Rats and Rats and Rats for Candy

Yesterday afternoon I became completely invisible.

After work, time to kill before going to see my son in his karate class. Not wanting to go home just yet, not wanting to cross town two times in one afternoon, or waste the gasoline in the tank. And yet there was something else, too.

A restless feeling.

I thought about browsing a nearby bookstore but I really wasn't in a place to spend money, and if there's anyplace in town where money in my pocket is at risk, it's Borders. So instead I wandered over to a nearby shopping mall and decided to just have a walk around.

Most malls are deadzones on weeknights. Carpeted deserts of canned music and abandoned photo booths. All the people working at the carts or the stand-up kiosks are either surfing the web or talking to people leaning out the entryways of nearby stores. It's one of those times where having a customer come in is more of an annoyance than a welcomed change, because when you work a job like that those downtimes become precious. This is where you catch up with coworkers, this is where you recharge your batteries before the dinner rush, before all the hassle that comes with closing a store.

I think people who don't like malls get bothered by the scatter of it all. How you have to dodge and weave while you walk. How you find yourself accosted by salespeople whenever you duck into a place. How it seems like all there is are teenagers and people with baby carriages.

It's kind of like being on a big airplane when you think about it.

But I've always liked them. Back in the day I'd savor the moments to walk up and down the halls of Governor's Square, or even the Landing. Right before the stores opened, or even around five when all the shift changes are taking place. I don't know -- maybe it's one of those Kevin Smith sort of things where you seek out comfort zones that create environments around you. Like hanging out in front of a convenience store or going to a favorite bar night after night.

Walking through a mall is kinda like flipping through a book, each store revealing a different page. I find myself wondering about the stories behind the eyes of the people who are there. What draws people to work in those places, or to come in and shop the way they do.

I mean, has anyone ever bought anything from Brookstone.. ever?

Or is it (as I've long suspected) just a petting zoo for massage chairs and electric shoe polishers?

I browsed without really looking. I shopped without the desire to buy. I watched people watching me. I followed my curiosity wherever it decided to go - hoping to see something unique or inspiring.

And yet at the same time wishing quietly for the colors of my edges to fade. For the light to start passing through me a little bit, instead of being blocked out or left in relief as shadow. It's hard to explain, this wanting to dissapear. To become part of the painting, just a shape in the background -- even just for a little while.

You don't do that by standing in front of Seurat's masterpiece and staring until you see the individual points. You do that by looking for that one place, that one point in the canvas where the illusion starts. By relaxing your eyes and allowing the impression to become the reality. It can't happen if a perfume girl smiles at you, or if you have to excuse yourself to step past another person browsing a shelf.

It has to happen in a place where everything exists and breathes without you. That place your presence doesn't disturb. Like trying to stand in water without making ripples, or watching a deer eat in the early morning mist of a forest without letting him know you are there.

Somewhere in the middle of a department store called Belk's there is a piano that plays on its own. A performer-less concert given for an audience that isn't there. Racks of purses and necklaces hanging quietly next to perfume counters and escalator steps that climb quietly into infinity. From a loudspeaker above comes a rhythmic beeping, some code only security guards understand -- gone almost as soon as it begins. Lines of clothes like forest trees, textured carpet underbrush.

And yet regardless of any sort of internal pull to make it out to be Thoreau's lake or Japhy on the Matterhorn, it cannot be anything else than what it is.

Plastic.
Encapsulated.
Commercial.

The simple fact is that I'm not really sure I could dissapear into nature. I'm a middle class white kid from a suburban city. I love hiking in forests, swimming in the ocean, climbing across mountains.. but simply because of my habitat each of those experiences becomes singular. Every time I do something like that it's different. Special. Unique.

Somewhere in the middle of Belk's the weight seemed to wash away.
Somewhere in the center of the storm the light began to pass through.

and I didn't
have to worry
about how
I saw

myself.

[Listening to: The Ditty Bops, "Wishful Thinking"]