It’s 1:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning and I find myself roaming the aisles of our local Wal-Mart. There are several reasons why I’m here. The obvious one is that I’m a pathetic loser. The second is because my back has been convincing me for several weeks now that my jail-size dorm bed is in dire need of some egg foam manufactured by child laborers from Bangladesh. The third reason is the most pertinent. A 1:30 a.m. trip to Wal-Mart has to be one of the most interesting, yet educational, forms of entertainment in the county. To prove my point, allow me to present to you three of the classic categories of personalities easily encountered at Wal-Mart.

The Binghamton University Student:

As one three-toothed janitor at Wal-Mart once told me, “There are two seasons in Vestal: when college is in session, and when it isn’t.” BU students are very easy subjects to spot, and three main characteristics make them easy targets to catch.

First of all, more times than not, they walk in packs, usually of three or four (just another example of how all life’s lessons are taught in kindergarten).

Secondly, whether they are male or female, if they look like they are in their early 20s and wear fraternity emblems across their chests like Superman’s “S,” they are probably BU students. If they are riding up and down the aisles on a tricycle, it’s a sure-fire bet.

Lastly, look for the appearance of red squinty eyes, a delayed reaction when you throw a bouncy ball from the toy aisle at them and a bag of Doritos clutched in their hands. If all of those factors are present, it’s either a BU student or my boyfriend. If it’s my boyfriend, I would appreciate it if you would kindly direct him toward the bedding section of the store so he can take a nap, and inform him that I’ll be by later to pick him up.

The Screaming Baby:

There is always that one crying baby … the one who is screaming so hard that we worry its vocal cords might be forever damaged. We never actually see this baby, because the majority of the shopping experience is spent trying to get as far away from it as possible. This is usually a fruitless waste of time because, like the boy in seventh grade who had a crush on you, the harder you try and distance yourself, the more persistent the howling baby’s mother becomes in following you around the store. They never get close enough for you to hit the child in a fit of rage, just within earshot.

We obviously missed out as children of the ’80s. Without the Super Store, where exactly did our parents take us colicky brats at 2 a.m. in the Dark Ages? Bars are open until 2 a.m., aren’t they? I guess that explains a lot about our generation.

The “Git-R-Done!” Crowd:

You know the type. Cut-off jeans, miles of flannel, several tattoos and an odor that can be described as nothing other than cow dung. There is no doubt in my mind that there are civilized Broome County townies, but this is not the place or time to look for them.

I have to give them some credit, though: these members of the “Git-R-Done!” crew know how to grocery shop. If I ever need to build a bomb shelter and stock up on supplies, I’m totally hiring a local to get the job done right. It amazes me just how many boxes of Fruity Pebbles, cases of Pepsi, bags of potato chips and boxes of condoms one can fit into one cart.

Congratulations, Sam Walton. You’ve done for Binghamton students, crying babies and the “Git-R-Done” crowd what canned cheese did for crackers: you gave them a purpose. From the deepest depths of my rollback-lovin’ soul, thank you.