Danger Mall

I have visited my sister many times, and we usually can’t think of much to do, so we often end up at the mall. It’s a fantastic place, the mall. It doesn’t make me nervous, like it does my friend Josh. He can’t take crowds. I like the crowds. The mall makes me feel like anything is possible. It also makes me feel like I’m normal. I think: Hey, I woke up today and had the same idea as thousands of other people. Look at us all, shopping for things we probably don’t need, but that will make us feel good, maybe for a moment, maybe forever. Probably not forever, but maybe. Possibility. That’s the mall to me.

There are two places in the mall I usually gravitate toward—the frozen yogurt stand and the pet shop. Is it odd that neither of these places has anything to do with clothes or with looking good? In fact, they have quite the opposite effect. Yogurt (I don’t care how fat-free it supposedly is…fat free doesn’t mean much when you eat as much of the stuff as I do) makes you a fat, sticky mess and pets make you hairy and smelly. Fat, hairy, sticky, smelly. That’s me in a nutshell.

I usually can’t bring myself to suggest going to the yogurt stand. I’m afraid Gina (my sister) will say that I’m too fat to have frozen yogurt, fat free or no. Or I’m afraid that even if she doesn’t say it, she’ll be thinking it. This isn’t fair to Gina. She’s not that type of girl. I don’t think she thinks I’m fat. But I think I’m fat. And, the mall makes me feel fatter even though I’m probably one of the least fat people there (the mall really attracts the fatties, huh?). So, I settle for looking longingly at the fro-yo stand. Oh, the suffering. If I’m lucky, someone else will mention frozen yogurt, probably the skinniest and most stylish girl in our group. When this happens, I’m jumping up and down on the inside, but on the outside, I am nonchalant, like I could take it or leave it. “Fro-yo?” I say. “Um…well, maybe…I mean, I’m not that hungry, but I guess I could get some.” I’m hesitant enough to be convincing. The skinny is convinced it was all her idea when in actuality it was probably some sort of otherworldly power of suggestion emanating from my brain that made her want the stuff. It’s all my fault.

Then there’s the pet store. It’s overpriced, and I know that I could not even afford to buy a feeder fish there, but I love to look at all the little guys in their sad little cages and imagine taking them home with me and letting them sleep in my bed. I could have a kitten that would fall asleep on my tummy while I listen to a Neil Young album. I don’t even have a Neil Young album. I don’t even have a record player. I don’t even have my own apartment, and if I did, it would not be an apartment that allows pets. And I am not the type of girl who would ever sneak in a pet, even if it was just a harmless little kitten. I would be afraid my landlord would see my kitten perched on the windowsill and that he or she would then promptly evict me in a fit of rage. Then I would never be able to rent another apartment because I would have a bad reference. So, instead of renting my own place, I’d crash on friends’ couches. Pretty soon I’d pick the wrong friend’s couch to crash on and I would start smoking pot every afternoon. At first I’d feel exhilarated, then just groggy. Soon I’d start to be hungry for the hard stuff, and I’d do cocaine, then heroine. I’d sleep around, have a bastard child, and lose all my money. Then I would be homeless and crack-addicted and I’d have to put my baby in foster care. I’d become a prostitute, then get thrown in jail for trying to pick up an undercover cop. I’d rot in jail for months, all the while writing sad letters to my baby that say things like “don’t worry punkin—mama comin home soon.” I’d make friends with my cell-mate Betty (she has a bastard kid she never sees, too) and we’d become lovers. Then I’d be loosed from jail not only a still drug-addicted out-of-work hustler, but also in the midst of a sexual identity crisis. My baby will have been adopted by then and I’ll sink down into a depression the likes of which I’ve never known and can’t understand. I will have lost the support of all my friends and family (even the drug addicted ones!). When even my hooker friends can’t stand to look at me anymore, I’ll hitchhike to the one place that used to make me feel whole—the overpass above I-90. But the guy who stops to give me a ride will have an evil heart. He’ll pull into the parking lot of an old burned out church and rape me right there on the imitation leather seat of his pickup truck. Then he’ll kick me out of the car right there in that church parking lot, where I’ll kneel down and cry. I’ll send an anguished scream up to the sky. “Why me, God? Why me?” Then I’ll dust myself off and walk another five miles ‘til I hit the overpass above I-90. I’ll climb up on the cement ledge and watch the cars fly by down below, mesmerized for a moment by the blurry lights the way I used to feel sometimes when I was on crack. Then I’ll whisper “take carry of my baby, dear lord” before plummeting into traffic below. It won’t be until after I jump that I realize how many other lives I’m endangering by choosing this method of suicide. That’ll be the real nail in the coffin. I really just can’t do anything right. So…harmless kitten my ass. That’s why I can’t have a pet.