I felt like shaking her and shouting, 'Look at him! Why are you wrapped up like a fucking mummy and sweating your ass off while your husband is wearing Versace flip-flops and a short sleeve v-neck douche-bag Ed Hardy tee shirt!' I wanted to shove her arrogant, hairy husband to the ground, snatch the scarf off of her head, grab her hand and run to my car like Thelma and Louise. I wanted to drive her to the cool, blue beach with the windows down and laugh while she wrestled with her newly free wind-whipped hair. I wanted us both to sing 'American Girl' at the top of our lungs as we wound our way through Topanga Canyon toward the water. I wanted to see her alive and fully herself. I wanted us each to drink exactly one too many icy, salt-rimmed margaritas at Casa Vista while we breathed in the briny ocean air and talked about what a load of crap it is to think that a deity might form it's opinion of you on the basis of fashion (if that was true, her husband was absolutely going to hell...). I wanted to hear her say, 'Guuurl, thank GOD you grabbed my hand and pulled me out of there when you did 'cause I was about to flip.my.shit. breathing that prick's exhaled hot air he sashayed around in his cotton tee shirt and 'Affliction' jeans!' I wanted to crawl into the cat box with her, talk like girlfriends and laugh like her god wasn't listening.
Instead, I stared at her long sleeve turtleneck and tightly pinned polyester scarf that left only the smallest possible area of her face exposed. I noted that she, in a modesty overkill, held her knees tightly together under her full length, heavy weight skirt. A layer of visible perspiration glistened on the backs of her hands and the part of her face that was not covered. When our eyes met, neither of us looked away. I knew she could see contempt in my eyes. It hurt me to think she had probably already assumed it was for her. I struggled with myself about how to reach out to her. Was she brainwashed? Would any clumsy words I uttered be anything but an insult? Would her husband (never standing more than a few inches away) beat her later if I spoke up? Would it make any difference at all except to make this crappy little strip mall shop feel more claustrophobic and hot? As I dug in my purse for a 10 dollar bill, I felt myself growing more angry.
I paid her husband for the cheap ear-buds I needed to get me through the weekend. I walked out of their stifling store into the obliterating 109 degree oven of the Valley. I forced my way through the searing heat waves rising from the tarmac of the parking lot. I slipped into my car, turned over the engine, blasted on my AC and wished she could have read my mind. I cued Tom Petty, cranked the volume up to 11 as I drove away singing 'American Girl' at the top of my lungs.
Instead, I stared at her long sleeve turtleneck and tightly pinned polyester scarf that left only the smallest possible area of her face exposed. I noted that she, in a modesty overkill, held her knees tightly together under her full length, heavy weight skirt. A layer of visible perspiration glistened on the backs of her hands and the part of her face that was not covered. When our eyes met, neither of us looked away. I knew she could see contempt in my eyes. It hurt me to think she had probably already assumed it was for her. I struggled with myself about how to reach out to her. Was she brainwashed? Would any clumsy words I uttered be anything but an insult? Would her husband (never standing more than a few inches away) beat her later if I spoke up? Would it make any difference at all except to make this crappy little strip mall shop feel more claustrophobic and hot? As I dug in my purse for a 10 dollar bill, I felt myself growing more angry.
I paid her husband for the cheap ear-buds I needed to get me through the weekend. I walked out of their stifling store into the obliterating 109 degree oven of the Valley. I forced my way through the searing heat waves rising from the tarmac of the parking lot. I slipped into my car, turned over the engine, blasted on my AC and wished she could have read my mind. I cued Tom Petty, cranked the volume up to 11 as I drove away singing 'American Girl' at the top of my lungs.
No comments:
Post a Comment