It shouldn't be that hard to find a parking place, but an element of perfectionism has you driving round and round the parking lot. You want to be close to the front, maybe in the shade. You definitely want to park somewhere you remember. You're going shopping, and for God's sakes you shouldn't have to get lost here. Wal-mart superstores have cameras on the front-facing wall of their stores. The cameras see you roll into place and start that walk from the huge lot to the inside of the store. You try to ignore the other people as you enter; once you're inside, a friendly gust of air conditioning passes over you. Imagine, the origins of these products. Taiwan, China, Mexico, America, all the places where people work at factories to oversee the mechanical assembly of pens, spray fans, and leather phone cases. The products, with their labels slapped on at a rate of thirty per second, are a necessary part of your life in America. You choose wisely, based on information put on the back, which items you want to trade currency in order to take home with you. You form a special bond with those most familiar products you always buy, memorizing their location in the store. It's like rainbow dynamite exploded in the middle of the floor, all the labels under the fluorescent lights blinding.. So many colors, things of all shapes, and God, the boxes. Oh, the boxes, how they come flying down, landed, busting open with all these Dixie cups flooding out. The boxes are ripped open by stockers and kept track of by people who deal inventory, shelved, ready-to-buy. The cardboard's packed tightly in a giant pallet for recycling and placed out back. You wonder if they sell their trash. You grab the deodorant. You live another day..