Morning at the Mall

Malls are strange places. People from all walks of life migrate to them. I was one of those people this morning while my car was in the shop, because given the choice between sitting at the dealership for two hours and observing the throng of humanity at the mall, the choice was clear.

First person I saw when I walked in was a middle aged woman in Capri pants and platform flip-flops. Why, why do platform flip-flops exist? The point of the flop is that they are comfy, flat, and easy to walk in. The extra four inches of foam rubber on the bottoms of those shoes only made her walk like a cow, and could have provided at least 100 children with flip-flops of their own. And they didn’t flip or flop… they clomp, clomp, clomped.

Stealthily, I avoided the Mediterranean man who always wants to talk about my cuticles, but my detour landed me directly in the sights of a tiny European woman selling hair straighteners. She wore black hot pants and a corseted T-shirt and had the loveliest wavy hair. Obviously she doesn’t use her own product. Before I knew what was happening, she had me sitting in a chair saying “You are just so tall, I cannot reach your head if you don’t sit down.”

“Really, I don’t need a hair straightener.”

“Well, Vhat do you use to straighten your hair now honey?”

“I don’t.”

“Your hair is this straight, you lucky girl. I show you how to use this to make a wavy hair too. You must brush lots; your hair so smooth.”

“I haven’t used a hairbrush in 12 years.”

“You so funny.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

Making it wavy lesson; over. I walked away with one wavy pigtail, and one straight.

Then it was the lovely young lady leaving a store called Vanity. I swore her jean shorts were actually panties and hoped the little boy she had stolen her blazer from wasn’t going to freeze this winter. Her belly jewelry swung to and fro as she swayed her hips, and as I always do I wondered why her parents let her out of the house looking like that. Until a gray haired man and peroxide blond stepped out behind the young girl, “Honey, wait for us!” The girl glared at them the way only an angsty teenager embarrassed by her parents can do.

The dippin’ dots guy gave me a free sample, played on a computer I will never purchase at the Apple store, seriously considered a Cinnibon, and missed the presence of a music store.

And the sign at Chico’s said “A pair of Jeans that will fit every body!”

So I went in.

I said, “It’s so hard for me to find Jeans that fit, do you really have something for me? I need a thirty-six inch inseam, prefer a boot cut or a flare and I sort of have heavy thighs for my size.”

The short woman’s eyes darkened and she didn’t crack a smile.

My phone rang, the car was finished.

She was happy to see me leave.

Waiting for the light to turn

Two people, middle aged adults, standing on a street corner in Ann Arbor late in the evening. The woman, in her white Capri pants and green satin halter tops giggles as the man dressed in jeans kisses her neck.

I stand a safe distance away, waiting for the light to turn and hear her say to him, “But will you still love me in the morning?”

I tap her gently on her shoulder, “No. He won’t. If you have to ask that question, then you already know the answer.”

And God sent me Wonder Woman

I would have accepted a rainbow or a phone call from a long lost friend. Being narrowly missed by a speeding car as I crossed a busy street, not slipping on the greasy floor as I carried a tray full of dirty dishes through the kitchen last night. Instead, God sent me Wonder Woman.

It was just another night of slinging pasta at the restaurant. The weather was perfect, and I was pleased to be serving outside at the café instead of being stuck in the restaurant that can feel so much like a mausoleum. All but one of my tables were filled, I had just finished taking a couples order and convincing them that a white zinfandel would not be the best wine choice that evening, and there she was being seated at the table directly to my right by the general manager. Linda Carter. Wonder Woman.

“She’s just another guest,” pragmatic Liz told overexcited Liz. “Do not go over there and act like a fool!”

I approached the table, ready to treat them just like I would anyone else. And then she looked at me with her clear blue eyes and for a split second I swore she was wearing her red bustier and blue star-spangled hot pants. I saw the sun glint from her golden crown. Then the illusion was gone and she was just another beautiful woman enjoying a meal on Main St. in Ann Arbor.

I did what I always do. Described the menu, made recommendations, made sure their food was cooked to their liking. It was nothing special. I did no more or less for this table than I did for any other. Dinner came and went as all dinners should, enjoyably. I returned to their table as they set down their forks, and the stunning woman asked me about desert. I reached in my apron pocket, where I should have had a menu. It was empty. I took a deep breath, and began describing the deserts to them.

“Tonight we have a wonderfully creamy Tahitian Vanilla Gelato, and our Sorbetto is Red Raspberry which tastes like the berries were just picked yesterday. I’ve been fantasizing about putting a scoop of each in a bowl, imagining…” Wonder Woman put her finger up.

I’ve gone too far in my excitement about desert and annoyed the celebrity. I’m so going to get fired.

“Are you a writer?” Wonder Woman was again in uniform and asking me a question about myself. I paused. Took a deep breath. My mind went blank and for that moment I believed I might never speak again.

“Well...yeah... I did my undergrad in creative writing.”
Why was it so hard for me to look her in the eye and tell her I am a writer?

“I can tell.” Her impenetrable bracelets blinded me.

I pinched my left arm.
Then I pinched the right one.
I thanked her for saying so.
Then I got stage fright.
And she took off in her invisible plane.
I should have asked if I could borrow her Lasso of Truth.

Incoming call from "Withheld"

While sitting on my patio having a long distance drink with Atticus, call waiting alerted me.

“Atticus, let me call you back. I’ve got a weird phone call coming in.” Click over to the other line, “Hello?”

“Is this Liz?”

“Yeah, who is this?” Questioning now the decision to answer “withheld” at 10pm.

“This is Heather. Have you been spending time with Jaime?” I’ve seen this movie before.

“Yeah, well, we’ve gone out twice. Who is this?”

“I’m Jaime’s girlfriend. He’s been living with me for the past five weeks. The police just picked him up from my house and I’ve decided to call every person he’s called from my phone and warn them about him.”

Stop.

This isn’t a poorly written “chick flick”.

This isn’t a writer’s lie, or even an exaggeration.

Though at times I wish it was.

“The police? Why?” The script had been written; I had to say my lines for the cameras I imagined were hidden in the shrub to the left of my patio, in my neglected grill, in my dog’s collar.

“He locked my children out of my apartment today, while he hired a prostitute. My daughter went to the neighbor’s house and called me at work. I called the police to have him removed. He said she was a massage therapist. Then why were they naked?” Heathers voice has risen an octave since I first accepted her call. I hear Heathers hysteria and want to run away from it.

“I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” Lame words are all I have to offer. “I had no idea. He and I met a few weeks ago. We had lunch twice. He told me you were his sister, and you and his nieces were living with him for the next month. I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”

“Well, I’m not telling you what to do. Just thought you should know.” Heather has retreated from the cliffs edge, and I am thankful.

“Clearly, Heather, I will not be in contact with him anymore. I appreciate this phone call. Keep yourself safe, dear.” I never can resist the urge to call even a stranger dear or hon when I know they are in distress.

Gently giggling, I pour myself a glass of vodka. The giggling has turned into silent laughs as I resume my long distance drink with Atticus. Recounting the story I just participated in, the silent laughs turn into chesty chuckles. The therapist that lives inside my mind tries to speak, but those chesty chuckles have turned into belly laughs interspersed with a healthy snort or two and tears are running down my cheeks.

“Who do these things happen to, seriously? Whose life is this?” I ask Atticus.

"It’s yours Liz.”