9. The Will of Sam Walton

MADE IT TO SPRINGFIELD, IL, on a weary Tuesday night and immediately pulled into a local campsite for a night of rest.

The attendant greeted me at her station and I told her that I wanted the most basic package they had--no bells, no whistles--and she described the "primitive" option which was basically a patch of ground to park your car, and another patch to pitch your tent.

"How big is your tent?" she asked.

I replied that I honestly did not know how big my tent was. First of all, it wasn’t my tent. I was borrowing the tent from a friend. Second of all, even if it were my tent, I’ve never pitched a tent in my life. So I don’t know how big tents normally are.

And third of all, I had no intention of learning to pitch a tent in my fading condition in the dark of night. The first two I should have thought about before embarking on the trip, the last one I only should have thought about something that late afternoon or early evening.

"Honestly," I said to her, "considering the hassle, I think I’m just going to sleep in my car."

She rolled her eyes and returned to some paperwork which did not appear to keep her all that busy.

"Well,” she said, ”if you just want to sleep in your car, why don’t go just sleep in the WalMart parking lot? That’s free.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah, Sam Walton left it in his will that anyone can sleep in his parking lots for the night.”

“And people go there and purpose and don’t get eaten by serial killers?”

She looked up at me. “I’m actually just about ready to close up here.”

I DON’T KNOW much about WalMart. We don’t have WalMarts in Queens. All I know comes from what I read about WalMart business practices and the general idea that there is a giant box store run amok across America where you can buy, at big discounts, anything from shaving cream to rifles to pizza.

As far as I know, Queens never said, “There shall be no WalMarts here!” the way Brooklyn has stood up against them and Home Depot.

(Even though Brooklyn has a Lowe’s, Barnes & Noble, and now a gigantic and stylish Ikea. Don’t get me started here, Brooklyn. They think Home Depot will ruin the neighborhood.)

Queens has a Home Depot in College Point. It’s tucked behind the DMV, the New York Times printing plant, and a bowling alley. Guess you can’t say a store will ruin the neighborhood if there is no neighborhood.

The people of Queens seem generally happy to have a place to buy cheap wood and mix paint for them on the spot. I don’t know of anyone who complains about the Home Depot of Queens.

We even a Home Depot on Northern Blvd. But Northern Blvd will accept any business. If boulevards were high school students, Northern would be the kid that would join the Debate Team, sit on the bench for soccer, and coordinate the band’s travels, just to make friends—but no one would talk to him outside of his responsibilities.

“Hey, Jimmy, can you pass me my shin guards?”

“Sure, buddy, here you go. Hey, are you going—”

“Thanks Jimmy.”

That’s what Northern is. The place where you do your business and hope no one sees you doing it there.

You think Northern would protest a WalMart? You could open Soylent Green and Northern wouldn’t protest.

THERE ARE FOUR WALMARTS in Springfield, IL, all more or less located on the outskirts of town where there is enough room to build giant parking lots you could sit your RV in for the night.

The lot I found had three such RVs lurking on their west flank. Not sure exactly what the protocol was, I parked near the entrance and headed inside.

There was a security guard who greeted me as I made it through the automatic doors—a promising sign if I was allowed to sleep there, but a disaster if I wasn’t.

To my left, the deli section. To my right, the cashiers. And before me, thousands of square feet of discount merchandise. Flashlights, blue jeans, softball mitts. You name it.

If zombies ever took over the Earth, I would make a fort of WalMart.

A laminated sheet in the bathroom scrolled the regular cleanings. I suppose this was as good a place as any to brush my teeth.

And wash my face.

And rinse my hair.

Freshened up for the night, I returned to my car, drove it between two RVs. They sat standing over my shoulder like twin older brothers.

Too much junk in the passenger seat to move things around, so I just reclined the driver’s seat all the way back, stuck my cap over my eyes to cover the gleam from the parking lot night lamps, and tried to fall asleep.

AT FIRST I WAS ANXIOUS. Every passing car carried thirteen migrant workers out to carjack and rape me. They had nothing better to do with their time. And in their hierarchy of Carjack-Rape Meat, Greeks from Queens ranked the highest.

We were the stuff of legends. What they told their Carjacking friends about at Carjacking conventions.

“This one time, swear to God, found a Greek sleeping in a Grey Hyundai in get this—Springfield, Illinois! You believe that.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

But the sleep did come. And when it came, it fell down on me—as it always does—like a ton of bricks. Toes twinkling approvingly. Drool on my forearm. I slept like a babe, only to be awoken by a vicious thunderstorm. Rain lashed the parking lot and lightning tore strips through the sky.

After initially rousing me, the rain served as a security blanket. A protective cover of discomfort and wetness. “Thank you, Zeus,” I said aloud.

The rain was my bodyguard. Who gets carjacked in the rain? No one.

Carjackers stay home when it rains.

Everyone knows that. The rain. The snow. Any kind of precipitation. Cold, even. All these are carjacker deterrents. Carjackers are the opposite of mailmen. Everything keeps carjackers from their stated goals.

Carjacking is a fair-weather sport. It’s for Florida and Southern California. In New York, all the muggings take place in dark alleys where criminals can keep warm by a burning oil drum.

In Alaska, there are no carjackings. And no muggings.

Except for maybe in July. But I won’t even get there until September. Safety first, after all.

As for that night, I woke in the early morning to the sound of my alarm, returned my seat to its upright position and headed inside to wash up again in their restroom and buy breakfast from their deli section.

Why don’t you just sleep at WalMart? Good call, cranky reception lady, good call.

MY POSITIVE EXPERIENCE IN a WalMart parking lot does not guarantee that, indeed, Sam Walton left such a provision in his will. A quick search on the internet finds plenty of sites that also argue it was his dying wish, with many anecdotes of successful parking there for a night.

But individual results may vary.

Some accounts have people being evicted by WalMart security, mostly in more urbanized areas. I can see Springfield, Illinois, tolerating campers, but Northern Blvd in Queens? Or Valley Stream in Nassau? Somewhat doubtful.

Sleeping in a WalMart parking lot reminds me of my college days when I used to sleep on a floor. Who needs a mattress? People would always ask me, first, if that’s comfortable. It really is. Second, if that was an issue with the femmes. It never was.

And third, why I never really got a mat or something?

I didn’t like to give my boilerplate, the human race has gone two million years without a mattress, what need do we have of one now, speech. What was relevant to a poor student at the time was, if you can sleep without a mattress, the whole world is your mattress.

I feel that way now about WalMart. If you can sleep in a WalMart parking lot. All of America is to me a WalMart parking lot.

Go west, young man, go west, and sleep throughout the country.