I am seated on one of five stone benches, artfully positioned around the main fountain at City Central Mall. My writing book is on my lap, my pen in hand. Inside my shoulder purse are three new pens, just in case I get carried away writing about what I see, feel, smell, absorb today. Shoppers walk past, quizzically wonder what I am writing, if I’m a reporter or doing office work. That is fair as we look at each other. They don’t see the me of me but I will try to see them.
My attention is drawn by the plip plopping of the drops into the fountain’s basin. There is an almost tribal rhythm. Each drop has a distinct sound as if music is being composed. It sounds nothing like rain. The gurgling is from the cold water I feel as it bubbles over rocks, almost mesmerizing me.
The spell is broken but a new one starts. A young woman’s heels make static as she chases her toddler around the pool. Their laughter joins the music of the water. ‘Stop, Angela. Wait for Mommy. I have a penny for you. It’s my last one.’ Angela waits, puts her little hand out and takes the shiny penny, throws it toward the water but it falls on the Spanish tiles and rolls, stops against my foot. Her blond Shirley Temple hair teases me so that I want to run my fingers through its silk. Instead, I pick up the penny, give it to the child and add two of my own. One at a time, they drop in the water, close enough to the edge that if I want to, I can pull them out again–but no, I don’t do it.
Coffee, I smell coffee. It smells cold and uninviting. It is brown and curdled under my bench. Why didn’t I smell this sooner? There are no empty seats waiting for me Why didn’t I condemn the pig who hadn’t bothered to dispose of it in the large waste can within a few feet of the fountain? It is disgusting and I don’t want to touch it. It can lay there forever.
Two ladies get up from the bench next to me. A fat lady on the end, having rested her feet, also gets up, gathers her shopping bags and leaves. They are filled but do not seem heavy. Her rear wobbles. Her underarms are perspiration stained and I can smell them. For sure she is somebody’s grandmother so why the dreadlocks, I wonder. Is she making a statement or does she believe she is ‘with it’? A new odor chases the perspiration. Pancakes are sizzling on a griddle. The dreadlocks disappear, supplanted by a red and white polka dotted bandana. A white bib apron covers her spreading torso. Her grin is wide and full of glee. A pitcher of maple syrup is about to be poured when she suddenly vanishes. I make a quick note to use her in my next story.
Two promenaders come towards me. Their black shoes are almost identical. The sound of the platform soles make the small tiles echo. The girls walk briskly, each talking on a cell phone. Both phones are black as are their jeans that are bursting at the seams. The girl nearest the stores pops her phone into a bright red tote bag she managed to loop around her hips. My hearing is extraordinary today. As they come closer, Maisie tells her friend to slow down. ‘Why?’ ‘Because I’ve got a big oozing blister under my toe thong.’ Jilly offers no consolation and nastily says, ‘I told you to get the 6 1/2. The 6 looked too tight. I have a Band Aid in my bag, want it?’ ‘Sure, thanks’, says Maisie. ‘Let’s go sit on that bench over there near the fountain.’
It just so happens their choice of a bench is the one I am using. I have room on each side of me, room for my purse and writing supplies. I am comfortable, don’t want to move. Maisie asks me to ‘scoot over’ so she can talk to Jilly. These girls are barging in on my space. And I don’t like them, didn’t even like them when they were too far away for me to hear. They are close enough now for me to see 10 very red painted toes on Maisie and 10 black as pitch on Jilly. Their hair is spiked and their eyebrows pierced. Stop being so critical my conscience says. I don’t pay attention, gather my writing supplies and move away from them and their unpleasant smell. I’m not sure but I believe their hair is tainted with pot.
It’s lunch time and California Pizza is right around the next corner. I head there and am lucky to get a small table in a fairly quiet spot. In 10 seconds flat an adorable, clean waitress is offering me all kinds of pizzas. I ask for a few minutes to decide. She smiles and says, ‘Sure.’ My writing book is ready. It begins with the sweet glow of the young waitress. It comes out of her pores. Her yellow uniform, along with the dozens more flitting around the place, become fireflies dancing in moonlight. I order an extra thin medium pizza, lots of sauce and cheese, plus a few anchovies thrown in. Someplace it is baking with all sorts of sauces and toppings. My nose itches. I suck in the aroma, let it envelop my entire mind.
My pages are filling, getting spotted by dripping sauce, but I am feeling, seeing, smelling and tasting my afternoon.
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