** Yellow **

Five days of quarantine had her counting microscopic pin holes – years of National Geographic centerfolds and Tiger Beat heartthrobs tacked haphazardly via push pins. Coat after coat of paint chosen after careful consideration – a young girl fans out six shades of yellow, Banan-O-Rama or Chick-A-Dee (?). All it takes is a little blue tape and some paint rollers – a new room for a whole new you!

Not so bad in the beginning. A break – long overdue. Dorm rules – exile. Back home for now to a room no longer hers. Relax. Feel better. A book or five. Watch the tube. Burn some tunes. Novelties.

She sighs. Fingers a hole. Yellow paint chips off – dances its way to the carpeted floor. Thousands of them.

Flops on the bed – hands folded funeral style and laid to rest on her infected chest. Spring Fling. That’s what she chose. Didn’t matter. Yellow is yellow. Try telling that to a fifteen year old.

Runs her tongue across her teeth. Stares – unblinking. Yellow walls closing in – a blurring mass of suffocation.

Gotta get out of here. Blinks. There’s a woman hiding in the walls. She laughs. Does strep throat make you crazy? Or the walls – yes. It could be the walls.

Shivers – surveys the naked room. Posters long gone – shoved six feet under the day after graduation. Watches the rise and fall of the yellow – the walls are breathing, now.

“Fuck this.” Bolts up. Stands. Runs for the door. Turns the handle. Escapes.

 

Mom –

Went to the mall. Can’t take the yellow smell any more. Turning into Charlotte Gilman. Back soon.

<3 e

 

Isolation to metropolis in T minus nine minutes, forty-three seconds… and counting. Thank you, suburban America.

She sips her smoothie. Strawberry-banana. Leans against the second floor rail – lets the frozen pink tickle her enflamed esophagus.

How is it that the mall is always crowded? Four o’clock on a Wednesday – bodies sway back and forth amongst a sea of consumer driven carp twenty-six feet below ground control. Ten… nine… eight…

Turns around. Walks blindly – crosses the threshold to… some store. Doesn’t matter. Not like she’ll buy anything, anyway.

<p class="MsoNormal” style=”text-align: justify; margin: 0in 0in 10pt”>A woman pulls a sequined number off the bargain rack – holds it up to her chest. Bright yellow printer paper – 50% off scribbled in sketchy black permanent marker – held in place by off-brand tape. Frowns. Caresses the fabric. Returns the monstrosity with a sigh.

Young girl juggles shopping bags on each arm as she slams a stack of black tops onto the counter – smiling curtly as the cashier makes her way to the register.

Nothing new here. She sighs. Feigns interest in the accessory display. Picks up a polka dotted scarf and wraps it like a basket weaver between her fingers. Junk.

She sees her then – the woman. From the walls.

Watches as she marches into the oversized cubicle – beaded necklace bouncing forcefully against a pale yellow blouse – determined. Her face pulled tight with worry – her gate hurried and deliberate – cell phone plastered against her diamond studded ear. Department store bags crash together – collide – with each step.

Catches one end of her conversation – Yes, I know. Curt. I’m almost done here. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just wait for me out front. Pause. Yes – he’s fine. I’ll drop him off on the way. She marches on – glancing at racks, taking it in. Woman on a mission. A force.

Sees him then – the boy. No taller than her waist – four, maybe. Collared shirt unbuttoned at the top. Blue and red stripes against a white canvas. Pink liquid dried across his belly – Rorschach snake. Hair as white as dandelions – the color of wishes. Blue jeans scuff against the carpeted floor – shoes lighting up as he struggles to match his mother’s hurried gait.

The woman is at the back now, face buried in her agenda. She peeks out from the new deliveries rack – scans the isle – Pooh Bear! Parts the rack of clothing like the Red Sea – pulls out a classy number. Hurry up, we’re late! The woman yells nowhere in particular.

She watches the child now. Curious.

He stops then – in the middle of the store. The laces of his shoes splayed about. Sighs. Eyes drop to the floor, shoulders sag. Tired.

“But…” he whimpers – voice small and fragile, like tapping a fork against a nearly empty wine glass…

 “…but…” he tries again, looks down – brining two small hands together in front of his chest to cup an imaginary treasure…

“… but wha bout ma hotdog?”

It breaks her heart seeing him – his hands empty as he peers deep into the dirt filled crevices – as if looking hard enough at the space it should be may manifest his promised hotdog from thin air.

Imagines him then – sitting at home. Cross legged. Watching cartoons. His mother rushing from one room to the next – her to-do list a mil

e long with no time to spare as she gathers her things. Speaks sharply to the boy – Bear, turn that thing off. Get in the car. Pauses then – inspects her son from the hallway – What did you get all over your shirt! He’s tired. It’s been a long day – dragged from one place to the next. It’s not in him to complain. Never mind, we’re late. Just get in the car.

They drive then. He sits in the back seat, staring out the window – seeing only roof tops and power lines. We have to make one more stop – she says, glancing at her son in the rearview mirror – but we have to hurry. I need you to hurry. Can you do that? He grumbles – she said that the last time. If you hurry – I’ll buy you a hotdog… how does that sound? I’ll get you a hotdog from the food court… He smiles then – at the thought of his hotdog. He’s at that age, of course – when people do what they say they will do. If your mother says she’ll get you a hotdog – it means that she’ll get you a hotdog. He can hurry. For a hotdog, he can hurry.

Snaps back. Twists the scarf into a tangled mess. Smiles at the sweetest boy she’s ever seen – still peering into his empty hands. He drops them then. Saunters over to his mother. Waits. Tiny flecks of yellow paint fall from his face, dance their way to the carpeted floor.

No time left for a hotdog. Not with twenty minutes left. He’ll learn it now – what it’s like to break promises.

My God – she missed it. Innocence incarnate – and his mother missed it because she was too damn busy to care.

Of all the beautiful things children say and do – this one will stick with her forever. She knows it even then. But wha bout ma hotdog?

Stupid woman.

Drops the scarf. Turns. Glances around at the strategically displayed junk – scoffs. Shakes her head. Leaves.

 

 

 

Years later she’ll tell her friends the story of the little boy who was promised a hotdog – how his blue eyes searched his empty hands. How his mother missed the sound of his voice, the innocence in the shake of his head – the moment her son learned the difference between a promise and a bribe.

They’ll laugh at her, playfully. Tell her only she’d notice something so small – turn it into a metaphor. That only she would have paid any attention.

They’ll nickname her hotdog – call it irony because she’s a vegetarian.

She won’t mind, though. It’ll make her remember. It’ll remind her of being fifteen – when Spring-Fling wasn’t just any shade of yellow paint. Of being ten – scanning the latest issue of Tiger Beat for wall worthy pin-ups. Of being a child – when her mother bought her a hotdog simply because she said she would.

No. She won’t mind being called Hotdog.