“I hate those fucking things� says the closest gurney jockey.
“What things? Tell me that wasn’t the crazy cat lady.� I interrupt as I walk up.
“Medic-alert pagers. These old crones pound them every time they need to take a piss,� he says while pointing to the guys carrying an old woman down the stairs on a stretcher. She looks like Iggy Pop in detox. “I just wanna smack the Depends off of them. This one had fallen…�
“And she couldn’t get up?� I offer.
To his credit, he grins and shakes his head slowly in mock-disbelief. Another look up the stairs and I notice a cop wearing a mask closing the door to the apartment directly above Jennifer’s.
“Actually, it looks like oxygen deprivation. There is some weird chemical leak in the area. We found her unconscious on the floor. I could barely breathe in there. You guys should be careful if you live in this building. Haz-Mat team is on the way.�
And it all makes an awful sort of sense. With that, they are done loading the hag into the back of the ambulance. A last nod and they are on the way out of the parking lot. I’m feeling moderately better about bombing the interview this morning. The universe spins on a tentative balance of give and take. Maybe not always in perfectly equal measure, but never let it be said God is lacking a sense of humor.
I sit down with Jenn and write down a quick list of the things to do with the few remaining hours of the day. We both have trips to make to the mall and I need to return all the tech-toys I got for the weekend to Wal-Mart. Love that rental policy.
The “Mills� malls all have the same general layout. Picture a huge walking track, offices/bathrooms in the center, and stores lining either side of the track. At one end of the ellipses is a big grazing area for the obese consumptive track stars lapping one another in their quest to consume more and more quickly than their neighbor.
When the wind is calm like it is today, you can smell the pico de gallo and carne asada riding the air currents from Aunt Chilada’s on the other side of the freeway. It’s a familiar smell that reminds me of long afternoons with friends; of home-made salsa and love. Today that aroma has been replaced with the wafting emissions of a bloodied transmission and the glowing brake rotors of the Jenniferocious Chariot. I swear that chunk wasn’t missing from the hubcap when I got in.
Jenn devises a tentative plan for accomplishing our missions in a time conscious manner and it’s not half bad. I wander over to Linens ‘n Things with her, then break off to go hunting my quarry. The closest store that performs the particular service I require is almost adjacent. It takes about 2.3 seconds for the cashier lady to turn me down flat. It takes about another 5 minutes of talking to get the info out of her where I might find another place in the mall that can help me. Knowing that Jenn only needed some candles and is probably waiting, I’m aware the need for haste. I start running.
Fingers laced through the chain latticework I stared at the border hopping movers carrying what is no doubt the object of my quest out the back door and away from me. The store closed yesterday; shut down and moving to who knows where. Anywhere but where I need them to be.
I’m disenchanted. I meander back along the path polluted with purchasers and purveyors to where I left my erstwhile hostess. Again breaching the vestibule of Linens ‘n Things I quickly ask the dubious green card holder running the register if she knows where the candles are. She points without looking off to her left and says, “She’s over there somewhere.� I’m not happy with the mall in general today. I leave in the direction of her indicative digit and surprisingly I am quickly met with row upon row of scented waxen goodness. The lingering question of “what the hell was she talking about?� is also answered. Jenn comes shuffling down that walkway looking at me, the candles and everything else, completely unseeing. Pulling out my phone I punch in her digits and decide to have some fun.
“Where are you?� she asks in place of hello.
“In the candle section. Where you should be.� I watch her walk down the aisle again disappearing around the next corner.
“Where is it? I have been all the way around the store like three times.�
“You just passed it.� I hear a crash from the other side of the store, echoed in the earpiece.
“WHERE!?�
“Just keep walking. I’ll stop you when you get here.�
On her next lap I grab her by the arm and drag her into the candles. After much smelling and wrinkled noses we decide on some of the least abrasive scents to adorn her house, not that any of them will be noticed over her curtain, and head off for the register. 40 minutes later after each unit has been decided to be on or off clearance, we finally escape the store with one bag of candles and 12 bags of everything but.
One of the truest statements ever made to me by a member of the fairer sex was in regards to the weather in Phoenix. She was a cute blonde girl that I met on a night of moderate to damaging inebriation at my first party in Phoenix. “There are only two seasons here: Summer and Construction.� I have found this to be inordinately true, with the exception of its application to the Phoenix Airport. Construction never ends. This is a double edged sword. Most people realize this upon entry to the binding roadways that encircle the terminals and slow down, hence safer traffic. I am now realizing my mistake in telling Jenn we are behind schedule.
Flying by a speed limit sign that, whether it says 15 or 75, we are well in excess of I see the aforementioned chipped hubcap take its leave of the tire it was previously associated with. Luckily for the construction worker it is directed at, he is holding a sign and is able to deflect the incoming spinning death like a well trained gladiator. The sign reads “Slow�. I’d laugh if I wasn’t holding my breath.
Brakes. Curb. Hug. Walk. Walk. Walk some more. Run. Check in. Run a lot. Wait. Wait. Wait. Finally, I’m on the airplane and hugging the inside of my eyelids praying for a little rest while I’m in the air.
The captain’s voice wakes me up moments before landing. Judging from his pathetic attempt at humor we didn’t have the smoothest ride. Still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I make my way out of the shoebox that is Ontario airport and out to the curb. The weekend, it seems, has not improved my bus driver’s communication skills.
The drive home is a blur. I’m more awake than the last time I drove into this desert hamlet, but still less aware than fitting the key to the lock requires. Abstaining from unpacking the car, I walk in the door shedding clothing as I pass through the house, and as the bed rises up to meet me, I am afforded a last few moments of conscious thought before the inevitable arrival of the sandman.
Though sleep threatens me, I can’t stop my mind from retracing my millions of steps from the lengthy weekend. I’ve seen hundreds of strangers, old friends, new acquaintances, and people I don’t want to see again. I’ve traveled the better part of the pacific coast and half of Arizona. Three cars, two plane flights, and a comatose old spinster. The hours and opportunities are crystalline in my mind, full of the promise they held and colorful in recollection.
The caress of the sheets on my face is as gentle as a lover in comparison to the abrasive surface of the couch. With all the possibilities, those pursued and those neglected, I only want two gentle hands and one little frame to hold. With the hundreds of smiling faces and seeking eyes, I only want one elfin visage and two chocolate orbs to watch me on my way to dreamland. It is at times like this, when you have seen all there is to see; touched and experienced everything offered; that you can truly appreciate the best of the best.
Goodnight, Princess.
this is so strange, cuz everything i read after the linens and things comments, became a blur. ahhhhhh, candles.