Nothing like sand in your eye

When I was six years old, the kind people at the local Wal-Mart invited my class to visit their store for a lesson in capitalism. Miss Minshew's class was lined up single file on the sidewalk, facing one of those big plastic sandboxes.

"Children," said the Wal-Mart manager, "do you know what money is?"

Miss Minshew's class all hollered, "Yes!"

"Good. Do you know what money is for?"

We stared at her. "It's to buy things," she said. "Like your parents do when they come to Wal-Mart. Now, I have a very special surprise for you. Does everyone see the sandbox?"

"YES," I screamed with the rest of the class.

"We have buried one hundred dollars worth of one dollar bills and five dollar bills inside that sandbox, and when I blow this whistle, I want you all to run to the sandbox and start digging. You get to keep whatever you find, but you have to spend it inside Wal-Mart."

The class lost it's fucking mind. As soon as Ms. Wal-Mart touched the whistle around her neck, the entire class bolted toward the treasure. I dove into the box with Jennifer Carter hot on my heels. She landed on top of me, her left knee crushing my ribcage. My best friend, Stormy Garcia, elbowed me in the nose, and Shawn Smith threw sand in my eyes. I soldiered through the pain and frantically clawed at the sand, desperate to claim my share of the treasure. My hands touched paper, and I pulled out a five dollar bill, only to have it snatched from my hand by Missy Spencer, who ran towards Miss Minshew, hollering, "Rebel tried to take this five dollar bill I found."

I didn't get to buy anything at the Wal-Mart, so I sat in the sandbox while the rest of the class shopped, nursing my wounds.

Fucking Wal-Mart.