Sunday, August 1, 2010
The Horror and Shame of The Phase
I walk down one of the side walkways of the closing shopping mall, the shallow steps leading into the middle aisle of the walkway disappear into a prefabricated subterranean canal. There's no time to explore whatever's down there. What I care about most is finding the perfect pair of tiny stud earrings. Unfortunately, the mall is already closed and all the shopkeepers left for the night. This leaves me only once choice: shoplift. I pass into an area of the mall with small vendor carts, usually stocked with useless trinkets or ineffectual miracle creams. Ooo, an earring cart. Would it be too obvious to peruse this closed cart? Would someone come up to me and start asking questions?
The best plan of action is to create a diversion. I take one of my flat, polygonal avant-gardey stud earrings out of my purse and drop it onto the ground. That way it will look like I'm trying to find something I dropped while I peruse this cart. This earring falls, hits the ground, but then I am afraid to lose it. It really does have a unique shape, and the post of the earring is jointed so it folds onto itself like the arm of a pair of glasses. I find it immediately, but then remember that I'm only pretending to find it. Playing with the jointed post lovingly, I see X walking toward me.
Quickly I walk toward him, curious about why he is at this desolate mall. The earring glints in the stark shadows as I show him what a well-crafted object it is. We do not speak. I follow him into a sparse white living room with white furniture and some books. He gets busy setting up a silkscreen type of frame, preparing and alchemizing some strange arcane concoction to make a special document relic. My mom walks out of the dark hall, and sees me there, sitting on the couch. Her facial expression passes from neutral to mildly disappointed. The lightbulb in her head flickers on and then burns out with a pop. Upon sight, she figures out that X and I were having sex in her house. That was the mysterious noise she heard some time ago. The long, low groan of a wolf's orgasm. Oh it's painfully shameful for me to feel her disappointment, copulating with this uninterested trickster. I sit while she admonishes me. She pulls a piece of paper from a high shelf in the wall, hands it to me, and demands that I leave. There's a one hundred dollar bill folded into a small clear coke baggie stapled to the paper. I tell her I don't need it, and leave.
The neighborhood outside is a lot like Bushwick, only everyone is super rowdy and loud, and in my face. It's aggravatingly hot and noisy as I walk down the sidewalk to my mom's giant truck. The truck is lightly dusted in a coat of yellowy pollen, so I spray it down with a spray bottle full of pollen remover and scrub it with a white plastic toilet brush. The neighborhood people don't like this, they start harassing the truck. They're retarded zombies who can't stop playing with the knobs and buttons, unable to figure out what they're for. I fight some of them off with the toilet brush after I realize they're not going to figure out the buttons and move on. This angers the retarded Latino zombies, and they throw tantrums. Moving from the driver's side to the passenger side, I discover they've removed the exterior of the car door and are working on the interior. Mouth gaping, I run back around to the drivers side of the truck and jump in. I thought I saw one of the zombie retards take my purse, but it was still in the front seat. The truck's smooth engine effortlessly and I punch the accelerator, flinging the zombie retard who was messing with the wipers off the hood. Reaching into my bag, I pull out an old cell phone and dial my mother. The dial tone rings but an intermittent voice chimes "Charges for this call will be made to your bill" What? The zombie retards somehow hacked my cell phone?! My mother answers but she seems to not understand that I am in danger and racking up a very costly phone call.