Author's note: The original version of this column was published in 2019.
In a nation admired for freedom of expression and speech lived neighboring kumquat store owners, each serving customers from all races, political bents and religions.
Both businesses flourished even though they offered the same quality and size of kumquats. Because local residents had such a hankering for juicy kumquats, there were enough sales to keep both stores successful. The newspaper ran advertisements from each as they competed for customers.
In America, that's known as the competitive, free-enterprise system.
Though it was always nip-and-tuck in this kumquat market, things rocked along smoothly for the first few years, until politics entered the picture.
One owner inexplicably decided to needlessly alienate at least half of his customers by voicing personal political views in advertisements and in his behavior toward those who believed differently than he did.
He placed an enormous banner above his storefront that read: "Kumquat customers who don't hate the same elected leaders we do obviously consume far too many of our product."
Having successfully run his business for years in the face of stiff competition hadn't been enough to satisfy him. He believed everyone needed to know and follow his feelings about politics. Even long-term customers who'd helped keep him afloat but whose thoughts differed from his own now felt uncomfortable in his store.
Meanwhile, his competitor two blocks down the street erected a large flashing neon sign that read: "Customers: Feel free to freely believe as you will. Kumquats 20 percent off."
As weeks passed, the hardened political owner watched sales steadily plummet as his competitor's sales flourished. The worse this contrived situation became, the more defensive he became toward more than half of his former customers who, after all, had only been interested in purchasing ripe kumquats minus recriminations for their beliefs.
After three months, the activist's store, unable to hold its own financially, held a going-out-of-business sale. Yet even with kumquats marked 15 for a dollar only attracted the those who embraced the owner's harsh views.
The man finally shuttered his kumquat business, but reopened weeks later as a store that offered political paraphernalia, which again appealed only to those who supported his personal opinions. Alas, that effort also soon failed due to the lack of enough customers. His application to teach marketing skills and tactics at the Wharton School of Business was rejected.
The last anyone saw of the activist businessman, he wearing a clown mask at his former competitor's store while trying to shop incognito for, you guessed it, kumquats on sale.
Into the beast
I'd put off what awaited as long as possible. Pacing the parking-lot asphalt was only delaying the inevitable. The block behemoth before me waited in stony silence, knowing I'd soon be walking through its sliding glass jaws into the belly of the beast.
Finally gathering enough courage, I cut like a nimble halfback through the steady stream of oncoming traffic to reach the entrance alive. I watched as its doors opened invitingly.
Another adventure in Wally World was about to unfold. The scene spread before me could have been filmed in the Star Wars bar. People of all ages, shapes and sizes wearing everything from slacks to torn jeans, flowered muumuus and dingy coveralls scurried back and forth following their wire cages on wheels. Well, actually, there were more leaning than following.
They were joined by those I like to call the Walmart low-rollers. These are the quasi-shoppers who enjoy driving the electric basket buggies leisurely through relatively narrow aisles to survey the rows of packages, cans and bottles of potential edibles.
I regularly have close encounters with low-rollers. This time I drew a deep breath and courageously exited the bread aisle hoping to simply survive, but turned sharply to almost rear-end another driver who'd chosen to park in that spot while visiting.
Today's adventure within the beast would be different, I vowed with a straight face. I would maneuver my push cart with determination, ever watchful (even over my shoulder) for the next gotcha!
Despite the careful approach, it took only minutes before I accidentally brushed against a clearly beleaguered mother trailing four kids, unintentionally became trapped between several carts blocking either side of the condiments aisle, and came face-to-face in a cart logjam with an elderly man in a workshirt as I tried departing the melee around the milk cooler.
Then I waited sixth in the checkout line. Back in the sunshine and thankful my adventure within the beast mercifully ended, I loaded several plastic bags into the trunk, in the process realizing one was missing.
Surveying the 60 yards of mayhem and exhaust fumes separating me from my forgotten groceries, I quickly calculated the contribution to be worth about $7 and figured it wasn't worth the price of re-admission. I'd already enjoyed more than my fair share for one day.
Mike Masterson is a longtime Arkansas journalist, was editor of three Arkansas dailies and headed the master's journalism program at Ohio State University. Email him at mmasterson@arkansasonline.com.