Walmart and Laundering

I did almost nothing at all last Thursday. It was my first day of “rest” since I landed in Joplin. I spent the whole day just wandering back and forth throughout the Refuge aimlessly. Though at 6:30p I attended the weekly Bible study.

The study was on the book of Daniel; specifically the prophecy of the anti-christ / second coming in the latter portion thereof. I hadn’t thought about the end-times prophecies in a long time, and at first thought mostly to scoff at it. But when the pastor pointed out the same prophesy reiterated through Jesus in the book of Matthew I began to warm to its consideration.

By the end of the meeting my head had begun to swim. With this passage from Daniel, a whole world of my father’s Seventh Day Adventist teachings had come crashing into my mind; and I was left a little overwhelmed. Adventists are big-into the ‘end times’ prophecies and apt to draw many different conclusions as to who the anti-christ will be; what symbols of the text represent what nations; and when the last days will be upon us. This childhood brimming over with interpretations of the book of Revelations assailed my senses rather suddenly. I had to step outside for a cigarette, reminding myself that while prophesy is a good thing and a worthwhile study, first and foremost is our personal daily doings in pursuit of the mysteries of God, and we mustn’t let anything ever threaten to overshadow that.

Aside from the Bible group I did nothing worthy of note. Though by the end of this fruitless day I had resolved to sweat, burn, and bleed at the dawn of the next rising sun. And boy: Did I.

-

I awoke early Friday morning and set myself to the task of earning a little laundry money. I’ve been hesitant to accept any real, paid, earthly work. I didn’t leave a good job, a reliable car, and a nice house in Michigan to take on some mediocre day-job in southern Missouri. I came here to better know God, peace, and my own happiness; eventually to minister to others who find themselves lacking and seeking this same. Perhaps even to minister to the various churches who are oft found wayward and beset with hypocrisy. While I have the ability to provide for myself, I desire, rather, the embrace of the Lord’s provisions. Let Him provide me my needs and I shall do His work on Earth. For I have found the past provisions made of myself as well as those made of other men on my behalf to be lacking; without equality of exchange or spiritual fulfillment; and an all-around bum deal.

On this topic: a few days earlier I had been torn from a peaceful slumber by one of my fellow residents at the shelter – staring down at me, wide eyed and hurried – saying that there was someone out front who needed two men to help lay some carpet for a day. Excitedly, he told me of the $50.00 promised for the day’s labor. I came out of my bed slowly, still quite unsure whether I wanted to spend a whole day working under the charge of man rather than the charge of God.

But it was far too early for me to stir all neurons to fire and make a firm decision one way or the other. So I hurried off to the bathroom, drained my bladder, and headed outside to meet my day’s employer. Thankfully, in my stead he had already gone. All praise be to God.

Though I am still wrestling with my apprehension toward earthly works, I decided on Friday to head to the other side of town and play some good ole’ street corner guitar; throwing the empty guitar case in front of me and waxing-lyrical for otherwise unsolicited donations.

I hadn’t been to the other side of town at that point. I’ve been staying on the west side of Joplin, in what’s known as the historic downtown district. On this side of town all things are referred to by their position relative to Main Street. The buildings and blocks all look as a city should: Mostly brick buildings with storefronts at ground level and apartments overtop; A bank here, a park there, a church every thirteen feet…

To the East side of town, all stated locations are derived of Rangeline Road; and all destinations exist for the purpose of consumery: Fast-food, gas stations, video rental, and grocers; Dentists, doctors, lawyers, and psychics. And in their midst, the obligatory mother of all outlets - the undisputed god of retail: Ladies and gentleman… I give you, Walmart.

Now, I’m not sure the physical distance between Main St and Rangeline but I can tell you that it’s a mile, a metaphor, and one hell of a walk lying betwixt these twain. I made the unfortunate decision to weather this journey with not only guitar over shoulder, but also my backpack.

Within this backpack are three books, including my Bible; my laptop and it’s charger; mini MP3 player, earphones, and some cables; all my bathroom gear; and a small bag of snacks. I would imagine altogether it is a 15lb load; not much of a burden… Until you match it with a guitar, walking staff, and a 2+ mile hike under a harsh, striking, sunlight.

By the time I reached Rangeline I had stopped three times to rest and sweat enough to bathe a small child in. I had been told by some of the residents at the Refuge that there was a good place to sit and play guitar in the plaza containing ToysRUs. But when I arrived I saw no significant foot traffic to suggest any great potential for entertaining the masses or making my laundry change.

So I kept walking. I turned south and headed toward the string of fast food dives and audio / video outlets. Soon enough I found the entrance to that great demon of the profit margin: Walmart. I headed toward its parking lot.

The road leading to the Walmart is ridiculous. Empty stretches of broken parking lots occupy three times the land that the building itself sits on. At the crest of this concrete mound is the perfect view of man’s folly. To the right you find yourself overlooking Rangeline Rd; with the faces of two hundred storefronts all clamoring to push closer and tighter to the main drag than the one before it; all choking beneath an overhead veil of gently wafting carbon monoxide. To the left: a sea of this vacant pavement. Pay the boatman his fare and be shepherded across a blacktop purgatory to the final destination: Your friendly, local Walmart – where bargains are King.

Having not the fare I swam the moat myself, setting up my little would-be stage at the edge of the building; sat upon a bench just behind the bus stop. When I first began playing I didn’t have the nerve to just bust out and start singing. It’s been a long time since I played any street corner guitar and I’m much more comfortable, these days, sitting before a captive audience in the spotlight than I am breaking the quiet bustle of commerce with the cry of song.

I imagine it took me one or two cigarette breaks and a good 45 minutes to truly warm up to playing street side again. But once I broke myself open I really started having fun. There were two songs, specifically, that I wanted to play but that I usually sing in too low an octave to adequately project without amplification; so I moved my vocals up an octave; laughing all the way at both my, yet untested, abilities and inabilities to hit the proper notes. By the end of the day I was jolly and full of mirth.

It was a beautiful sight: seeing all these people pull into a Walmart parking lot – deep within a malaise of daily rigmarole – easing out of their cars, expecting nothing but the abrasive sound of shopping cart wheels smacking and creaking against the textures of the pavement beneath them; Each of them, spinning their faces toward me with a snap as they heard my guitar and voice… A brief pause, and then a smile breaking across their faces. Each walking away with a spring in their step that surely would not have been, save for this: my unexpected gift of song.

After three or four hours of playing the cuticle on my right thumb was bloodied, as were my guitar strings, from playing without a pick; my guitar bag had been added to with some $12.00; and my voice was beginning to break on the high notes. I would’ve remained there strumming for another hour or so but it was then that I was finally approached by the, much expected and compulsory, Walmart employee.

A man, followed closely by another whom I presume was intended as his body-shield in the event of my psychopathy, approached while I rounded the first chorus of this day’s third performance of Pearl Jam’s, ‘Black.’ (A song I grew to hate many years ago after playing it innumerable times at too many venues, but that many recognize and seem to gather enjoyment from hearing.) He stood in front of me for a few seconds before I stopped singing mid-song to hear him speak the words I already knew were in his mind.

“I’ve got to ask you to move on. I can’t have you out here playing music and asking for money.”

My first thought was to respond: “Well, despite this being a spot right in front of a Walmart, you’ll notice that we’re standing at a bus stop, sir. As such this is public property and if you’d like me to leave you need to call the police and prove that I am either disturbing the peace or somehow loitering; which is a bit of a hard sell in this situation. That aside, those charges are civil infractions, which means while I can be fined I cannot be arrested nor dragged away.”

My second thought was to respond: “Hey buddy, I’m just trying to make enough money to do my laundry, okay?! Sorry, but I’ve rejected your bullshit ideals of property gain and monetary enrichment as the end-all of existence. Who the hell am I hurting by bringing a little spontaneity and joy to your customer’s lives? I’m not asking for any payment and neither am I pan-handling here. I’m providing a service of great spiritual value absolutely free of charge. I play whether anyone pays me or not. I’m simply accepting whatever donations a person might wish to make of their own volition. So buzz off, jerk.”

My third thought was to respond: “And in the day of judgment it shall be said that when I was an hungered you did not feed me; when I thirsted you gave me no drink; and when I was naked you did not clothe me. And before that greatest judge, the Lord Himself, He shall look upon you saying: I do not know you.”

Thankfully, I went with my fourth instinctual response: Nothing. I stared vacantly at him and nodded; remembering afterwards this teaching of Jesus: “Agree with thine adversary quickly, whiles thou art in the way with him; lest at any time the adversary delivery thee to the judge, and the judge deliver thee to the officer, and thou be cast into prison.”(Matt. 5:25)

As I gathered up my things, a woman came over handing me another $2.00 and sharing in my disappointment of forced departure. Unscathed I crossed, once more, the ocean of asphalt to Rangeline Road and headed back toward the ToysRUs; reasoning to play a little more guitar before making the hellish trek returning to west Joplin. Along the way I stopped at a music shop and bought a thirty-seven cent, celluloid guitar pick, saving my thumbnail and cuticle from any further unneeded abuse. And in the ToysRUs parking lot I added another five dollars or so to my collected bounty.

-

Later that night I washed my dirty laundry for a total cost of $4.25; leaving a relatively hefty sum to put toward off-brand sodas, cigarette tobacco, and all manner of those things which might someday corrupt my lungs and entrails to the point of dysfunction. (High fructose corn syrup: It’ll kill ya’. Look it up!)

Joplin, Missouri - written 10.13.2007