twisting his head around to see if they were laughing at him.
“I have a meeting. I won’t be able to come with you,” she said as though there were some rule about Frank going to the mall alone.
“So?”
“Sew buttons,” she said.
It was what she always said when there was nothing left to say.
* * *
The next evening he waited until Mary left for her meeting, then said good-bye to the kids and took off for the mall. He drove fast, imagining that if he didn’t get there soon, he would begin to shrivel like a helium balloon, slowly dropping down, sinking lower and lower, until he hovered six inches above the floor. By morning he’d be airless, dead, on the bucket seats.
The Pyramid Mall floated in a sea of parking spaces, laid out thirty deep so that on any given day or evening, with the exception of Saturdays, a person could find a place within ten spaces of the end and enter the mall feeling somehow lucky. The only thing pyramid-like about the place were pyramid-shaped planters filled with half-dead geraniums.
He pulled into a good space near Sears feeling what he called the guilt of necessary purpose. He had come here for a real reason. Tires. Before he could do anything, he had to go directly into Sears. He had to accomplish something so that later he could tell Mary how wonderful he was.
There were no salespeople in the tire department, and Frank was too distracted to hunt one down. Frank had a certain pale nonexistence to him, like Casper the Friendly Ghost. He could fight it if he wanted to. He could summon his energy and make himself a kind of lifelike pinkish purple that could get a fair amount of attention, but he couldn’t sustain it. In Sears, he couldn’t even bring himself up to a kind of light flesh tone. He just didn’t have it in him. He took heart in knowing it was highly unlikely he’d ever be taken hostage in a bank robbery or hijacking.
He left Sears promising himself he’d deal with the tires later; if necessary he’d go directly to a tire store where salesmen waited day and night for guys like Frank to walk in. He went into the mall charged by the prospect of a new project—an unexpected surprise, like a bonus—finding something to buy, to bring home to Mary like show-and-tell.
Just outside Sears, two women from the local Red Cross sat at a folding table with a blood pressure cuff between them waiting for a victim. The atmosphere was festive. Diet experts in workout clothing mingled freely.
Stop Smoking Now.
Lungs like giant latex condoms expanded and collapsed.
Mental Illness: The Hidden Symptoms.
He reviewed the list without intending to. Bad news. According to Frank’s own evaluation he had all the signs of Chronic Untreated Disturbance. According to the description he was a time bomb that could go at any minute. No warning. Health Fair ’go ended in front of Woolworth’s. Two candy-striped cardboard poles marked the beginning and the end.
Frank spotted Adam—the kid who tripped over his laces the day before—in the record store. He went directly to him and slapped his hand down on the counter, stinging his palm.
“Hey, Adam,” Frank said.
Adam was startled. He looked down at his shirt to see if he was wearing a name tag. He wasn’t.
“Adam, talk to me.”
“What?”
“Tell me about CDs—are there different kinds? Different sizes? Do they all play on the same machine?”
For the past two years, everything Frank saw or read nagged him about CDs.
Adam looked at Frank like Frank was an extraterrestrial, an undercover cop, or some new brand of idiot. He didn’t say anything. The silence made Frank uncomfortable. He wanted to be friends.
“I’m serious, Adam. I’m very serious.”
Adam kept staring, checking out Frank. He wanted to be sure he didn’t end up on the wrong end of a joke.
“They’re all the same,” Adam finally said, tentatively. “You get a player and plug it into your stereo, or you can get a portable.”
“What do you
“I have a meeting. I won’t be able to come with you,” she said as though there were some rule about Frank going to the mall alone.
“So?”
“Sew buttons,” she said.
It was what she always said when there was nothing left to say.
* * *
The next evening he waited until Mary left for her meeting, then said good-bye to the kids and took off for the mall. He drove fast, imagining that if he didn’t get there soon, he would begin to shrivel like a helium balloon, slowly dropping down, sinking lower and lower, until he hovered six inches above the floor. By morning he’d be airless, dead, on the bucket seats.
The Pyramid Mall floated in a sea of parking spaces, laid out thirty deep so that on any given day or evening, with the exception of Saturdays, a person could find a place within ten spaces of the end and enter the mall feeling somehow lucky. The only thing pyramid-like about the place were pyramid-shaped planters filled with half-dead geraniums.
He pulled into a good space near Sears feeling what he called the guilt of necessary purpose. He had come here for a real reason. Tires. Before he could do anything, he had to go directly into Sears. He had to accomplish something so that later he could tell Mary how wonderful he was.
There were no salespeople in the tire department, and Frank was too distracted to hunt one down. Frank had a certain pale nonexistence to him, like Casper the Friendly Ghost. He could fight it if he wanted to. He could summon his energy and make himself a kind of lifelike pinkish purple that could get a fair amount of attention, but he couldn’t sustain it. In Sears, he couldn’t even bring himself up to a kind of light flesh tone. He just didn’t have it in him. He took heart in knowing it was highly unlikely he’d ever be taken hostage in a bank robbery or hijacking.
He left Sears promising himself he’d deal with the tires later; if necessary he’d go directly to a tire store where salesmen waited day and night for guys like Frank to walk in. He went into the mall charged by the prospect of a new project—an unexpected surprise, like a bonus—finding something to buy, to bring home to Mary like show-and-tell.
Just outside Sears, two women from the local Red Cross sat at a folding table with a blood pressure cuff between them waiting for a victim. The atmosphere was festive. Diet experts in workout clothing mingled freely.
Stop Smoking Now.
Lungs like giant latex condoms expanded and collapsed.
Mental Illness: The Hidden Symptoms.
He reviewed the list without intending to. Bad news. According to Frank’s own evaluation he had all the signs of Chronic Untreated Disturbance. According to the description he was a time bomb that could go at any minute. No warning. Health Fair ’go ended in front of Woolworth’s. Two candy-striped cardboard poles marked the beginning and the end.
Frank spotted Adam—the kid who tripped over his laces the day before—in the record store. He went directly to him and slapped his hand down on the counter, stinging his palm.
“Hey, Adam,” Frank said.
Adam was startled. He looked down at his shirt to see if he was wearing a name tag. He wasn’t.
“Adam, talk to me.”
“What?”
“Tell me about CDs—are there different kinds? Different sizes? Do they all play on the same machine?”
For the past two years, everything Frank saw or read nagged him about CDs.
Adam looked at Frank like Frank was an extraterrestrial, an undercover cop, or some new brand of idiot. He didn’t say anything. The silence made Frank uncomfortable. He wanted to be friends.
“I’m serious, Adam. I’m very serious.”
Adam kept staring, checking out Frank. He wanted to be sure he didn’t end up on the wrong end of a joke.
“They’re all the same,” Adam finally said, tentatively. “You get a player and plug it into your stereo, or you can get a portable.”
“What do you
Similar Books
