greatest place on earth

We’re on our way to my favorite place. It’s late. Well, it’s 6pm in November and that feels like midnight. I don’t know who’s in charge of time in America, but if the Minister of the Clocks could do the opposite of daylight savings from now on that would be swell. Maybe global warming will help? I don’t know. All I know is, at this hour, our destination is going to be swamped.

It must have rained while I was napping because the roads are damp. They look like they’re sweating. Coated in that healthy layer of perspiration that follows a good 30-minute session of horizontal cardio. They’re even steaming, the same way a meathead does when he leaves the gym in January. Can I still say meathead? Are they meatheads because they eat a lot of meat? Or because their bodies are thick and delicious-looking? Why am I so horny? We are off track. Where was I?

Oh yeah, the roads were wet. We pull into the parking lot and, as expected, the joint is bumpin’. We serpentine the rows at an absolute crawl. I don’t want to pray for a parking spot because there are too many other, more important things to pray for. So, I just wish and hope and cross my fingers and mutter “please, please, please” like a brunette Sabrina Carpenter. We waste a whole five minutes maneuvering around a little parking lot altercation. You know the one. Where a hefty woman named Trish is standing in a spot, saving it for her partner in crime Cheryl, while a pickup truck slowly approaches with the full intent of snagging the parking spot and leveling Trish in the process. Gosh, I wish I had Trish’s bravery.

A decade later we have parked. It will take us another century to walk to the entrance. But, at this point, I don’t care. We are near. We approach the neon sign. Ablaze with blue and red, it is our North Star. Guiding the final steps of our sojourn, beckoning us forth. I hear the convivial conversation from within. I smell the myriad of treats that calls this place home. We’re greeted at the door by Hank, someone I’m sure was my brother in a past life. Our card is scanned. At long last we are in! We are home! We are at Costco.

I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth in this temple of surplus. Costco is the last place on Earth to experience true wonder. Fine. Maybe not all of Earth. But certainly in the Dallas Fort Worth area. I’d even go so far as the entire state of Texas. Yes! Costco is surely the last place in the Lone Star State one can feel completely spellbound. It is so much more than a store. It is a sanctuary. It’s the only place my 72-inch body feels small. At Costco I am a child again. Or perhaps I was never an adult to begin with. Anything is possible. Maybe I am someone who buys a palette of spicy Japanese mayonnaise, or an inflatable hot tub, or 36 bananas. Prices are low, spirits are high, and the shopping cart could fit a family of five.

I am visiting one of my best friends in Dallas and this is our big Thursday night out. No shopping list, no agenda, just joy. Side-by-side, we peruse each aisle, luxuriating in the mundaneness of it all. Our chit-chat covers issues like croissants and throw pillows and brands of sparkling water. We look up, up, up in awe at the shelves stacked high with assorted foods and furnishings, unable to decipher Costco’s organizational code. We are showered with tastings of chips and sodas and chocolates, snacks to quell our hunger until we can make it to the hotdog stand. As we navigate this wholesale corn maze I feel utterly at ease. Everything I need is right here. It’s just that simple.

For a brief moment my friend and I separate; he in search of protein bars and me of enlightenment. I allow Costco’s vastness to swallow me whole. 10,000 leagues deep in this sea of stuff, my nagging inner thoughts are lulled to sleep. My true self is coaxed awake. The products blend together, nutrition facts illegible and packaging ablur. I am on a Costco-induced psychedelic trip of Phish proportions. I float above my fellow shoppers and through the infinite warehouse. This is what I came for. Not an item, but an experience. A closeness to Higher Power in this cavernous capitalist mecca. My friend touches my hand. In an instant my mind, soul, and feet land back on the concrete. I walk on, changed.

We arrive at the checkout counter in a state of bliss. Our haul includes a Christmas wreath, ramen, sliced mango, and a keyboard. We savor our final moments in this refuge with an all-American dinner: pizza for me and a hotdog for him. Wow that is a thick slice of pizza. Like a ream of paper, but hot and with cheese.

I’m reluctant to go, but I can’t stay in this fantasyland forever. Costco is Heaven, and I am needed back on Earth. We push the cart through the store doors and out into the night. The parking lot has emptied. The clattering of the wheels across the uneven pavement announces the sorry news that our time has come to depart this sacred space. There is a bittersweet silence as we unpack our newfound treasures into the trunk of his car.

“I’ll bring the cart back,” I say. I want to do this on my own.

As I guide the metal chariot back to its rightful home I feel a wave of gratitude wash over me, filling me with a sense of peace. How lucky am I to know this place? I peer up one final time at the sign that reads “Costco”, piercing the night sky with its message of truth. Is it somehow even brighter than before? Or has it grown?  I certainly know I have.