Monday, August 24, 2009

My Very Image by Sally Bosco - An homage to Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)


On a steaming August day, I hurry to the International Mall past the outdoor shops of the Baystreet entrance. On my left, people spill out of the Cheesecake Factory waiting for a hallowed reservation. On my right, posers loll in the fake café society of the Blue Martini. My goal is the promising refuge of the air-conditioned food court. I enter and feel the heavenly burst of mock arctic. Haagen-Dazs and Sbarro oddly flank a Fit 2 Run store.

Shoppers dressed in sparkly Custo Barcelona tank tops and Banana Republic shorts walk by trancelike with a look of single-minded determination to consume at all costs. I feel strangely trippy the way I do in dreams at times, as though I can’t quite get my mind to work. Yet, I know this is no dream. I am on a mission to meet my friend to help her purchase some kicks for her upcoming cruise.

I notice the Cinnabon shop looming in front of me like a portal to the gates of hades. The scent of buttery cinnamon reels me in. Fog rolls out from in front of the counter as the cheerful, brightly dressed attendant beckons me. “Would you like to try some Cinnabon sticks today? Or maybe some Classic Bites?” Suddenly it seems like the most important thing in the world for me is to indulge in one of the cloying calorie-bombs.

“I’d like the Classic. Warm dough, filled with your legendary Makara Cinnamon, topped with freshly made cream cheese frosting,” I say as cheerfully as possible.

“Please, have a seat in our waiting area.” The attendant waves her hand toward some molded orange booths.

I grin to myself as I snatch some extra napkins and make my way into the small eating area. Sun visors, purses and backpacks look out of place hanging on yellow plastic hooks on the walls.

As I walk into the eating area, I notice people with ravenous looks on their faces, their hands outstretched to the waitress zombie-like wanting more and more of the deadly treats. It is obvious that the people around me have transformed their bodies into amorphous Jabba The Hutt shapes in order to better absorb the sugary delights. All have credit cards laid out in front of them like passports to hell: American Express, Mastercard, Visa and Discovery, all instruments of their death wishes. It is obvious that most of them have murdered their souls in pursuit of junk food.

After a few minutes the waitress walks up to me with a steaming object the size of a small animal on a cardboard tray. But I look up and notice that something is wrong with her face. It leers at me, skeletal with empty eye sockets as it extends the deadly offering to me.

Just as I am about to imbibe, I realize I need to escape that infernal place. “Sale for the next ten minutes at the Ann Taylor Shop,” a loudspeaker blares.

I sprint down the mall barely in control of my movements. Everything is off-kilter. The storefronts are tilted and the people look distorted. Some have tiny heads on huge bodies. Some are elongated like poles or are short and squat like fireplugs. The fountains that usually spout pretty turquoise streams, spew noxious-smelling green bile.

I know that my friend is waiting for me at the Ann Taylor Shop. That’s when my iPhone beeps and I pull it out of my purse, only to see this eerie text: “I’m dying to shop at the Gucci Store. Meet me there.”

“Dying I’m dying I’m dying,” echoes over and over in my brain while I pass leering refugees from a Diane Arbus photo. The trees in the mall are sticklike and devoid of life, the artificial flowers wilted.

I notice the Gucci Store looming in front of me like a portal to the gates of hades. The scent of posh perfume reels me in. Fog rolls out from in front of the counter as the cheerful, brightly dressed attendant beckons me. “Would you like to try on some tapered slacks today? Perhaps a leather jacket?” Suddenly it seems like the most important thing in the world for me to indulge in one of their ridiculously priced creations.

“I’d like a Classic Gucci bag in the flora print that Gucci has made famous around the globe,” I say as cheerfully as possible.

“Please, have a seat in our waiting area.” The attendant waves her hand toward some plush leather chairs.

I grin to myself as I snatch some perfume and make my way into the luxurious waiting area. Hats, purses and overnight bags look out of place hanging on yellow plastic hooks on the walls.

As I walk into the waiting area, I notice people with ravenous looks on their faces, their hands outstretched to the clerk zombie-like wanting more and more of the deadly clothing. It is obvious that the people around me are thin as wraiths, their ribs and collar bones poking out from under their clothing, bony mannequins in the theater of decay. All have credit cards laid out in front of them like passports to hell: American Express, Mastercard, Visa and Discovery, all instruments of their death wishes. It is obvious that most of them have murdered their souls in pursuit of fashion. My friend is among them, dressed in a perky Ann Taylor sundress with gold Gucci sandals. But her face looms gaunt and skeletal above her designer threads. I see that she is too far gone to help.

After a few minutes the clerk walks up to me with a luscious object the size of a football covered in a floral pattern. But I look up and notice that something is wrong with her face. It leers at me, skeletal with empty eye sockets as it extends the deadly offering to me.

As I listen to the hip-Eurostyle muzak that is intended to make me purchase more items than I require, the memory of the Cinnabon shop floods into my mind, I think that I must be in some kind of trance to have been brought from one form of death to another, the second of which seems even more sinister than the first.

I quietly slide out of the store, firmly resolved to do business with neither of them. Fate has something else in mind for me, however, because now all of the shops contain skeletal figures that beckon me in. Deciding that there is no escaping, I take up the position I will serve out for all of eternity, ironically as a counter person at Forever 21.

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Painting is Circe Invidiosa by John William Waterhouse.

2 comments:

  1. I like this line: "credit cards laid out in front of them like passports to hell." Great stuff!

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  2. I like "leering refugees from a Diane Arbus photo." Hah. Good ending, too.

    ReplyDelete