Tonight, not having any family at home, I decided to go shopping after work. I knew I only had an hour to drive to the mall, shop like mad and come home, but hey — these are the few perks I get from Maya withdrawal. So, I got in my Volvo station wagon, used up a fair bit of fossil fuel, parked and went inside the mall. I wandered around, checking out what I thought was Abercrombie & Fitch, but was actually Abercrombie & Fitch kids. Aside from the horror that children would need artfully ripped and expensive clothes I was relieved to find that the sizes were actually children’s sizes. I had picked up a pair of size 14 jeans and they looked like they might fit on my arm, if I pulled hard. I was starting to hyperventilate when it hit me — it’s a girl’s size 14. Whew!
Anyway, I wandered into a few other stores before going into Dillards, trying on some dress pants and finally buying a pair of pants and a skirt. I slipped out the door just as they were locking it, and, triumphant in my purchases, I was walking back to my car when I suddenly realized I had no idea where my keys were. They are in my purse, I told myself, but I couldn’t shake this feeling. So I stopped. And looked in my purse. And pulled everything out. And looked again. And checked the pockets.
My keys were nowhere to be found.
Okay, calm down, I told myself. Check your bags.
Checked. No keys.
So I carefully took everything out of my purse again, thinking maybe I missed the keys, but they really and truly were gone. So here I was, Marti out of town, my friends either out of town or too far away to call, and I was stranded five miles from my house. So, I went back to Dillards, guessing that I left the keys in the dressing room, and pounded on the glass. The security guy waved me away. I pounded harder. He gave me a dismissive wave and turned his back. I started beating the glass. He waved more furiously now — “We’re closed!” No shit, Sherlock, I wanted to mouth back. I pounded persistently. Finally the guy started to saunter over. My hand was aching from pounding. I stopped and watched him. He waved me away. I resisted the urge to break the glass with my Birkenstock, leap through the door and throttle him with my bare hands. I made a wide gesture that I assume conveyed this meaning, “Get the fuck over here or I am going to go berserk.” He finally came to the door. “We’re closed,” he said. No kidding. I took a deep breath.
“I know! I left my keys in there!”
“Well, I can’t open the door,” he says. “I don’t have a key.” I stare at the guy in disbelief. They’ve been closed all of 10 minutes, 7 of which I’ve spent pounding, and he can’t let me in? “Okay,” I said, “I’ll just have to lay down right here until someone comes, because I am stranded.” This seems to worry him. “Okay, well, let me call the manager.” He huddles with the cell phone for a minute. “Where did you leave the keys?” he asks. “In a dressing room,” I respond. More huddling. Then he comes back. “Which one?”
I stare at him. I have no fucking clue which one. I wandered through Dillards like Marco Polo on a journey across Asia. I couldn’t even find a dressing room, I had to stop and ask for directions. So I say, “I don’t know which one! It was in the women’s department.” So he says, “That’s a big department. Which dressing room?” I reply, again, “I don’t know.” So he repeated himself. “Which dressing room?” “I don’t know,” I repeat. “Do you know which one?” he says. It’s as if he thinks that rephrasing the question will help. So he keeps doing it. Again. And again. And again.
Finally, he says, “Well, do you have any idea which one?” And I lose my patience. “No, I don’t.” “Well, they won’t check them all.” “Okay, then pick one. The east dressing room! Or the west! Or the North! I don’t care, just look!” So he huddles and talks into the phone again. He comes back. “Which brand did you buy?” he asks. I rip the bag open and check the tag, showing him. It’s an expensive brand. Suddenly, there is cooperation. They will check the dressing room. But they won’t let me come in. Why they won’t let me walk in and check the dressing room, I don’t know. I guess I must look shady in my Birkenstocks and linen skirt, standing there with my purchases in hand. She’s trying to break in, they’re thinking. Definitely a terrorist in khaki, waiting to violate the Estee Lauer display counter. So I stand there, and wait. And wait. And wait.
A full 20 minutes later the manager finally appears, says he’s checked every dressing room and cannot find my keys. I beg to be allowed to look. He refuses. Finally, I leave, and it occurs to me I should check the other stores I wandered through, but now it is 40 minutes past closing and the place is totally empty. I go out to my car, hoping the keys are dangling from the lock. They aren’t, but I realize — the breast pump. Is in the car. And Maya is in Portland.
I call Marti and pour out my story. He is sympathetic but what can he do — he is three states away. I pound on the door of another shop — a friend’s sister used to work there. Maybe she can give me a ride. She doesn’t work there anymore, they tell me, and they only have wooden hangers, not so good for unlocking Volvos. A security guard goes by and I sprint after the truck. She stops, but she can’t open my car for me. She writes down the number of a cab company.
I get ready to call the cab company when the only good thing to happen all night happens — a cab, in Tucson, pulls up to the curb. No, he didn’t come for anyone in particular, he was just looking for a fare. I happily pile in and direct him to an ATM and then home. I tip him $5. After all, he was a miracle.
Luckily I have a smaller breast pump for emergencies at home, so I was able to get through the night, but tomorrow — oh tomorrow! — I am taking my purchases back to Dillards. And venting on whomever I can get to listen. And hopefully, hopefully, finding my keys.
What a day.
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