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2001-09-22 || 2:04 p.m. || patrick, patron saint of thrift stores || at the thrift store (i should be in bed. i should be heavily medicated. i don't remember the last time i was sick so this feels weird, this light-headedness, this cottony cloudiness i am trying very hard to ignore.) i am rummaging through racks. humming to the song playing (thrift stores always play such good music. air supply and neil diamond and journey, yes.). trying to find brilliant things with labels stitched with gold thread. and a boy runs past me to slide under the rack. i am smiling. i am amused. i am getting the maternal itch that makes me want to coax him out of there and dust off his knees and push his very thick glasses back up square on the bridge of his nose. he comes out to tell me the kids are after him. he's in hiding. i say okay. he runs out and is screaming and sliding and rips his way back to my aisle. he tells me the game plan, that he will take a rubber ball and pelt them if they get too close. i nod. he engages his tactics and runs back to tell me the outcome. he asks me my name. his name is patrick. his birthday was may 7. he asks if i have a good plan. i say no. he runs away to keep the enemy under control and slides back on the knees of his red sweatpants. the enemy has been conquered; the kids have left the store. he is pumping fists into the air, holding his head back, yelling 'yesssssssss!' at the top of his lungs in the exact same way that has become the fashion for pre-pubescent boys in movies, beginning with macauley culkin. he is making triumphant arm gestures, hooting, slapping his hands together. people are starting to look at him and turn to me. we are now associates. he is now following me up and down the aisles. he is talking about money. he got ten dollars for his birthday (may 7) and thirty dollars for christmas. he bought a calculator for 12.99 and pokemon cards. he lost the ten dollars for his birthday. once he won $227,868 on wheel of fortune. he got $43,239 playing jeopardy. on the shows? i ask. no! on nintendo, he says, listing the high scores of his brother as well. all down to the last dollar. $34,954. $89,526. he says that's nothing compared to press your luck, where on one game a lady one $245,144 AND a car, and another man who won $335,854 AND a car. yeah, they all win cars on press your luck. i am walking down aisles, looking at suitcases and typewriters and men's pants. he is following me listing totals. he says he likes money. he says if i want to give him a birthday present i can give him seven dollars and he'll go to the dollar tree to buy pokemon cards and licorice and chocolate pudding. he stops at a bowling ball and picks it up to promptly drop it. people are watching him and looking at me with exasperated faces. mothers are keeping their kids away from him. patrick is yelling the scores to me and half singing and recounting his most valuable pokemon cards. i try to look at dresses. he stops when i stop. he doesn't mind we are in the ladies section and i am looking at slips, dangerously close to bras. one step, one step, next aisle, next aisle. he walks away to talk to another woman, mentioning his birthday and the seven dollars, and i wander to the other side of the store. he is breaking my thrift concentration. i am looking at socks and scarves and i hear him call 'jenniferrrrr! where are youuuu?' and i yell back (derr.) 'over heeeeere.' he points to the vending machines at the front of the store. cokes are a dollar and reese's pieces are only twenty-five cents. he runs over to double check the inventory. and jelly beans! and i am looking for his mother. i am looking for the woman who is letting this boy wander the store, stage fights with other kids over in electronics, solicit customers for money. i am wondering if the mother would mind if i gave patrick a quarter for the vending machine. i cannot find anything good with him hopping around me. i reach over for one last attempt at a bin of crocheted hats and he is searching with me. our heads are almost touching. i smell him next to me. he is dirty, little boy dirty, and smells vaguely of shit. he is looking at me through the glasses with very big magnified eyes. his shirt is stained. all of the sudden this makes me very sad. i decide it's time to go. he mentions the vending machines again. i walk to the register and he is at my side, rubbing his hands and watching the register for the grand total. five twenty-six, he says, not bad. the woman gives me my change and i am going to give it to him but he is still following me a bit. i stop at the door. i'll see you later, patrick, i say. he says okay. i am walking to my car half expecting to see him follow me. i hear him yell jennifer! and he is on a bike, a helmet strapped to his head, waving, his glasses perilously low on his nose. i yell bye! be careful! and he is tearing past cars through the parking lot and out onto the busy street. i am driving and see him further down the road now, peddling furiously in that little kid way, coasting and sticking one leg straight out, circus style. i stop to watch him, starting to cry about it, ready to drive over and help him up if he crashes. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |