Mall Doors
by
Jake La Botz
Past the first set of automated doors, the cacophony hits me. Past the second set, I’m engulfed. A romantic pop song swelling from a loud but faraway speaker attempts to dominate the space. I don’t want to know the lyrics, but I do.
In the food court, a middle-aged woman extends an impaled meat morsel—smile indicating gift, stance suggesting weapon—as if she’d been waiting for me always. Her oversized, plastic glove brushes my fingers as I accept the challenge. She repeats "tasty" several times in both statement and question form while I chomp the sweet and sour chunk.
“Tasty,” I agree, ordering the three-item combo.
From the sole empty table, I watch grown-ups engage children with detached familiarity. It seems the divorce was just yesterday. I tell myself to think “one year,” not fourteen months like a baby’s age. A few bites into my meal, I rise and dump the tray’s contents into an overflowing bin, rooting for every rubbery thigh nugget, heat-lamp-hardened noodle, and mushy vegetable to make it through the smudged THANK YOU of the receptacle door, identifying with the ones that don’t.
A pot-bellied t-shirt emblazoned with a U.S. map makes me think of routes the U-Haul might’ve taken. Illinois to Arizona. Five states, regardless of which combination of borders they crossed. A completely different place. That’s what Lydia said. But the mall, her oasis, is bound to be the same in Scottsdale as it is in Schaumburg.
Map-shirt man sees me staring and shoots a look. I glare back, imagining it's the ‘new guy’.
Lydia hates driving. New guy probably drove the whole way. I wonder if at any point during the trip, at any lull in the conversation, he considered how many times she and I laughed, fought, ate, stroked each other, and screwed on top of the big leather couch he hauled seventeen hundred miles to palm-tree heaven—a couch we bought at this very mall. No doubt, they’ve done all the same things on it by now, left all the same stains. The erection poking at my zipper bothers me more than any of it.
A group of high school girls, maybe college, pass with arms easy around each other, best friends in a hot pink forever. I don’t realize I’m following until we near the exit. Their giggles fade with the first set of doors. After the second set, they evaporate completely.
“Fifteen or half hour?" The main concourse masseuse asks.
“Half hour, please," I say, leaning into the face-down chair.
I feel his strong fingers over my shirt, the same one I wore last time. I wonder if he notices.
Another pop anthem streams through mysterious speakers. Lydia’s music. I bring it close this time, cranking the bass and drums from within. It doesn’t mask everything, but if I concentrate hard enough, it covers the automated hum running through this place, running through all of us.
In the food court, a middle-aged woman extends an impaled meat morsel—smile indicating gift, stance suggesting weapon—as if she’d been waiting for me always. Her oversized, plastic glove brushes my fingers as I accept the challenge. She repeats "tasty" several times in both statement and question form while I chomp the sweet and sour chunk.
“Tasty,” I agree, ordering the three-item combo.
From the sole empty table, I watch grown-ups engage children with detached familiarity. It seems the divorce was just yesterday. I tell myself to think “one year,” not fourteen months like a baby’s age. A few bites into my meal, I rise and dump the tray’s contents into an overflowing bin, rooting for every rubbery thigh nugget, heat-lamp-hardened noodle, and mushy vegetable to make it through the smudged THANK YOU of the receptacle door, identifying with the ones that don’t.
A pot-bellied t-shirt emblazoned with a U.S. map makes me think of routes the U-Haul might’ve taken. Illinois to Arizona. Five states, regardless of which combination of borders they crossed. A completely different place. That’s what Lydia said. But the mall, her oasis, is bound to be the same in Scottsdale as it is in Schaumburg.
Map-shirt man sees me staring and shoots a look. I glare back, imagining it's the ‘new guy’.
Lydia hates driving. New guy probably drove the whole way. I wonder if at any point during the trip, at any lull in the conversation, he considered how many times she and I laughed, fought, ate, stroked each other, and screwed on top of the big leather couch he hauled seventeen hundred miles to palm-tree heaven—a couch we bought at this very mall. No doubt, they’ve done all the same things on it by now, left all the same stains. The erection poking at my zipper bothers me more than any of it.
A group of high school girls, maybe college, pass with arms easy around each other, best friends in a hot pink forever. I don’t realize I’m following until we near the exit. Their giggles fade with the first set of doors. After the second set, they evaporate completely.
“Fifteen or half hour?" The main concourse masseuse asks.
“Half hour, please," I say, leaning into the face-down chair.
I feel his strong fingers over my shirt, the same one I wore last time. I wonder if he notices.
Another pop anthem streams through mysterious speakers. Lydia’s music. I bring it close this time, cranking the bass and drums from within. It doesn’t mask everything, but if I concentrate hard enough, it covers the automated hum running through this place, running through all of us.