was disturbed

    at the thought of folding hammock sized panties and decided to reevaluate my decision.

    I opted for being a cashier, the decision was mostly arbitrary, and I felt that frequent interaction

    with modern Americans would be enlightening, edifying and exciting. I was wrong. The training

    room was reminiscent of a school trip I invoked on in the third grade, the one to a

    slaughterhouse. The room had the scent of weak potpourri which slightly obscured the

    overwhelming body odor emitting from my fellow trainees. Like cows at a slaughterhouse, the

    other new associates and I were unaware of the impending doom we faced. Quietly sitting, no

    one focused their gaze; they simply let their eyes travel around the room. I seated myself next to

    the other trainees and introduced myself, none of them were important enough to write of.

    The Training Room 1s decorated with motivational posters, which featured human-like figures

    with a giant yellow smiley face as a head. All of the posters contain a universal element, a

    smiley face person in a wheelchair. Perhaps this implied that Wal Mart is an equal opportunity

    hirer, or perhaps that’s the price one pays for mistakes. After all, what kind of cripple is that

    happy? Beloved Leader subjected us to Computer Based Reeducation, or CBR. The CBR is a

    computer program that requires reading lengthy sections of information followed by simple

    questions based off the material. I resisted reeducation by putting my body in one place and my

    mind in another. With eyes glazed like a holiday ham and drool protruding my lips I arbitrarily

    manipulated keys on the keyboard in front of me. I was not surprised when I passed the CBR.

    Like a cog in a colossal machine, A Wal Mart employee does not need cognizant thought.

    Beloved Leader then grabbed my shoulder and ducked his head near my ear. He gently

    whispered, “Remember where you are. This is Wal Mart; death is listening, and will take the first

    man that screams.” His words echoed through me, my mind screamed for rescue, but the

    screams were silenced by fear. I donned my blue and beige uniform, wearing the uniform was

    reminiscent of my cultural heritage. This must have been the feeling that members of the

    Hitlerjugend experienced before marching headfirst into conformity. Before, I would like to believe

    that my individuality was worth more then eight dollars an hour. I found comfort in realizing that I

    was creating more then personal financial gain, I was part of something bigger than myself. Wal

    Mart has more associates then the United Army has soldiers, it is single handedly more

    powerful then any fighting force on the planet and its reach extends to over 150 countries across

    the globe. It is even theorized that in the event of war, the United States government would

    attempt to subsidize Wal Mart employees for combat training. Their superior numbers would

    overwhelm the opposition, and their complete obedience would blind them of fear. I was

    becoming one of them, assimilation was unavoidable. I chose to be in the hand of the Sam

    Walton, rather then in his path. I was given my nametag and instructed to peel little letters off of

    a sheet and place the sticky side of the letters onto my nametag. After writing the name,

    “DIZZLE”, I was instructed to peel off the letters and start over. When my properly created

    nametag was finished, I clipped it to my shirt.

    When I wore my nametag, fellow associates became unwelcomly polite. Proper etiquette

    dictates that upon meeting a fellow associate for the first time you must read the name on their

    nametag and interject it into a generic greeting. After that, if you happen to see the associate

    again you must simply nod at them.

    Beloved Leader guided me around the store; during this tour I began to understand the immense

    size of Wal Mart. Looking up at the hundreds and hundreds of halogen lights on the ceiling, all

    twinkling with a dim, soft glow, I felt so small and insignificant. In that moment, I was still.

    Among the frantic passing of younglings, abrupt shouting of adults and the occasional passing of

    cyborgs, I was motionless.

    Beloved Leader escorted me to the front of the store and assigned me to a register. I droned

    non-stop, the constant beep of the register and poorly selected country tracks over the intercom

    was the only sound I heard. Everything else was turned down. Every customer I saw, I greeted

    with, “Welcome to Wal Mart, how are you doing today?” A few hundred beeps later I would hand

    them their receipt and instructed them to have a nice day. The perpetual soundtrack of my life at

    Wal Mart was provided by Wal Mart Radio. Wal Mart Radio is a family friendly radio program

    exclusive to Wal Mart. Their playlist consist of only 35 songs, all of which are royalty free and

    laced with advertisements. The songs were typically dated country music, it was as if Wal Mart

    was testing me, trying to crack my mind and stir my brains. This continued for nine months.

    On the first day of December, nine months after I began working for Wal Mart, I was reborn. My

    incubation in Wal Mart’s bowels was complete, restored with a new sense of vigor; I had to end

    the monotony. It is impossible to say why, after nine months was I possessed to achieve

    freedom. I researched Wal Mart’s policies and discovered that the only ways out of Wal Mart

    was in a body bag or to become what is known as a “Suppressive Person” or “SP”. I feared that I

    would become like the other aged and broken Wal Mart cashiers. Like caged lions, the fire had

    died in their eyes, leaving them with a cold steely look. This eerily blank look would be held until

    their final wink. The only alternative is to become a SP, which is held as the ultimate dishonor. A

    SP is a person who is self destructive; they consume those around them with disloyalty,

    disobedience, recklessness and passion. To become what Wal Mart considers a SP, you must

    be terminated from the Wal Mart collective. Upon becoming a SP, no members of the Wal Mart

    Collective may speak with you, you are to be shunned and loathed for your heresy. I had been

    brainwashed to believe that becoming a SP is the most dishonorable and unforgivable end to a

    Wal Mart career. I was afraid of both outcomes, is a noble, unselfish death more valuable than a

    dishonorable, cowardly abandonment of my duties? I had made my decision, I figured we’re all

    dying in the end and it was time to shake things up. I had to reignite the fire that was

    extinguished in the eyes of my Wal Mart family.

    The next morning I woke up willing to die for a cause. I stood atop a large hill overlooking Wal

    Mart, I readied my supplies, which were secured in an inconspicuous black duffle bag. I wore a

    beige trenchcoat, vivid blue dress shirt with beige slacks. My style reflected the way I intended

    to live what was left of my life: dangerously. I coolly approached Wal Mart, using telepathy; I slid

    the large entrance doors aside. The People Greater staggered towards me, he reached with a

    hideously disfigured outstretched arm which gestured me to halt. To avoid suspicion, I obeyed.

    He attempted to greet me as is his duties but I stopped the deformed wretch with my gaze. He

    saw something different in my eyes, something alarming. He paced backwards and then began

    to flee his position as quick as his gnarled legs could carry him. With no guard, Wal Mart was

    subject to my interpretation of justice.

    I immediately began to sabotage all the carts in the cart valet. I loosened one wheel on every

    cart and tightened the wheel next to it. Creating a squeaky monstrosity that could only make left

    turns. This would surely slow down customers while I began my diabolical plot. I then hit produce

    for phase one; it was a logical attack point as it is geographically convenient and had few

    associates to protect the goods. I removed my first weapon of destruction, several bottles of KY

    personal lubricant. I placed them strategically on the displays next to all phallic shaped

    vegetables. Afterwards, I moved on to the meat department for phase two. Trying to avoid

    detection, I went into the freezers and pulled leather, farming gloves from my bag and waited. As

    customers went to grab Orange Juice, I would reach out of the freezer and hand them the carton

    personally like in the commercial. This confused Wal Mart shoppers thoroughly and excited

    them to the point of disabling panic. For phase three, I made my way around the store, crossing

    out “ociates” from all the “Associates Only” signs. Phase four was simple; I doused the main

    aisles with cooking oil. Younglings slid uncontrollably into displays creating catastrophic

    collisions. Since I had yet to be detected, I initiated Phase five or what I called, “End game”.

    I approached my register and flicked my light on. I had seen thousands of customers before and

    greeted them in the same manner. However, the first customer I processed that day was

    different. He was a heavy man, wide as he is tall. I greeted him with a mandatory smile and said,

    “Welcome to Wal Mart. Go ******** yourself.”

    Within minutes, I was discovered. Bound in shackles, I was lead into the Detention Chambers.

    The chamber was deep inside the vast linoleum jungle that is Wal Mart. Upon arrival I was

    greeted by the Elite Three, a collaboration of the Wal Mart masterminds. Elite Carol, Elite Sean

    and Elite Mark looked down upon me from their dark oak thrones. Elite Mark demanded in a

    booming voice, “EXPLAIN YOUR HERESY!” I looked Elite Mark in the eyes and explained, “I am

    no longer a pawn; I am Andrew Whorley!” Elite Mark responded, “I WILL CUT OUT THE



    I realized then what had eluded me before, you don’t need to be somebody to make a difference;

    you need to be yourself. I was escorted off the premises, and demanded to never return. Wal

    Mart has forgotten me; my life is contained in a cabinet, locked away in a corporate office, filed

    with the millions of other terminated employees and Suppressive Persons. My first name is

    Andrew. My Last name is Whorley. The world will forget this name just like Wal Mart has, but I

    will never forget the day I reclaimed it.