The Shovel
January 29, 2010
3:00pm. I return home from an unsuccessful attempt at buying a snow shovel at the local Lowe’s. I call the local Wal-Mart – no luck – no shovels. I lob a call in to the local non-chain hardware store – same story. They suggest the local Feed & Seed store. Sounds good to me – I make the call. Shovel delivery expected at 5pm.
4:45pm. I call Feed & Seed to check on any revised shovel delivery expectations. I’m told they’re still waiting. I jokingly ask if there’s a line out the door – I get the very serious response that I’d better get there if I want a shovel. Ugh.
4:47pm. I make the quick decision to go before the snow begins – a snow that is going to last 24 hours straight. I look outside – snow begins at that very moment. Oh snap! Better hurry.
4:50pm. Traffic is thick and frantic – looks more like Manhattan than North Carolina. We wend our respective ways slowly and with determination.
5:17pm. I arrive at Feed & Seed – no place to park, place is jammed. After circling, I snag a parallel parking spot on a slippery slope – I navigate carefully and do not crush the Mini behind me.
5:22pm. I approach the front doors – there is a line snaking around the entire interior of the store. Whoa. I step away to reflect on whether this is really worth it. I remember the foot of snow forecasted.
5:23pm. I conclude that bailing today won’t clear tomorrow’s snow. I make my way back to the end of the line. I am far from the last after only 5 minutes.
5:24pm. I snap a picture of the line with my cell and send it to my husband – looking for amazement and perhaps a little sympathy.
5:26pm. Eavesdropping reveals that not all are waiting for shovels – turns out sleds can only be found here as well. The whiny child in front of me won’t shut up about a sled.
5:35pm. It is impossible not to hear the conversations in the line – as it turns out, many of the people in line are waiting for sleds, which we learn are also in short supply.
5:37pm. Sleds are running out – only 6 left. The kid in front of me resumes whining loudly, despite his mother’s reassurances that he can use a trash can lid as a sled – she says that’s what she did as a little girl. He whimpers that he doesn’t want a trash can lid, he wants a sled. Other children in the line look anxious as well.
5:38pm. The manager announces that the last sled has been sold, but reassures everyone that there will be more sleds tomorrow. The kid in front of me is heartbroken – bursts into tears. Families begin streaming out.
5:39pm. Only the shovel shoppers remain. The manager now announces to the entire store that there are four shovels left. I am second in line. I raise my hand and hop up and down so that the manager will see me and know that I am there for a shovel and that one of them is therefore spoken for. The manager acknowledges me and earmarks a shovel for me. The once orderly line is now dissolving into disarray. I remain vigilant. Where there was formerly one line, in which I was second, there are now line busters who rush the counter. Chaos reigns.
5:40pm. The clerk rings up a shovel purchase for the woman who was in the line in front of me. The manager evidently forgets that he had announced remaining shovels and had earmarked one for me, and announces once again that there are three shovels left. The line busters try to claim my shovel. I speak up, all the while waving my arm and hopping a bit, as I am eclipsed by taller people: “Sir…sir! I was waiting in the line…sir..!” I am anxious for the woman in front of me to finish writing her check so that I can get to the counter (who writes checks anymore?).
5:40:23pm. Two of the interlopers have claimed and purchased two of the remaining three shovels at a register that popped up out of nowhere to transact with the counter-rushing line-jumpers. Another clerk behind the counter points out to the (perhaps) senile manager that I had indeed been in the line (he didn’t even bother to tell him that he had already acknowledged me moments before – I guess this happens a lot), and that by rights, that shovel was mine. The manager hands it over the counter to me. I am still waiting for the check writer who nearly cost me the fruits of my labor. I clutch the shovel in my sweaty palms, aware that all eyes are upon me, holder of the last shovel.
5:40:33pm. I approach the counter, treasured shovel in hand, cash clutched in the other. I have no idea how much they are charging for these – and I don’t care. I can’t be sure, but this place doesn’t look like it takes cards of any kind– I will pay in cash so as to ensure the transaction.
5:40:59pm. Transaction completed. I am now the victorious owner of the Last Shovel in Town. I feel a curious mixture of self-consciousness, guilt, mild disgust (with the line crashers), relief, and, dare I say, satisfaction. I head home.
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