The Weary Against the Machine Fax
It was a cloudy, rainy day as I strode through the black topped parking lot, my wife in close, silent tandem. Rain beat down on our heads as we maneuvered around the buzzard-like drivers circling, ever-circling for a closer spot. Water filled our shoes making our feet itch as we approached the platen glass windows with the too bright display lights shining down on frozen mannequin faces; faces whose bodies were twisted and shaped into static shades of motion. We skulked past the Dante-like statuettes towards the far entry doors. Above, glowing in a soft radiance against the darkened skies thrummed the florescent sign that spoke "Hudson's."
"I hate this place," she remarked from my side. I grunted an assent and held out a hand to her. She was cold and wet, like an albino mink, as her blond hair matted to her face.
We entered the mall to the sound of an orchestra's rendition of "Good Day Sunshine" droning on and on through the cheap tinny speakers up in the ceiling. Mall muzak is annoying in its never ending attempts to be non-annoying; it is music that is equally hated by all listeners of all tastes, particularly those who enjoyed the original non-muzaked version of the song.
I held her hand tightly and braced myself for the unpleasant sojourn as we made our way to the basement of Hudson's.
First, we had to traverse Hudson's Isles of Beauty. I know of no more offensive place than the Isles of Beauty. The lights are softly harsh (impossible, yet true). Women in heavy make-up, wearing white lab-like coats with black pointed collars poking out arrange baubles behind their respective counters. You can hear the inane chatter as these women prey on confused looking men looking for that special gift that they have to give in...oh, about ten minutes from now. Other counter clerks speak in hushed conspiratorial tones as they attempt to convince elderly women that this concoction will make them younger; this one more radiant; this one flawless. This is a modern day snake oil troupe who know nothing of outside the confines of the white walls, the track lighting, and the marbled tile floors. To them, Somalia might be a new perfume, the Ebola virus an eye infection from misuse of an applicator.
"I hate this place," I remark. She grips my hand tighter as she now leads me through the labyrinthine isles.
But the worst part of the Isles of Beauty is the smell. My eyes sting from the alcoholic fragrances and the dry colored powders. I squeeze them shut as they water; perhaps I have the Ebola virus from a Max Factor product. She leads me through.
Eventually, we exit the Isles to the clothing department. There is a man in a tuxedo playing a black baby grand piano. He's playing "Good Day Sunshine." In the space of a second, I think who is this man and how did his obvious talents for the keys lead him here, a human oddity for the wealthy to walk around and ignore?
She pulls my hand harder as I slow to figure this man out.
"Come on...downstairs," she reminds me.
We reach the escalators and begin to walk down them. As we walk and are swept downward, we pass old made-up faces going up. Everyone here has a tan and a haughty air. I hate this place.
We reach the bottom. The basement. The men's department. The marble. "I hate this place," she says. I agree. I take her hand and now lead her through the clothing to the back of the store. We pass plain T-shirts with not so plain prices.
We pass more mannequins, androgynous beings who could double for the female ones upstairs with the augmentation of two dixie cups. I don't care. I'm not here for clothes.
I walk back to the TicketMaster booth. No longer are the floors marbled; no they are the same old dull tile sheets that I remember all of Hudson's having when I was a kid.
The woman in the booth looks tired, tired of having to deal with the public. Tired because she knows that TicketMaster is ripping off people at exorbitant prices; tired because she gets paid so little and she knows that the proceeds are going to further pad Microsoft's second in command who owns the system.
"Could you please tell me the price for the P.J. Harvey tickets?" my (future ex-)wife asks with a smile.
She comes back with an amount double of what we expected. Plus service fee.
She looks at me. I know she wants to go bad, but I feel that I have to play parent and say no, we can't afford that. She knows it, too.
Dejected, she asks for the price of the Mike Watt concert.
The woman monotonously quotes a much better price to our ears. Plus service fee. But it's sold out.
We left Hudson's that day without tickets for any event. As we climb back up through the store and brave the Isles, we are saddened. Its not fair. We work for our money and it goes only so far. The musicians work hard for their money but similar concerts are so varied in their costs. We hear that P.J. Harvey is coming to Pine Knob with Live. Great, double the price and double the service charge.
We reach our car as another driver pulls up behind us and flips on his blinker to ward off anyone else from our spot. We will not be hurried. He can wait a few moments before he goes into Hudson's to buy yet another pair of navy blue deck shoes.
On our way home, we flip on 89X.
They have free concert tickets to give away, including P.J. Harvey.
"Hmmmm" I think. "Maybe I could ask Kelly to play Milla's 'Gentleman Who Fell' or anything from Sarah."
© sklender, 1996 - Until My Death, and then three weeks beyond that.