Price Check on a Pencil

This morning I made a noble, focused decision: I would go to Walmart and grab only one thing. One thing! A single, disciplined mission. I felt like a minimalist warrior, determined not to be lured into the vortex of “Rollback” signs and aisles full of things I definitely do not need (like a flamingo-shaped garden sprinkler or a 5-pound tub of cheese puffs).

I strutted into Walmart like I owned the place, repeating to myself: “One thing. In and out. No distractions.” I avoided eye contact with the seasonal aisle. I ignored the siren song of the snack section. I even dodged the dollar bins like I was Neo in The Matrix.

I grabbed my one item (okay fine, it was a pack of batteries because my TV remote gave up on life last night mid-Netflix episode). Proudly, I marched to the checkout. Victory was so close I could practically taste it.

Then I saw her.

Linda.

Linda stood in line ahead of me with her cart of mystery. But the cart wasn’t even full! Just a few random items — a candle shaped like a cupcake, some yarn, a single flip-flop (not a pair, just one), and a pencil. A single pencil.

The cashier scanned Linda’s items, but when she got to the pencil, Linda squinted and announced, “I think this was on sale for 10 cents.” The cashier paused, squinted back (as if they could telepathically confirm the price), and then picked up the intercom.

“Price check on a pencil for Linda on register four.”

Suddenly, the line behind us began to grow. I glanced back. A mom with three toddlers who were turning the candy display into a WWE arena. A man holding twelve frozen dinners and breathing heavily. A teenager scrolling so hard on his phone it looked like he was trying to start a fire.

Linda, completely unfazed, started telling the cashier about her grandson’s hamster and how it recently escaped its cage and chewed through her WiFi cable. The cashier nodded politely while the rest of us began bonding through shared suffering.

At this point, I started thinking about all the life choices that led me here. I mean, I only had one thing. I started plotting alternate routes: Do I abandon the line and try self-checkout? Do I risk it and switch to another line, only to watch this one finally move and curse my impatience?

The price check associate finally arrived — moving at the speed of a tortoise on vacation — holding the pencil aloft like it was a sacred artifact. “It’s 99 cents,” she declared.

Linda gasped. “Oh, then I don’t want it.”

The cashier removed the pencil as if it were a ticking bomb. The line erupted in a collective silent cheer. We all felt a deep spiritual connection, like we had survived a group wilderness retreat.

Linda gathered her remaining treasures, paid, and slowly — so slowly — pushed her cart away, still telling the cashier about the hamster’s new diet.

Finally, it was my turn. I threw my batteries on the counter like a contestant in a game show final round. The cashier scanned them. I paid. It was over.

As I walked out triumphantly, batteries in hand, I looked back at the battlefield of patience I had just survived. Linda was still there, chatting to an employee about whether the new garden center sells birdseed shaped like emojis.

I drove home with the batteries, a newfound respect for the resilience of the human spirit, and the knowledge that “just one thing” at Walmart is never just one thing — it’s a full-on spiritual test, a surprise social experiment, and a master class in patience wrapped into one.

May we all be strong enough to survive the Lindas of the world. 🛒✨