shopping

My kids do not need much - none of us do, but I like to go Christmas shopping anyway - especially at the mall. I love the lights, the music and the people watching. I like the people watching best of all.

The first guy I notice is working behind the counter at . . .Fun Gifts You Buy. I am not making that up - that is the REAL name of the REAL store. (It's sister store Fun Gifts You Steal - is right across the hall). It must be quite a specialty niche because apparently "fun gifts" consist of: toddler sized drum sets, Mardi Gras masks, $20 acoustic guitars, and refrigerator magnets. Those are the only four things the store sells - no kidding - one wall of each. But the man working there is so happy, smiling and waving to every customer in the store - he is just happy to be here. I almost convince myself that Punk needs a drum set for Christmas - almost.

Then I watch the man in Tony Roma's, sitting alone, eating pot roast, and I want to sit with him, because he looks so very lonely. He doesn't even have a book to read. But I don't intrude- I just watch, and I pray that his life is good.

There's the girl at Bath and Body Works. It's the same girl in every store, in every mall, in every town. I think they have to go through some sort of brainwashing ceremony before they are sworn in as sales associates. I'm standing in line with some sparkleberry lotion for Kooka. "Ooooh - those are three for 18 dollars," says the ponytailed girl. She is wearing an elf hat, and has already plucked two more bottles from the shelf.
"Thanks - I only need one."
"But they are three for 18 dollars. You need two more."
No, I don't. It is glitter lotion, nobody needs this - not even one.
"What about the gift set?"
"No thanks."
"Here is a cute lip gloss, same great sparkleberry flavor . . ."
I cannot - cannot deal with this. It is gluttonous, excessive, and ALL she has convinced me of - is that I don't need ANYTHING at all. So put my lotion on the table - right next to the gloss and I just leave.

In the hall I watch a mom pushing an empty stroller. She is disinfecting her toddler's Nuk, which is a great use of her time, since he is trailing behind her eating popcorn that he's picking up off of the floor.

And then there is Jesse - sweet Jesse - the Israeli salt scrub guy. He accosts me at a kiosk near the mall entrance. I need lotion - and in my desperation I slow down.
"You sit," says Jesse. He still has my hand, so I do.
He pulls out a silver tray full of lotions and potions and creams. "This is the beautiful tray. Only give this to beautiful girls."
"Yeah - then what do you give to the ugly ones?
"A slap." If nothing else he is quick.
He takes my glasses off and pumps something from a bottle. He looks in my eyes, "You no sleep well."
"No Jesse - I do not."
"Then, here - for your eyes."
"Uh no. No thanks Jesse. What is that?"
"It is special fluid." He rubs it by my eyes.
"SPECIAL FLUID? What? Like antifreeze? What is special fluid? Stop."
"No - special from Dead Sea. In just five minutes you look Chinese."
"Chinese?!"
"Yes. Your eyes be so tight and lifted - you will look like this," he pulls his hands tight across his cheeks, and his eyes get very small. "See? Chinese!"
I lean back, a tiny bit horrified, "Dude - that is not a selling point, and take that special fluid off, my eyes are burning."

"OK, OK," he says, pulling out a tub of floral scented salt scrub "I give you selling point. Ladies love this. And I love ladies." He is such a schmoozer - but pretty good at it. "I do love ladies. People say I am gay, I do not know why they think that, but I not gay." He stops scrubbing my hand and looks at me, "Did you think I am gay?"
"Well, yes."
"Why? Why you say that?"
I am a bit of an expert on this particular subject. "The nice clothes, the good haircut, the one earring - I don't know. It doesn't matter to me either way."
"Hmmmm," he says cocking his hip and looking at me, "Anyway, this scrub works for everything. EVERYTHING! It works on eczema, sunburn, scars. . . ."
"Wait - you rub this on SUNBURN? It's a salt scrub!"
"Oh yes - very good . . .and scars. See this scar?" He points to his arm. "I get this one in Israeli army when I was 17. A bomb explodes and hits my arm. I use salt scrub on it- now you can hardly see it."
I look at his arm - he is right - you can hardly see it. "Wait a minute? You used floral salt scrub? In the army?" He nods. "Honey, THAT is why people think you are gay."
He laughs at me and puts my hand to his face - "See - so smooth."
It is smooth, but I am not buying his stuff, not even after he gives me his "employee discount" - a 6 ounce jar for $57. But I do feel bad for his scar. He could have got it playing lacrosse at a private school for all I know, but his story about the bomb hurts my heart, so I put some money on his silver tray and leave.

I leave the whole mall, because really I don't need anything anyway - none of us do.