It started, perhaps fittingly, with one of my increasingly-infrequent-yet-not-quite-vanquished indulgences of obsessive behavior—in this case, going out in the middle of the night to get a cable that nearly doesn’t exist in the first place.
Wal-Mart—the one near County Line on the north side of 72, or maybe “the Jimmy’s Wal-Mart” is a funnier name for it—received me in a cold drizzle a few minutes before midnight. As I type it was a month and a half ago, and it was the first time I’d ever been in there. How long has that one been open?
Didn’t spend any money that night, but I’ve been back two more times since. That’s three trips to Wal-Mart in six weeks—as many times as I’d been in the preceding six years. Once was when Lea and I had lunch at Urban Chez, and we picked up a couple of things. Then we went Sunday after church because Aaron wanted to try Buffalo Rock ginger ale, and I had heard Wal-Mart had it. (They did.)
You know what? Wal-Mart seems to have unambiguously upped its game. The grocery selection was considerably more impressive than the last time I paid attention. The store was clean. And the personnel, though nowhere near Publix-caliber, at least weren’t a liability.
So I’m a Wal-Mart regular again? Let’s not get carried away. A couple of positive experiences won’t undo seething hatred decades in the making.
But I’m motivated to drop by again sometime in the nearer-than-usual future to see if I can add another positive visit. Eventually, despite ostensible witticisms to the contrary, the plural of anecdote does in fact become data.