Just Another Day At The Mall

The rough driving wakes me up. Sometimes I think my father intentionally aims for every pothole, dip, and raised bump when he’s driving. He calls it showing off his luxury car’s smooth suspension. The only thing suspended here is his disbelief. Another bump. “See! I didn’t even feel that! If I hadn’t been looking for it, I’d never have known it was there.”

My mother glares at him from the front passenger seat. She begins a well memorized tirade against him, his car, and his refusal to accept things are not as perfect as he wishes them to be. The two snipe at each other in the usual way that reminds me why I think marriage is overrated.

Did I have to come along? I stretch as best as I can in the back seat. A new shopping mall had opened up not far from where we live, and they are eager to see what it offers. I had looked up the tenant list online before we left. More of the same, but considerably upscale. I would not be surprised to find an income check just to qualify for a parking spot.

“So. Here’s the plan.” Dad is yelling to address me. “I’ll drop you off at the main entrance and go find a parking spot. Go through the mall, and meet us at the food court.” I mumble an “Okay.”, even though I know he’s not going to hear me. At once, Mom takes issue with meeting at the food court, pointing out he had a large lunch before leaving the house.

The bickering continues between them as they pull up to the “3 Minute Passenger Drop Off” lane. “Oh, Keri, in case I don’t find a good parking spot, your mother and I may just drive around the area and sight-see. If you don’t see us at the foodcourt when you’re done, give us a call on the cell phone.” I exit the car, smile and wave as Dad drives off in search of the “perfect” parking spot. Well, at least I’ll have an hour to myself.

Oh, such bling. The mall was officially opened last week, but to my eye it’s already faded and decayed. I try to see the facade as the distracting entertainment it is. Great swaths of orange, brown, and red colors. A giant neon flamingo stands guard over the mall entrance. Bright happy colors proclaiming the Best Shopping Experience of Southern California are everywhere. For a second, I can see the facade as it is intended to be viewed. Bright. Glamorous. Enticing.

But then my eye catches a crack in the stucco, where the underlying wooden supports were not matched evenly. As the stucco dried, it pulled apart there. Now I see where water from the automatic sprinklers has stained the wall. I see where the paint under the neon of the flamingo is cracking and peeling away already. It’s like there was never any planning for the attraction to remain pretty long-term. It was built to look pretty now, and to hell with tomorrow.

Inside the mall, I find the same anchor stores at upscale malls elsewhere. There’s a cupcake store, and a chocolate store, and a tobacco store, and a leather goods store, and hats store and…

In the middle of the large walkway are kiosks. One selling nothing but belts, and one selling nothing but hair clips, and one selling cell phone covers, and…

I realize despite all the trumpeting, this mall is just like all the others. It makes my scouting a lot easier to do. I already know which stores my parents are interested in, and which they will never set foot in. And so far, I’ve found nothing that stands out either way.

I do find a key difference between this mall and all the other malls I’ve been to. This one, is larger. Considerably larger. The smallest store I’ve seen could hold the floorplans to 3 houses inside. There are enough goods on sale to fill the expanse, and enough shoppers jostling each other to make the pickpockets happy. But I still have yet to find something that sets this mall apart from all the others.

What I thought would be an hour to myself stretches to three hours of continual walking. I’m not complaining about the solitude. It’s nice to be alone. A few pickpockets thought me an easy mark until they catch me staring at them in recognition. Security followed me for a few store lengths, finding it odd I had entered only a few stores, and had bought nothing. Overall, a peaceful three hours.

This mall was laid out in a linear floor plan. One long avenue of shopping. When I started my perusement, I bounced between sides, zigzagging my way down the walkway. But now I am at the far end of the mall. No grand facade graces these doors. It is clear the planners decided only one main entrance is enough.

There are only four doors here, two manual, two automatic. The sign above them declares, “This way to Parking Garage and Public Transportation.” Wouldn’t want the little people to feel unwelcome, eh? I really need to stop being so cynical about everything.

There is a steady stream of people coming through the unadorned entrance. Flanking the entrance are the smallest stores in the mall. Still larger than expected, they are not as popular nor as crowd drawing as the more flashy stores near the grand facade. Hawkers call and harass passersbys, promising wonderful products and exciting experiences. Most shoppers glance over in curiosity, a few stop and ask questions. As I approach the doors, I start to reach for my cell phone, to tell my parents to come to the parking garage and pick me up. But before I pull the phone free from my purse, an odd assortment of hanging goods catch my eye.

The last store in the mall has a series of mobile racks outside the entrance. The racks almost obscured the store itself. I hear a faint rhythm of drums which catch my attention at once. There are no hawkers outside the store, only the racks. I watch many shoppers walk past the flashy items without noticing. The lighting in this far end is much dimmer than what is at the grand facade, but it is still enough to make the display dance with glimmers of light and shimmers of reflections. I turn my focus from the racks back to the shoppers. Watching how they glance at all the other stores around us, but not even note these racks, I realize the shoppers don’t see the store.

But I do.

I get the first glimmer of realization. Am I dreaming?

Curious, I come over and look over the displayed goods. Most of them are beaded necklaces and bracelets. Of a strange and wide assortment. Some look like rosaries. Some are odd patterns of colors. At first glance, they look Roman Catholic. But there is a strange bent to them, as if no bishop would ever condone these.

Then I realize, I’m at a botanica. I look past the racks to the interior of the store. Indeed, here is the odd mixture of Catholic medallions, tiles painted with the veve of various Vodou principals, bags of dried plants that would have an overpowering scent but for the tangy scent of Florida Water wafting everywhere. As I step past the racks, I am surprised to see how small the botanica is. Barely the size of a walk-in closet, there is not enough room for all the goods.

Walking into the botanica, I pass two shoppers fingering the hanging beads. An attendant is helping them. “I’ll need two of these, and four of these. Oh! And these? Do you have them in blue?” My ear tells me the shopper is speaking a dialect of Spanish. But I understand her heavy accent with ease.

“We have them in any color you need.” The attendant answered in neither English, nor Spanish. Yet both the shopper, and I, understood her. The attendant reached into the dense display and pulled out a blue string of beads, to the great delight of the shopper.

Yup. I’m dreaming.

“There are more beads and chains if you like, Lady. Just on the other side of that rack.” A young man is wiping the glass countertop of the display case that also served as the cash register stand. He stops wiping long enough to gesture to the rack of beads that has appeared behind me, but I’m not interested. I hear the faint rhythm of drums again and am determined to track it down.

To my right of the glass case, is a wall of various statues. Most, it is clear, are meant for altars as representations of various gods, deities, spirits, and angels. I look them over, smiling as I find I am able to identify most of them without having to look at the labels. The drumming sound is coming from the statues. Shelf by shelf, I look them over. After the third shelf, I realize I am greeting each statue as if it was the persona it represents.

“Hello, Gabriel. Hello, Michael. Hello, Uriel. Hello, Samuel.” “Hello, St. Bridget. Hello, St. Andrew. Hello, St. Joseph. Hello, St. Barbabas.” “Hello, Freda. Hello, Legba. Hello, Baron. Hello, Kalfu.” “Hello, Eshu. Hello, Oshumare. Hello, Oya. Hello… Oh.” The drumming had become louder and louder as I progressed down the shelves. Now I had come to one statue in particular, and the drumming became deafening. When I greeted the statue, the drumming ceased completely.

“Hello, Chango.”

I could feel the young man behind me watching me intently. He had long dropped the pretense of wiping the glass. He cleared his throat, and began telling me about the statue I had stopped at. “Chango, is one of the Orishas. He is a god of warriors and of thunderstorms. He is said to be all that is masculine. His colors are…”

Without thinking, I cut off him off. “Red and white. His number is six.”

“… Yes.” He continued staring at me in the settled silence that followed. “But he’s not the one playing the drums.” I turned to face the attendant. I placed a hand on the glass case to steady myself with as there was not much room. At once the drums began to sound again. But now the rhythm was coming from everywhere. It overwhelmed me and I stumbled and fell. The last I saw, as the attendant caught me, was a string of red and white beads around his neck.

“Miss? Miss? Are you with me?” How long had I been staring at the ground? How long had I been standing here? “Miss?” I looked up towards the speaker. A police officer was looking at me in concern.

“Yes. Sorry. I had drifted off.” Wasn’t I at the botanica? How did I wind up here? Where is here?

I see my parent’s luxury car in the driveway. What’s left of it, anyways. The doors were all open and the interior was ripped up. At the sight of it, I am both dismayed and amused. The police officer mistook my silence for concern. “The car’s insurance will take care of the damage. Whoever did this was unable to get into the trunk or into the fuel tank.”

This car is my father’s prized possession, and my mother’s favorite rage inducer. The damage pattern is very, very familiar. “Officer, where are my parents?” The officer seems surprised by the question.

“They’re still on vacation, I’m told. The house is left in your care.” I only nod and struggle to stifle a smile. “They’ll be gone for a few more days. They’ve already been notified about the damage.” I winced. “And they know you were not here when it happened. There’s nothing you could have done except to call us, really.” I nod again. “Well, here’s my number, and you’ll receive a written report in a few days.”

The officer leaves the driveway and enters his own car. I note the car was vandalized while inside the locked gates. What I didn’t tell the officer, is my mother had threatened to destroy my father’s car for several years now. The damage done to the car is precisely what she had promised to do.

I started to turn towards the mansion that was my parents’ house in the dream. At once, many dour thoughts came to mind. Really, really, really must get this cynicism in check. “Excuse me, Miss!” An elderly man comes shuffling up to me. “I know we’ve never met, but I’m your parents’ next door neighbor. I saw the whole thing happen.”

“Did you tell the police?” He was dressed in a dark brown velvet sweat suit. It was very hard for me not to laugh.

“And get your mother arrested? Oh no!” Well, that confirms it. “But, I did come over here after your parents left. The damage wasn’t enough to cover her tracks. So, I had my sons… help… a little.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“She has her own problems to deal with. No need to get other people involved, eh? My sons found something in the car. Something of yours.”

“Mine?” He pushed a small brown package into my hands.

“It’s always been yours, I think. But she’s too bitter to let it leave her hands. So. Here it is.”

I look over the package. “And what do you want for your generosity?”

“My, aren’t we the suspicious one?” He laughs, jiggling his portly shape. “There are more people watching you than you think, Kerian. And more people in your corner than you think. I want nothing from you. Well, no thing. What I do want, is for you to escape her shadow. And this will help.” He chuckles again, and leaves the driveway. The automatic gates close behind him, sealing me in the property.

I open the package. It’s several thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. I am confused to see it, but say nothing. I tuck the package into my purse, and walk away from the carnage that was the car.

What a glamorous mansion! Such landscaping! Such detailing! Surely this place has been featured in magazines. One would think this was the summer abode of some descendent of royalty. It takes some time to walk from the street gate to the front of the mansion, proper. A landscaper sees me and whispers into his radio. Great. I would not be surprised if I’m persona-non-grata at my parent’s home. At once, I hear the rumble of wheels along the stone paved driveway.

A golf cart, driven by a sharply dressed man comes to me and makes a wide turn around me. “Ah, Ms. Nox. Why did you not inform us of your arrival? I would have come to the gate at once!” He exits and offers his hand to help me into the passenger seat of the cart.

As he drives forward, he goes past the main entrance of the mansion. “I had to sign off the report about their car.” He nods and smiles as he does. “I wasn’t sure if I would be welcome here, actually.” He nods again, but the smile has fled his face.

He comes to a stop at a side entrance of the mansion. “Indeed, the lady of the house is still cross with you.” He sighs. “But then again, the lady of the house is still cross with the world at large. You’re just an easier target for her words.” We both nod in agreement. “But the lady of the house is not lord of the universe. I’m glad to see you. She treats us as if we were only of worth to be thrown away. Discarded. You still see us as the people we are. I do believe, I speak for the others, when I say… I appreciate you.”

He helps me from the cart and leads me into the servant’s entrance of the mansion. There are many staff running about, doing their daily chores and keeping the mostly vacant mansion looking prim and proper for only the shadows to keep company.

“Ms. Nox! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here! Would you like some lunch?” I know better than to ask directions to the kitchen. Even though this is not my house, and these are not my maids, they treat me like royalty when I come to the mansion.

“Well, if you have something to spare?” The head cook gives me an evil eye in jest.

“Just for that! I’m going to afflict you with a thorn in my side! Andrew! Come here!” A rosy cheeked youth, of that age between adolescence and adulthood comes forward. “Chef! Yes, Chef!”

“Ms. Nox, this is Andrew. My new apprentice.” I look Andrew over with a critical eye. He blushes at the inspection. “I hope you don’t mind being subjected to raw talent.”

“I’d be delighted, Chef. What will Andrew make for me?” “What would you like?”

I stared Andrew with a cold gaze. “I would like Andrew, to make whatever he pleases.” Chef explodes into laughter.

“B… b… but…”, Andrew swallows hard. “But, if Ms. Nox doesn’t tell me what she wants, how will I know what to make?” Chef leads me to a table beside the grill.

“Surely, Andrew, there is something you’ve always wanted to try, but have been afraid to try because it sounds wrong. Yes?” As I tease him, I feel like I’m talking to myself and using him as proxy.

“Y… y… yes, Ms. Nox. Okay. I’ll try.” The Chef removes Andrew’s apprentice hat and places a chef’s hat on him instead. As Andrew’s eyes filled with fear and trembling, Chef leaned in close to him and said, “She’ll forgive every mistake, as long as it’s an honest one. Don’t be afraid to mess up. Don’t be afraid to own your mess. And most importantly, don’t be afraid.” Andrew nodded and gulped again.

Chef assigned two other apprentices to be Andrew’s helpers and left us in peace. At first, Andrew’s voice was shaky and toned more in questions than commands. But as he worked, he grew more confidant. He admitted to me he was trying a new taste today. Grilled salmon and potato wedges with a thyme based sauce. By the time he finished his dish, he wasn’t the rosy faced youth, but was now a young man. He didn’t age, rather, he seasoned.

Andrew placed the dish before me, and stood back with pride. Before I could take a bite, however, the butler interrupted us.

“Forgive the intrusion, Ms. Nox, but you have a pair of visitors at the gate.”

“My mother has visitors and I get to play interference again, or I, personally, have visitors?” While I listened to the answer, I did get a forkful of salmon. Oh, such wonderful taste. But I made sure Andrew watched me pull a few bones from my mouth. The look of horror on his face melted my heart and I winked at him.

“You, personally. One of them gave me his… calling card.” The butler extended a small silver plate to me, on which was laying a long necklace. A single string filled with beads, alternating six red beads with six white beads. I picked up the beads and fingered them, struggling to remember why this was important.

Chango.

“Forgive me, Andrew, I can’t stay and properly critique you. I’m glad to see you gain confidence in the kitchen, but when working with those that jostle for the same title, expect them to undercut you every chance they get. The bones, Andrew, the bones. Otherwise, such wonderful taste! You must cook this for me again!” Andrew nodded grimly, but beamed when I was done.

“Get me to the gate. Quickly.” The butler nodded and led me to the side entrance where the golf cart was waiting. I waved hellos and goodbyes to everyone as I went. In minutes, I was back at the street. On the other side of the gate were two tall dark-skinned people. One man. One woman. The man was dressed in combat fatigues and boots. He had an axe tucked into his belt, and the shirt was open revealing a well honed muscular chest. The woman was draped in lengths of yellow cloth. She was facing away from me as the butler opened the gate.

“I do believe, these are yours, Sir.” I held out the necklace of beads as I stepped through the gate. He took the beads with one hand, and held out his other. Some strange instinct kept me from releasing the beads. I started to reach for his hand with my own free hand, as the gate was closed behind me. At the sound of it locking, a sudden darkness swallowed up the scene and my awareness with it.

I hear the drumming again. I open my eyes but all is dark. I can not see. I am standing, but I do not see what I am standing on. It smells like night. Cold. Damp. Heavy air. I turn my head and realize the drumming is coming from one direction. Hoping I am on level ground, I start walking towards it.

Emerging from the thick fog, I find myself at the edge of a small clearing. In the middle is a small fire. Several men are clapping and drumming on makeshift instruments. Around the fire a woman is dancing. She has a yellow cloth tied to her head, but she is dressed in faded cloth. They are quietly singing a language I have never heard. I remain on the edge of the clearing. I am confused and afraid to be here. I know where I am. I know when I am. I know I am witness to something that would be a death-sentence if others found out.

And I know the woman dancing around the fire.

Margaret. My ancestor. Stolen from somewhere in Africa and brought to America in chains. Though her freedom was signed by President Lincoln shortly after her arrival, she was effectively a slave for the rest of her life.

I look away, from the ritual I have no right to be observing. I start to turn back to the darkness when I feel a warm hand taking mine. I look back, and see Margaret has left the fire’s side. With one hand, she grips mine. With the other, she wipes the unacknowledged tears from my face.

“You’ve come all this way, my daughter, and now you leave?” I have no words to answer her with. “Come, be with me. Come, dance with me.” She pulls gently back towards the fire. I follow. Quietly, we move sunwise around the fire. Only now do I notice I have the feather cloak, the marked eye, and marked hand. It is the first I have seen them in this dream. As we move, I shed my forced stiffness, my shame, and my guilt. I note our back and forth movement tramples the castoffs under my feet. I need to do this in the Waking, and do it often.

Once Margaret sees I am relaxed and open, she unties the yellow cloth from her head. It lengthens as she unfolds it, becoming a swirling river of golden yellow. As yellow as the drawn sun. As yellow as beaten gold. As yellow as sunflowers. She sings a song my ears can not follow and throws the cloth over herself. As the cloth settles, Margaret is reformed.

Oshun takes my hands and kisses them in greeting. She talks to me of many things. Of my fears and worries. Of my insecurities. Of what makes a woman, womanly. She asks me questions, and I answer. And find myself working through some things, and exposing other things, and being completely honest in my answers. Oshun ruffles my cowlicked afro and whispers private and secret things into my heart. I see a gleam off in the distance. The sun is about to rise. As it does, Oshun takes the yellow cloth that was draped over her, and wraps it around me. It envelopes me, marking me as covered by Oshun.

The sun rises, and with its first rays, sends me away from the Dream, into the Waking.

Make of that, what you may.