By Kate Browne

In the USA it’s surprising what you can pick up at your local K-mart.

I have arrived in the small and unremarkable town of Franklin North Carolina, the heart of the Deep South and the Bible belt.  I have been in the US for less than 24 hours but thanks to my rather shabby packing effort I’m in desperate need to shop.  I am told that I have a choice between Walmart and Kmart. I choose the Kmart.

Down here most shopping malls are located away from the town centre. In this case right on the freeway so shoppers can drive all the way to the front door.  Americans don’t seem to like to walk anywhere so my first mistake is to try and walk.  There are no footpaths so I am forced to tip toe along the edge of the freeway dodging pick up trucks and cars until I can climb over a concrete barrier and into the car park.

I walk into the store and at first I am disappointed.  It looks just like the Kmart in my local shopping centre. Bright buzzing fluorescent lights, piped muzak and aisles of cheap clothes, make-up and magazines.  And just like at home it is staffed by bored looking teenagers wearing bad polyester uniforms.

I walk up to a girl at the counter, she is wearing a badge that says “Hi, I’m Kathy”.  “How may I help yew” she drawls.  I jokingly ask her if she could tell me where the gun section is. To my surprise she replies “Sure honey, it’s just right on down lane four, next to the toy section… you can’t miss it.”

I walk down lane four past teddy bears, my little ponies, teletubbies and Barbie dolls. Onwards through the GI Joes, Leggo and laser guns.  There, at the back of the store is the “Hunting and Sporting” department.  The walls are lined with racks of rifles, shotguns and evil looking hunting knives that glisten under the fluros.  There is no-one manning the counter as I pick my way through the various gun accessories and finger the leather bullet belts and holsters.

Finally a fellow approaches me and asks if I need help.  He is wearing a badge that announces his name is Scott.  He looks friendly so I ask what a girl has to do to pick up a gun.  “Well we have real strict rules about that sort of thing.. we don’t just sell this equipment to just anyone”. Hank smiles.  I feel instantly safer and ask what kind of rules they have?  “Well you have to be over eighteen…..uh huh “and show some identification”….uhhh huh and?  That’s it?  I squeak  “yes m’am, as I said we have pretty strict rules here” he replies.

Feeling distinctly unsafe again I start to wonder about how many eighteen-year-olds were roaming around Franklin with guns is too much for me to cope with.  I decide I need a drink.  As I leave the store I ask a woman shopping if she could tell me where I could buy a beer.  She stops, looks me up and down slowly and replies in a cold tone “we don’t sell that kind of thing around here”

Day one and I have learnt my first lesson in this part of America’s deep south.  You can get married at age fourteen, you can own a gun at eighteen but you can wait forever if you want a beer.  They’ve had alcohol prohibition here since the 20’s.