I don’t tell anyone, but I can still feel some of the elation of my childhood as I enter those riotously colored jungles where everything screeches at you, everyone hunts you, and the ant-like columns of humans move up the escalators as they head for new worlds. It’s like something out of a computer game. Where myuncle and my father saw vulgar commercialism, I feel the joy of sinking into a warm cacophony of sight and sound, walking through an Eden of temptations and sinful invitations, feeling how your lifemighthave been had you owned this thing or that, the sensation and excitement of a possible Fall of biblical dimensions, even if you don’t have a krone or a dollar to spend.
We stop in the parking lot and I get out. Six women in red T-shirts carrying placards are standing under some trees at the end of the lot. I walk toward them. They’re on strike, nurses from the women’s hospital on the other side of the street, they explain. I point to the parking garage next to the hospital and ask if they can tell me anything about what happened there.
“What did happen?” they ask.
I explain, but they’ve never heard of the incident. Six years is a long time, they say. Before the pandemic, before Floyd, it was another time.
I say thanks and walk away. Close my eyes behind the sunglasses and breathe in deeply, maybe hoping to breathe in the air of my childhood. Open car windows with the smell of Minnesota’s sun-scorched fields and the smoke from Dad’s cigar in the driver’s seat. But above all, the smell of freshly baked doughnuts from Southdale Center.
22
The Desert, October 2016
A flat light lay across the desert. A huge desert that I crossed alone. I saw no other people, there in that monotonous, desolate landscape, no sign of life at all. But of course, cars count as signs of life. And this parking lot. What if every person on earth apart from me had been whirled up into heaven just a moment ago by some generous-spirited Jehovah? That would have been fine actually, it wouldn’t have left me any more alone than I already am. That was my first thought as I woke up, and my last as I fell asleep. That I was lonely. Some days it was just fine, but at other times the loneliness and the burden of the emptiness were so great I felt they were going to crush me. But I couldn’t let it, not yet. First I had to do what I had to do. That was the only thing that kept me going now, the only thing that made it worth getting up in the morning. Worth going out. Worth eating the food on the plate in front of me. But afterward, when that was out of the way, whatthen? Then this eternity would end. Then we would be together again, my beloved. And rest. Eternal rest. So I kept walking.
It was cloudy and at this time of the fall the daylight was already noticeably less by six o’clock, which was the time he usually left work.
Suddenly I saw someone. She was standing by her car with the trunk open. She was overweight and out of breath and I could tell she’d been using that overfilled shopping cart as a walker on her way through the desert.
“Hi,” I said.
The big body jerked in surprise and she turned toward me. I could see the panic in her eyes. Then the relief.
“Oh, thank God,” she groaned.
She didn’t say it, but I knew anyway. That her first thought was that I was black. I guess Latino was a bit less threatening. Just a bit. I smiled. “I was wondering if you needed any help?”
“Thanks, but that’s okay,” she said, with a look that said help is exactly what she needed. She stared at my face, then at my hands. I continued walking.
It took me a while to spot that big blue car, even though I knew where it usually sat and navigated using the floodlight pylon in the center of the parking lot. It was a Chevrolet Silverado High Country crew cab. I peered in at the driver’s seat. Noted that the neck support was at normal height. The seat pushed not too far forward or too far back. I used the sleeve of my jacket to wipe the raindrops from the windshield, took out the roll of wide white tape and tore off three strips. Taped them to the windshield on the driver’s side, directly under the roof. It formed a white square approximately three by three inches. I looked at my watch. Five thirty. That gave me half an hour.
23
Wheel of Fortune, October 2016
Bob stopped the Volvo by the curb outside Bernie’s Bar. The Happy Hour sign wasn’t up. He drummed on the steering wheel as he looked toward the yellow light behind the blinds. So what would that make it in there now? Unhappy Hour? And how unhappy would Chrissie Hynde be if he showed up again so quickly? Only one way to find out.
The man tending the bar looked more like a bouncer than a bartender.
“Where’s Liza?” asked Bob.
“She’s not here today.”
“I can see she’s not here, I asked—”
“I heard what you asked, mister. Can I get you something?”
Bob breathed through his open mouth. He could feel the rushing start up. He laid his police ID on the bar. “You want to answer my questions here or down at the station?”
The bartender studied the ID as he poured a glass of beer.
“The kid’s sick, so she’s at home,” he said. “Is she in trouble?”
No, thought Bob. He grabbed his ID and walked out.
Back in the Volvo he beat his head against the steering wheel.
I’m the one who’s in trouble.
