Invasion of the Wal Martians

The Wal Mart shareholders meeting and extravaganza was last week.  Once a year thousands of shareholders and associates (employees aka Wal Martians) converge at Bud Walton Arena at the University of Arkansas campus here at Fayetteville.  There are free concerts by some big names in entertainment.  This year, Sir Elton John showed up.  Celebrities also make surprise appearances.  This year it was Hugh Jackman (who performed a song from Les Miserables) and Tom Cruise.

If you grew up here, as I did, it’s a bit mind-boggling that these people find their way here at all.  It’s a testament to Wal Mart’s influence and deep pockets.  Having the world’s largest retailer headquartered a few miles up the road adds a different layer of quirkiness to Faytown.  The Big W has always been up in Bentonville, but it hasn’t always been the world’s largest retailer.  If you've been here for a while it’s like having the goose that lays the golden eggs grow up from a gosling in your back yard.

I’ve just started writing a novel about Fayetteville that takes place just before and during shareholders week.  It’s a quirky humor story I’ve had stowed in my brain for a few years now and the time feels right to start it.  Friday night I took an information-gathering field trip to Dickson Street because I knew some Wal Martians would be there to dine out and cut loose after the last day of the event.  I took a friend with good vision so he could point out weird and funny people.

Since my vision got worse ten years ago, there are few things I miss more than people-watching.  

It was a perfect evening to be outside—low humidity and in the 70s.  We ate outside on the balcony at Hog Haus—a perfect vantage point to observe Arkansas’ favorite street.

I wanted to talk to at least one foreign Wal Martian and I wasn’t disappointed.  A table of British Wal Mart associates was at another table on the balcony.  One young woman had on a blue T-shirt with a Superman logo on front and a red cape with writing on the back.  It was something about the British version of Wallyworld and it was the ice-breaker I needed. 

It turned out she was from Yorkshire, the same part of England my family came from a few hundred years ago.  She chatted with us quite a while and I asked her if she’d seen Elton John before.

“No, he’s too expensive to see in England.”  I loved the irony of her seeing a fellow Brit performing in Arkansas of all places.  I wondered what the place must look like to all these foreign visitors.  Then her friend from Manchester joined her.  For a country around the size of Arkansas, the accent can change a lot from place to place.  Her friend said something that didn’t even sound like English.

“What did she say?” I asked my friend.

They all laughed.

“She said a lot of people here can’t understand her.”

Later we ran into other English Wal Martians on the street asking for directions to a karaoke bar.  Why, I wondered, would they want to hear karaoke with all these great bands performing?  But I didn’t want to sound like I was looking down on their culture.  I know Brits like to get drunk and sing in pubs over there.  Hearing an English accent (I never encountered people from any other countries) added a bit of surreality to a street long known as a place where you might see or hear just about anything.

My biggest laugh came when some women told us they were from an area of England called The Midlands.

“You know—where the big rugby stadium is,” she said.

We never heard of that and tried to explain where The Midlands is.

“Well, I figured you weren’t from Midland, Texas,” I joked.

“No, if I was from Texas I’d sound like this…”  Then she did (or tried to do) a Texas accent.  I couldn’t understand what she said even after she repeated it for me.  Trust me, it was hilarious.

By this time next year I plan to buy some Wal Mart stock so I can observe it all up close.  I’d like to think I’ll be finished with the novel by then, but it’s unlikely.  Part of the plot will require me to research a few things I don’t know much about.  I wish that information gathering could be as fun as Friday was.  Most of it will involve looking things up online.

More about Jim at JimFairbanls.net

You Don't Have to Be A Standout to Be Somebody

Thanks to Facebook I was invited to the 30 year reunion for the class I went to school with, but didn’t graduate with.  Midway through 11^th grade my family moved.  That didn’t matter to those who planned the reunion.  It was about the shared experience of growing up here.

There were over 400 who graduated from FHS in 1982.  I wasn’t involved in any activities, wasn’t athletic, or a standout by any definition of the word.  I doubted many people would even remember me.  In addition to that, the big hairstyle of that era has been replaced by a crewcut and mostly relocated to my face in the form of a beard.

That tiny insecure voice inside told me to be ready for someone to tap me on the shoulder and say, “You didn’t actually graduate with us, so you have to leave.”

It also told me to be ready in case someone copped an attitude with me, like a high school student would.  Health issues (some potentially fatal), life in some big cities, vision loss, life in a couple of large cities with vision loss have all created a much less easily intimidated version of me than the one people might remember in high school.  I’ve had to learn to stand up for myself over the years.

Then a different tiny voice told me that time and maturity hasn’t ignored all those people.  It told me to just expect a good time.  Never mind the high odds of me being the only legally blind one there.  Or the only one with a couple of transplanted organs.  I might not be the most enviable one there, but I was pretty sure I had the most atypical life.

Three weeks before the reunion, I had my gall bladder removed along with a hernia repair.  I was down 15 pounds, which would have been a blessing for some, but not in my case.  In just a few weeks I went from being in the best shape of my life to the same scrawny body I had in high school.  It was a chore to find clothes that didn’t hang off me.  Everybody wants to look at these things, whether it’s been 10 years or 70. 

Yes, I was a little self-conscious beforehand about being the only visually-impaired one there.  But, that's almost always the case and I'm finally coming to terms with it.  Besides, most of the others have to use reading glasses these days.  I guess that makes me a trendsetter.

I had a good time.  People walked up and spoke to me, so it didn’t matter that I couldn’t see across the room.  I said, “You actually remember me?” about a dozen times.  The usual response was, “Of course I do.”

When I said that to Ziva, followed by, “I was such a nobody,” she looked me in the eye and said, “Everybody is somebody.”  This from one of the cool, tall, pretty chicks back in high school who I didn’t really know back then.  I had approached her wanting to connect with a fellow writer.

The next thing I knew, I was having a great time with her, Jinger, and Lisa (more cool, pretty girls who were at the reunion) on Dickson Street.  I expected to see old friends that night, but never expected to make new ones of people I hadn’t known back then.

Since then, I’ve done a little revising on the history book in my head.  I already knew that sometime since 1982, I had become somebody.  It turns out you don’t have to be a standout to be somebody and more people notice you than you think.

Now I stand out without really trying and not for the reasons I would have chosen.  Now I’m somebody because of that.  But it turns out I was somebody all along.   

401K . . . Bikers

Sorry for the absence the past few weeks.  I thought I had made the following post, which I wrote a week or two ago.  I could blame it on adjusting to the new, much larger computer monitor—the first flat panel one I’ve ever owned.  Or I could blame it on the extended-wear contact lens I got the same day, which also took some getting used to.  Maybe I’ll blame it on being frazzled from having at least 401,000 bikers and others (conservative estimates put the figure much higher) riding around downtown and keeping me awake.  Yeah, that’s it.  I’ll go with that one.

Is it over yet?  Two weeks ago hundreds of thousands of bikers rode around for several days, all over town but mostly within blocks of my home.  I finally took a strong sleep aid and did a Rip Van Winkle.  It may have been overkill, but I slept under the bed to muffle the sound even more.  Now here I am, bleary-eyed and covered in dust bunnies, trying to remember my lost week.

Monday, September 26  The official start date of Bikes, Blues, and BBQ is still two days away, but there’s a noticeable increase in the number of motorcycles around town.  The perfect weather (75 degrees, cloudless blue sky) has no doubt lured them here early.  The significance of this doesn’t hit me until well after midnight, when the swarm of bees over on

Dickson Street

still buzzes.  Instead of sheep, I count Hogs.

Tuesday  It’s too nice to stay in.  I walk to

Dickson Street

to eat lunch outside on the patio at U.S. Pizza.  It’s rather peaceful back there and I can overhear people at other tables. 

     “After a few of these things, they all seem the same.”

     “Yeah.  If I was a big bike enthusiast, I might stick around for it, but I’m going to the (Razorback) game this weekend in Dallas.”

     “I’m stocking up on beer, DVDs, and food so I won’t have to leave the house.”

     It’s a pretty common sentiment among locals.  It’s like when there’s a Razorback football game at the stadium times ten.  Most of us hunker down and wait it out until all the out-of-towners are gone. 

From there, I attempt to run a couple more errands down the street.  The sidewalks are blocked with unassembled tents and canopies for the vendors.  After stumbling over a few, I give up and go home.  It can wait until next week.

Wednesday  The official beginning of Bikes, Blues, and BBQ—the third largest motorcycle event in the nation and the largest held for charity.  It’s the charity part that keeps me from complaining too much about it.  That, and the fact it pumps a gazillion dollars into the local economy every year.  That helps the city pay for stuff without raising my taxes.  I chant this to myself over and over like a mantra as I try to fall asleep.

Thursday:  Funnel cake.  I know they have funnel cake for sale over there.  Last year, I ventured as far as the funnel cake stand (after giving up on having bratwurst first because it was two blocks and 20,000 people away).  This time, not even the sweat, high-carb memory of my favorite carnival food is enough to draw me into the crowded, noisy streets.  I will go funnel cake-less until a smaller festival or street fair comes to town.

Friday:  The beehive has become a giant hornet’s nest.  The non-stop buzzing has caused a persistent headache.  After a hotter’n hell summer, the weather is flawless.  I want to sit outside on my patio, but it’s even louder out there.  I’m only a couple blocks from Ground Zero—

Dickson Street

—where Arkansas (and parts of surrounding states) comes to party and cut loose.

Of course, I knew about all of that before I moved here from another part of town.  I like the convenience of being able to walk to places where I can eat, drink, hear live music, send mail, get a prescription filled, shop at a farmers market, buy all kinds of other stuff, and people-watch (to the extent that I can still do that).  

I refuse to become one of those people who whine about the event.  Living in a fun, interesting place means sharing it from time to time.  I chant this to myself as I try once again to fall asleep.

Saturday:  The final day of the event.  Writing is impossible.  The noise and lack of sleep (caused by the noise) keep me from concentrating.  Like a fool, I scheduled a book signing this afternoon.  I actually left early.  The store was dead and I could hardly stay awake. 

Next year, I’ll go out of town.  It’s what thousands of New Orleanians do during Mardi Gras.  I have plenty of time to plan.  Wherever I go, there’s one thing I’m sure of—there won’t be any motorcycles there.  They’ll all be in Fayetteville.

Anybody want to take in a legally blind, middle-aged biker rally refugee?  You can offer now or feel guilty when you see the commercial I make with Sarah McLaughlin singing.