What is a sixty five year old writer who is between books to do with his time?
Work at Wal-Mart over the holidays. The world’s largest retailer employs over two million people and for a bit over a week, I was one of them. First, let me state that there is no recession at Wal-Mart. News reports about sales drops at major retailers always contain the words, “except Wal-Mart.” The company, like Rush Limbaugh, has chosen to opt out of the current economic downturn.

December 19th. Be here at ten, I am told, for orientation. We have an opening for a cart pusher. Are you interested? Sure, why not. What the hell is a cart pusher, anyway?

The orientation call is preceded by an interview. Two, actually, both with assistant managers who have the look of people who talk to a lot of prospective Wal-Mart associates, as we are known.

“I have some questions I would like you to answer,” they both say, separately. The questions deal with circumstances that might come up during the course of a day at the store. One has to do with whether you, the Wal-Mart associate, would decide to deal with a customer’s problem or a fellow associate’s issue, at a given moment. The correct answer, as you may have surmised, is the customer. The customer always wins, we say. We have many such sayings.

Back to the interview questions. Let us say there is a task to be done, one that would take, say, fifteen minutes. You are at the end of your shift. Would you say, “My shift is over and I am leaving, or would you complete the task, even though it would require you to remain at work for an extra few minutes?” Whew! This is tricky ground at Wal-Mart. The company has just settled a 500 million dollar lawsuit filed by employees who claim they were required to work off the clock. The correct political answer is, “I would remain to complete the task.” The correct Wal-Mart answer, I would later learn, is “I am off the clock and I can not work.” This is in response to the settlement. I would later learn that Wal-Mart has dedicated itself to eradicating off-the-clock work. I give the correct political answer and the assistant manager beams.

“He is very impressed with you, “ the other assistant manager states as we begin yet another round of “what would you do?” questions.

December 19th arrives and we new associates report to the Germantown, Maryland store at the appointed hour to begin our orientation. The woman who called to inform me about the even told me it would last four hours. She had bad information. It is actually eight hours. Mark that down if you are waiting for your own Wal-Mart call.

The first part of the orientation is a series of videos detailing such things as the proper way to lift boxes, open a box using a box cutter, clean up spills, and how to handle a fire or bomb threat. Never use the word “bomb”. Customers react badly.

We are then walked through company policies, many having to do with showing up for work. It is important, we are told. Otherwise, we may be fired. My fellow orientees sit through it all, stone faced. There are four women who are going to be part time cashiers. They are part time at other jobs and this is just another hoop to jump through. There is a man who appears to be Middle Eastern, older, like myself, who also appears to be educated. He has a well-trimmed mustache and fashionable glasses. “In this day and age, we are lucky to have any job at all,” he says, looking wise as he stares at me. I think he is going into receiving where all of the merchandise comes off trucks. It sounds even worse than pushing carts. There is another older gentlemen who smiles through almost everything. There is an African man who looks as though he is facing execution. His eyes are frightened and he closely examines everything put in front of him, all those forms to sign indicating he is available to work pretty much whenever Wal-Mart needs him. We are all instructed to sign the same statement.

Now that we have been orientated, we must begin training, which is done through a series of computer programs. Much of the material is familiar and covers the same ground as the earlier videos. Some cover sexual harassment or non-inclusion of others. If Mary stares at Brad’s butt, is that sexual harassment? The answer is yes. Brad does not weigh in on this, at least in the computer phase of it. If Bob tells Sue she looks great and asks if she has lost more weight, is that sexual harassment? No, not if Bob leaves it at that. Is it correct to say to a new baker, “I see you’re Jewish. You must make great bagels.” No, it is not correct. We also learn the correct way to use those belts that are supposed to help us lift heavy things. We learn about ladders. We learn about the sensors that track inventory and cause things to beep when we are leaving the store. The man’s voice on this computer segment was very soothing and I had been at the computer for a couple of hours by this time, so it took me three tries before I could pass this segment. Did I mention there are questions at the end of these things?

Sunday, December 21st. The last Sunday before Christmas. I am finally pushing carts, the job for which I have been pushed through the Wal-Mart induction system. A cart pusher, as it turns out, is just what it implies. At the Germantown Wal-Mart the cart pushers are all male. I have no idea if that is discrimination or whether women are simply too bright for this job. Cart pushers go around the parking lot gathering the carts that customers have left near their cars, near other cars, next to trees, in the middle of traffic lanes, and occasionally in the designated cart areas. My instructor, my mentor, as it were, is named Nir. Nir is from Nepal. “I am refugee. I won lottery. Lottery? Is lottery?” I suppose. Nir is fifty eight years old and wonders what I am doing working as a cart pusher at Wal-Mart. So am I. “What country you?” he asks. “USA,” I respond. He looks suspicious. “USA?” “Yes, USA.”

He stares at me for a moment and motions for me to follow him behind a machine, a real cart pusher, that acts as a kind of tractor to push twenty or thirty carts at a time. He knows his business and wants me to know it as well.

“Put and take,” he says, at one of the cart areas. “What is put? Take? Same?”

I place my new Wal-Mart badge on a cart. “Put,” I say. I remove it and grandly pull it to my body. “Take.”

He smiles. “Good example,” he responds. Is he putting me on?

He shows me how to take a line of carts back to the store’s chute, where customers can access them as they begin their shopping experience. There is a lot of walking involved in this job.

Another cart pusher arrives. Shing Deen Shang, or something like that. The man does not pronounce his own name and I am left with what I am hearing from Nir, who says it over and over, each time more unintelligible than the last. Shing Deen Shang, or however it is pronounced, is an older gentlemen from China who has been pushing carts at Wal-Mart for a couple of years, as I understand it, although it might have been twenty years or two months. It was hard to make out.

The gentleman seems to understand only two words of English: break and lunch. He knows the word break means he has fifteen minutes to sit down. Lunch is one hour and must be clocked out and in. At all other times he must be pushing carts and he is a hard worker. The man can push some carts.

It is very cold, somewhere in the twenties, with a stiff wind. There is ice on the carts. We cart pushers will be working outdoors all day, with breaks and lunch as the only times we can be indoors. Shoppers rush into the store scarcely looking at anything except the door that reads “Enter”. Carts disappear as if by magic. Lines of carts brought through the cold and wind vanish as eager holiday shoppers snap them up. Twenty, thirty, forty shopping carts are swept away in this wave of consumer desire before we cart pushers can round up replacements. At one point Nir waves his hand at the store and mutters, “Too many customers!” and shakes his head. I doubt if the headquarters geeks down in Arkansas have the same reaction to the madness we are witnessing.

A woman pushes her loaded cart past me in the parking lot and shouts, “Whatever happened to the recession?”

Another man hands me his cart and says, “I thought retail sales were down.”
Well, sir, not here.

You might be thinking, right about now, that Wal-Mart is the low end of the retail business, a store where down market shoppers go to get cheap goods made by child slaves in far away countries. Wal-Mart says it is addressing the slave issue and promises that it will enforce fair pay by local standards. The goods are inexpensive, but not necessarily cheap. As for the down market shoppers, there is a fair amount of Porsche’s, BMWs and Escalades in the parking lot, some with D.C. tags. The occupants of these expensive vehicles are well dressed, well coifed and have that certain joie de vivre one associates with the educated successful in the Washington area. They wear clothing obviously not purchased at Wal-Mart, high-end overcoats and a bit of fur. But their carts are filled with the electronic gadgets that would cost more at other stores. Things like flat screen televisions and cameras. Who’s to know that the holiday gift so lovingly offered came from Wal-Mart? These, too, are Sam Walton’s customers. C’est vrai. (It’s true)

A man and woman push their cart to their Lexus SUV with D.C. tags and fill the cargo area with bags. He’s sixtiesh, she’s a bit younger, but not by much. He looks bemused as he observes the crowds. She gets in the car. He closes the cargo door and gingerly climbs into the driver’s seat. A man walks by carrying a couple of bags containing electronic merchandise. He’s wearing what appears to be an expensive turtleneck sweater. His slacks are well tailored and his shoes look to be Italian. He is well muscled and carries himself with confidence. He climbs into his Porsche and says, “It could be a bit warmer.” He has a South African accent.
Immigrant families push carts to their fifteen-year-old Toyotas and pack them with clothing, food and diapers. Two men try to jump start an aging van as the Porsche drives away. Nir and the Chinese man smile at me as we round up carts. Nir takes the opportunity for an English lesson. “I work two years? I work for two years?” “For two years,” I say. “I work for two years,” he repeats into the wind.

The company has brought Montgomery County police officers in to stand at the doors and check receipts. There is a line behind the officers as the customers, rich and poor, wait to be approved to leave the store. The officers are wearing uniforms, complete with bulletproof vests and handguns, but they are unfailingly polite and patient as exiting customers hand over their receipts to be checked against the merchandise in the carts. Some of the Hispanic families look nervous. There is a well-dressed Russian couple in the line, but they look arrogant, not worried about the cops.

The sun sets and it is even colder. Six o’clock arrives and I leave after my first day as part of the great Wal-Mart machine, my contribution aiding the customers as they seek to fill the carts and max out their Visa and MasterCards.

Monday, December 22nd. My car tells me it is fourteen degrees outside as I drive into the parking lot. I am wearing a thick wool sweater (blue, as required), and I have a knit hat and thick, insulated gloves. Nir is off today. The Chinese guy is working and waves as I walk up. He points to a cart pushing machine and then waves his arms around the parking lot. It is easy to understand what he is saying. Get to work. What have I done? I ask myself. I begin the all day process of rounding up carts for the swarms of shoppers who cannot get the concept of frugality into their heads. The entire day is a fruitless quest to feed the chutes where customers grab their carts and head into the overcrowded aisles to buy things. I am only on my second day and already I despise them all for their mindless consumption and use of carts.

One customer leaves a freshly purchased speaker in a cart. Another brings a cart to a drop-off point and leaves several bags of merchandise inside. I take this stuff to the customer service desk where a weary looking woman says, “We’ll take care of it.” A few minutes later I find a diamond necklace near the store entrance and bring it to the customer service manager. She looks at it and says she will take care of it. Do these people ever come back? I wonder.

The highlight of the day is the arrival of a new cart pushing machine. The customer service manager grabs the Chinese man and me and makes us watch a video on how to operate the thing. He does not understand a single word but sits with a benign look on his face until it ends, at which time he smiles, stands up, and goes back to work.

The bitterly cold day ends. I have earned sixty-four dollars.

Tuesday is an off day. The next day is Christmas Eve. Nir proclaims “Too many customers!” before noon and by mid afternoon the parking lot is in gridlock. The whole thing reminds me of FedEx Field on game day as crowds stream in with looks of anticipation. It is cold, but not as cold as Monday and there is no ice on the carts. The store will close at 6pm. But five o’clock there is a feeling of hysteria in the air. Cars and SUVs are chocking the entrances to the store as husbands wait in their vehicles for wives to emerge with carts filled with the things dreams of made of; things like flat screens and toaster ovens and nine dollar jeans. Even the cops look nervous. The lines behind the officers are growing and are more like crowds than lines.

I take my lunch break at one o’clock and go to the break room where Wal-Mart has provided tables and chairs for the staff. I munch on my sandwich and count about thirty people in the room. I am the only white male. There is a white woman about my age sitting at a table with an African, someone who appears to be Middle Eastern, and an African American woman. They chat easily. The place sounds and smells like the United Nations. Pungent odors of food from many far away places fill the room and mingle with the sounds of Farsi, Indian and Pakistani, African languages, Spanish, Chinese and other languages.

We all sit under posters advising us that prenatal care is essential, that we are not work off the clock, and we have a right to talk to upper management as part of the company’s open door policy.

It occurs to me that in a store filled with inexpensive items made in far away places, the staff is inexpensive people from those same far away places. This is the crossroads of the global economy, right here in Wal-Mart, where the currency movement is as dramatic as anywhere in Earth. A dollar goes to China to purchase an item that finds its way to the clothing department. That item is purchased by a Russian couple. The profit is used to pay the salary of a woman from Senegal, who sends some of it home. All roads lead to Wal-Mart. Stand in the middle of the Germantown store and witness the modern economy. It is there where one can feel and understand why a downturn in the housing market in Montgomery County can be felt in Pakistan or Honduras, although at this moment no such downtown is in evidence, given the surging hoards in the aisles.

By five thirty an assistant manager is standing in the entrance shouting, “We are closing at six!” at the astonished shoppers who cannot believe what they are hearing. “Six? You’re closing at six?” “Did you hear that? They’re closing at six!” We cart pushers are in full attack trying to keep up with demand as last minute shoppers race into the store and push past the crowds trying to get out. The police are yelling, “The store is closing at six!” as whole families race to electronics section.

An Asian woman walks past me. She has the look of the Washington professional. Well cut hair, white tailored jacket, black skirt, calf-high black boots. She looks at me as if I am a post and walks through the crowds into the store. Graduate degree, I think, but not Ivy League. Too fashionable for that. Moments later she walks out with a look of disdain. This is not a woman who will put up with crowds and hysteria. She walks away with the same look of determination she arrived with. Where to now? Target is nearby. Their parking lot is not full.
By five fifty managers are standing in the entrance to block new arrivals. It does not help so the doors are closed. There is a line of cars trying to leave the parking lot and no one is going anywhere.

The store is closed on Christmas Day. The next day is the beginning of the post holiday season, when smiling shoppers go looking for bargains that presumably were not available forty eight hours earlier. I work noon to 9pm. When I arrive the crowds are already holding their gift cards and looking for merchandise. It is not as dramatic as Christmas Eve, however, and the parking lot is not full. I spend my hours moving carts into the chutes and waiting for it to be over. It is my last day as a cart pusher. This is not my path.

My new friend Nir smiles as he practices his English. “On Wednesday, there were too many customers.” He looks at me and waits for me to nod. “Yes,” I say. “On Wednesday, there were too many customers,” he repeats, heading into the parking lot.

Larry Matthews is an award-winning broadcast journalist and author. He spent more than three decades in radio and television as a reporter, investigative journalist, anchor, news director, editor and producer at such as ABC Radio and National Public Radio. Matthews is the author of I Used To Be In Radio, a memoir about his career, the stories and people he has covered and the case that brought him nationwide attention; and Street Business, a novel about the real-life work of Detective Ernie Lijoi, who brought down one of New England’s major cocaine rings.