FlashFic: Grownups at the Mall
God I hate the mall.
The teeny-boppers shrieking and laughing, pulling at one another clumsily, stumbling from nowhere to elsewhere in the orgiastic consumer rodeo; the thugs fronting, desperate to separate one of these sheep from the flock and bad-boy their way into blonde paradise. All I want is a damned Orange Julius: not a protein-infused kale-mango-strawberry-wheatgrass smoothie that costs twelve bucks and “cleanses” your stool, but a simple orange juice thing with ingredients I don’t particularly care to know. Just like the human ingredients in this mall. Anonymous, faceless. Forgotten as soon as they pass.
“Forever 21, Hot Topic, or Books A Million?”
“Excuse me?,” I returned, surprised. She could easily have been one of those teeny-boppers, but her voice belied cigarette smoke and mild disappointment. I hadn’t noticed her or heard her approach, despite the near-criminal assault she was dishing on that wad of chewing gum.
“Your kid. She in Forever 21, Hot Topic, or Books A Million?” Suddenly, I was engaged in an Orange Julius counter conversation with a blonde Peg Bundy; oversized blackout sunglasses on inside, clunky heels she was almost proficient at walking in, spray-paint capris through which I could plainly see the lines of her thong, and a flower-print blouse cut so low it revealed the snap-front of her bra. Jesus, I hope those things have a maintenance warranty, I thought. Maybe she was one of those teeny-boppers in 1990. “Gimme one o’ them pineapple-mango-whatever things, hun.”
“Oh.” I chuckled. “I don’t have a kid. Just here for the” — Orange Julius guy handed me my drink-thing — “refreshments.”
“So you’re a pervert, then.” She shook another piece of gum into her candy-apple-red mouth. I didn’t know if she was trying to cover the stale cigarette smell on her breath, but it wasn’t working.
“What? No! I — no, I’m not — What the hell?”
“Don’t getcher panties in a bunch, hun. I’m just messin’ with ya.” She offered her hand. “I’m Trisha.”
“Gotcha. Well, Trisha, I’m Scott, and I really should be getting going.”
“Should ya? If you ain’t got a kid here, I’m probably the best thing you got goin’ today.” And, what’s worse, she was right. My next stop was probably my couch and the Xbox to waste away the day off.
“Ah. So, Trisha, how about you? Forever 21, Hot Topic, or Books A Million?”
“What, can’t you tell? I’m a Forever 21 girl all the way.” I couldn’t immediately reconcile whether she was that dumb, or brilliantly coy. Congratulations, Peg-Trisha. You have actually piqued my curiosity. “How about your kid?”
“Oh.” Perfunctory laugh. “I’m such a ditz. Nahh, mine’s at two-a-days.”
“Football? Is it that time of year again already? It’s been a while for me.”
“Oh, me too, baby. My school took marching band way too serious. We did two-a-day practice same as the team.”
“Wow. So many questions! Where are you from, and what did you play?” I was just passing a few minutes in conversation. She was pleasant enough, I guess, even if she reeked of eau de Hillbilly: cigarettes, pine tree air freshener, and gin, with Axe Body Spray for Women over the top of it all.
“You answer first. You’re about as local here as I am.” Julius came across the counter with her pineapple-mango-whatever. “Thank ya, hun.”
Huh. She’s a precocious little something. We took a little table for two near the food court exit. “Well, where am I from? Tiny little mud-town in rural north Florida where no one ever came from and made it out alive and no one ever visited on purpose. Even Triple-A gave my hometown an “avoid at all costs” rating. As for what I played, well, I wasn’t in the band. I was a defensive tackle-slash-nose guard-slash-inside linebacker.”
“They call it a nose tackle these days, hun, and nobody even runs a three-man front formation anymore. You ought to not tell on your age like that. I would’ve believed you were thirty.” I nearly dropped my Orange Julius.
I guess, in hindsight, I shouldn’t have been all that surprised. Her accent was a drawly deep Texas, and her son was a player. Also, thirty was as high a compliment as I had gotten since I was twenty, and I was more like forty. And change. “Aren’t you a shot of sunshine in Monotony-ville!”
“Honey,” she responded, “I tan in a salon because the sun ain’t bright enough.” And, there it was. Suddenly, I noticed more. Her hair wasn’t the trashy Clairol blonde I had seen at first, and the spackled-on foundation she was wearing turned out to be her actual tanned (okay, maybe a little over-tanned) skin. She herself had appeared to be matte on first glance, but she was turning satin as I watched. Behind those blackout shades were eyes that glowed emerald green and fierce and wicked, and her candy-apple mouth was… well, it was still a tacky candy-apple red, but her smile was spectacular, even if she had a spot of that lipstick on one of her teeth. She wasn’t a grizzled old tramp, she was a casual debutante.
We left the mall together a couple of hours later after walking around it more times than I could count; we laughed at the snarky shirts at Hot Topic, compared authors at Books A Million, and modeled bras at Forever 21. (She modeled bras. I watched. I will neither confirm nor deny that I may have helped with putting a few on and taking them back off, nor that we may have made out a little in the dressing room.)
We drove out to pick up her son from practice — coincidentally, his name is also Scott , and the team went a respectable ten and two — and now, she vapes rather than smoking. Strawberry Whip from Element. An excellent choice.
Scott demands that I call him Junior.
