Mae Governale

8 CHICAGO READER | DECEMBER 23, 2005 | SECTION ONE

On Friday, a week after themall cop hell, when I sat by herstupid ass on the bus again andasked her why she did it, shesaid, with no remorse in herblack-rimmed eyes, in factjustification, that that bustierwould’ve looked fucking awe-some over her purple tank top.Fucking hot, punk rock as hell.

Then I asked her what shethought a bustier was? Then she stared her hot pink mouthslack ’cause she’s a stupid bitchand I told her the green thingwas a coochie stankey grannygirdle for fat old ladies, retard.Then we didn’t talk until laterthat day during the bus ridehome, when she told me whathappened to Nikki.

She had called Ellie the nightbefore real upset. Told her howshe found out her mom washaving an affair and was plan-ning to take off—gonna move inthat weekend with the personand start a new life.

Ellie was all indignant. Not atthe fact that Nikki and her littlebrother were gonna be aban-doned by their mom, or even athow her mom had had the ballsto walk in while they’re eatingMcDonald’s and just tell theirfather that she doesn’t love himanymore. Ellie was disgustedthat she was doing all this to runoff with a usta-be crackhead.

People got a real bias againstcrackheads.

Think about all the acquain-tances you have—at the bar,where you get your hair cut, thatcheckout lady with all thebooster buttons—and how theyact with you. Now imagine yousmoked crack a couple times andthey all knew about it?

Maybe it’s different here. Crackis everywhere. The east-sideBurger King is like walking intoan antidrug commercial: let mefucking tell you, there is nothingthat makes you wanna stay awayfrom drugs more than drugaddicts themselves.

Staring at you from the boothacross from yours with red eyessunk deep into pools of plum,their bodies like an old streetlong after the first snow—cold,hard, coated in that ash of oldsalt stains.

There are crackheads andusta-be crackheads all over thecity, not just the east side or theprojects, but changing your muf-fler, running for union o∞cial, oreven selling you pizza out of theLittle Caesars in the Kmartwhere Nikki’s mom worked and met her lady love.

Nobody knew Nikki’s momwas having an affair withanother woman. Well, otherthan the other Kmartemployees. Nikki found out onFriday, the day after she calledEllie, who had offered her littlecomfort besides “Dude, thatreally sucks” and a little bit oftalk-show-inspired “Guess youjust gotta be happy for her.”

After Pat, her brother, caughthis car pool for grade school she continued on page 23

Mae Governale

Paint It Beige

left her dad, still in his bedroomwith the TV on from the nightbefore, and went to look for hermom, who had disappearedafter making her announcement.

The next week I had lunchwith Julie Rhinehart, this dirty-haired mathalete, who told memore of what had happenedwhen I asked if she’d seen Nikki.They had been neighbors sincegrade school and friends in an on-and-off sort of way. Ifigure Nikki called Ellie beforeJulie that night because she was making her way down the line of cool.

That and Julie just seemed sosheltered, and not just shelteredsheltered, but a little bit likehomeless sheltered. I meanshe’d be talking about thedolphin-safe tuna on her breadlike it was just the gahdamnedthing to be talking about, andthe whole time you’re thinkingis that today’s sandwich or aglob of yesterday’s sandwich still on her jacket making me nauseous?

And besides, that first nightNikki probably didn’t feel likerunning to the neighbors to tellthem the big news.

It was good that she foundJulie to talk to—she could actcompassionate and kind. Herhand never left her chest andshe wrinkled her brow to half itsimpressive size while she toldus, her closest cafeteria

confidants, what she couldn’tbelieve had happened to herpoor friend Nikki.

I guess first Nikki went toGeorgio’s, the Greek restaurantattached to the bowling alley, andbought a pack of cigarettes fromthe machine in the back. Ellieand I had showed her thatmachine.

Then she drove down the streetto the Kmart and waited for hermom to take her break at ten.

The only time Nikki lookedlike she was in charge was whenshe smoked. She was good at it.Maybe she shoulda smokedmore. Probably does now. Evenwhen she was stealing, the thingshe did best, that look of hers,that embarrassed femininediscomfort, didn’t give an inch. It wasn’t until we were in her carand she bummed some of oursquares that I saw her face not somuch relax but get . . . quiet. Iremember she never coughed oranything. I still cough. It wasjust . . . When I think of her, it’s like that.

The Kmart parking lot’s gottabe the most depressing one inthe city. It sits way back from abusy corner, but it’s alwaysempty except for cars cuttingthrough to the White Castle. Ithasn’t been touched since the70s, and it isn’t so much worn-out as faded. Even the lightinginside has gone yellow.

Ellie was all indig-nant. Not at thefact that Nikki andher little brotherwere gonna beabandoned bytheir mom, or evenat how her momhad had the ballsto walk in whilethey’re eatingMcDonald’s andjust tell theirfather that shedoesn’t love himanymore. Ellie wasdisgusted that shewas doing all thisto run off with austa-be crackhead.

SCO

T T S

HEL

LHA

MER

Nikki Blake had thedemeanor of a nunwith a serious yeastinfection, the kindthat could put

Wonder Bread out of business.She was a blue-eyed blondie, aCatholic who only wore neu-trals—but only the right neutrals,the most recent Abercrombieand fuck-your-mother khakis,the au courant Con-tramp-owhatever-the-fucks. She was aclotheshorse with an addiction totaupe, and she was also the bestshoplifter I ever knew.

Ellie and I met her at schooland never went to the mallwithout her after we watched hersteal the white socks off a man-nequin in the window of anAmerican Eagle. The bitch couldswipe the royal tampon out of thequeen’s bush, she was that good.

Nikki was as boring as the shitshe stole, but she had a car. She’ddrive us so I could stand in someshit shop—some taupe ’n’ Saharahell—waiting for her to shovelthe 20 cream corduroys up herass or wherever she put ’em, andthen we’d go to like Whorelandso Ellie could get some plasticglittery thongs that couldn’tmake her 16-year-old body look aday over 11 even if they camewith bloodstains on the crotch.

Fuck I hate the mall. I’mgonna barf just thinkin’ about it.

When you’re garage saleingyou’re outside, just you and thestreet, with the sun in the treesand the morning making yourankles all wet and grassy, untilyou get to someone’s house,freshly gutted for you to digthrough. And that hope that thisone—this tarred driveway,rolling out of someone’s garagelike a black tongue that pickedup Snoopy Sno-Cone Makers,moldy stuffed animals, and ten-cent Tupperware from rank cor-ners—this garage sale could bethe flamingo brooch, the creepylamp, the box of records from ’76that makes life worth living.

But no. Instead we go to themall. The mutherfucked mall.Me, the yeasty nun, and EllieKern. My best friend. The whore.The stupid stupid stupid bitchwhose stupid bitch whore waysshit ’n’ pissed ’n’ barfed all over aweek of my life. And not just inany butt-fucked mall store, butin gahdamn . . .

I think I’m gonna puke, Iswear the stupid bitch.

In GAHmutherfuckinDAHMSEARS. SEARS. Who the fuckgoes to Sears? Sears! You walkthrough Sears to get to your car ifthere was nowhere else to park,or if you are some fadass mother-fucker who wants to be close tothe Cinnabon, but nobody goesto Sears—’cause who the fuckwants a green granny girdle thatsmells like a wrench?

I’ll tell you who. The stupid bitchthat looked like she was gonnacrap her pants ’cause she saw thesales associate looking at us andshoved it into my bag anyway.Ellie fucking Kern, that’s who.

CHICAGO READER | DECEMBER 23, 2005 | SECTION ONE 9


have done, except that he wenton to make the finals and lose toBorg by a set. It was my firstserve of the fifth set, and by thenI was feeling tired and a littleshaky from all the crowd bullshit.And I just shanked one. It wasn’teven traveling that fast, but thechair umpire was watching theservice box, thinking that’s wherethe ball would land. So his nosewas out in profile, and he hadkind of a big one, I’m thinking, orthe ball would have just goneright by him, but instead it hitshim square on the nose andthere’s just this weird sound, likewhen you snap a celery stick.

He said, “Shit!” really loud,and he was miked, so probablythe ice cream vendors outsideheard it. All the old ladiesgasped. Blood just startedpouring out of his nose and alldown his shirt and tie and blazer.

He looked at me, I swear he wasthinking, “You meant to do this.”I gave him one of those palms-upgestures, you know, saying sorry.And I even said “Sorry” I think.But he just shook his head andclimbed down from the chair,staring at me the whole time,even while the paramedic wipedoff the blood and examined hisnose and everything.

You’d think they’d get a newumpire after that. Anyone couldsee that he’d have it in for me, butapparently there’s some techni-cality that says he can’t relievehimself of his duties, and the headumpire was watching the matchon center court, and anyway, thishad never happened before. Soafter about ten minutes he’s backin the chair. He’s got this piece ofwhite tape over his nose, and he’sholding an ice bag on it, and hiseyes are bloodshot and starting toturn black underneath, and he’slike, you know, resume play.

I won’t lie, I wasn’t playing that

great, but I really couldn’t get acall from anyone after that. TheRussian would serve and it wouldbe out by three feet, I’m not exag-gerating at all, and the line judgewouldn’t say anything, the chairjudge wouldn’t say anything, andI’d just have to walk to the otherside of my court and wait for thenext serve. You could just see it,the whole crowd sitting there withpinched faces, thinking, go ahead,protest the call. Evgenyev, playinglike shit, still closed me out andwon. And of course he went on tolose badly in the third round.

The way the press made meout, it was like I was invited tohave tea with the queen and Itook a shit on the tablecloth!Their papers were like, “A CheekyShowing,” and “Racquet RogueRaps Rupert,” and so on. Therewere all these quotes about whatan asshole I was, from waitresseswho said I was drunk and rude tochambermaids who claimed Ididn’t tip. Which of course I

didn’t! Who thinks to tip a cham-bermaid? Who even knows whatone is? They turned it into thisbig Ugly American thing, me andConnors, probably McEnroe, too.Even back home, there was asidebar in Sports Illustrated,“Warhead Self-Destructs,” orsomething, that showed a pictureof me apparently shrugging nextto a picture of the kid with hisjaw being sewed shut.

People forgive guys like Connorsand McEnroe, because they throwtemper tantrums but then theywin the whole enchilada. And ifthey stick around long enough, it’slike they’re elder statesmen. Whocalls McEnroe a brat anymore?He’s the voice of tennis, the newBud Collins. Me? I was the guywho broke the kid’s face. The nextyear at Wimbledon they did asoft-focus thing on TV, followingup on the kid and his plastic sur-gery, and of course the littlefucker wanted to be a ball boyagain because he loved tennis so

very very much, and they had theDuke of Kent saying how bravethe kid was to still be a ball boyafter the horror he had endured.The kid walked on the court andhe got a standing ovation eventhough you’d think people wouldbe a little more excited to see Vitasfucking Gerulaitis than the kidwho was going to shag his balls.

I watched it from the bed in mystudio apartment. I was teachingclasses at the Y in Passaic, NewJersey. I had stayed on the road fora few months after Wimbledon,but the heckling was so bad thateven when people weren’t sayinganything I was thinking, whatwill they say next? A couple ofbad losses and I wasn’t even inthe top 400 anymore.

But I learned something. Itwasn’t an easy lesson, but who eversaid life was easy? I learned thatcharacter doesn’t count, hard workisn’t always rewarded, and thatpeople might love you one minute,but they’ll turn on you the next.

Double Faultcontinued from page 20


Nikki saw them right away,walking out to the lot wearingtheir reddish orange smocks.And smocks or no, it was hermom, and you just know yourmom. She probably thought shedidn’t though when she watchedher get into a pickup with thatmullet-wearing, middle-agedpixie, who grabbed her motherby the back of her head andthrew her mouth on hers beforethe truck door had even closed.

Bet she coughed then.She was always closer to her

dad and closest to her grandma,who took her to church and gaveher her car after she bought a

new one. But it wasn’t until thatmoment, peering through adirty windshield, that sherealized how far she was from her own mother.

She doesn’t remember thedistance between the two cars,just the sight of her mother’sskin, soft rolls on her backwhere her shirt had been pulledup, and her own fist poundingon the passenger’s side window.

They looked up at her, hermother only slightly startled, and her lover with dead eyes as she twisted the key andlowered the window.

“What the fuck do you want?”It must have been a horrible

dream.It took her years to scrape the

word mom out of the back ofher throat, and a moment forher mother to sigh and say,“Nikki, just go home. I don’twant to talk about this.”

Her arm reached through the window toward her motheronly to be seized by the pixie. She dug her dirty nails into herskin, leaned over like she wasgonna take a bite out of her arm,and said, “She doesn’t want todeal with your shit right now.

Get over it.”Then she let go, tossing

Nikki’s arm so she stumbledback. The window rolled up, thetruck started, and then it wasjust her and the Kmart parking lot.

That night Pat fell asleepwatching TGIF sitcoms, andNikki put him to bed. The TVwas still on in her parents’ roombut she heard her dad get up tocontinued on page 24

Paint It Beigecontinued from page 8

It was around three in the morningwhen the phone rang. She picked upthe cordless in her room to hear thesteady, firm voice of a police o∞cer.

I stayed at the Y for a few years.The kids didn’t judge me, they justwanted to watch me serve, and Imanaged to teach some of themto be pretty good. We even had acity champ one year. I’ve beenscuffling since then, teaching alittle, playing for money a little.I’m no longer allowed to competeprofessionally because I triedplaying under an assumed nameonce and got recognized.

Listen, I’ll be honest. My gameisn’t what it used to be, but I canstill beat anybody who walksthrough the doors of the RiverhillCountry Club, and I can teachthem how to beat just about anybody else, as long as they’vegot talent and they’re not afraid of the ball. v


go to the bathroom a coupletimes. Later she knocked on his door and opened it to findhim asleep, snoring. She turnedoff the TV, covered him up, and went upstairs to bed.Everything was quiet.

It was around three in themorning when the phone rang.She picked up the cordless inher room to hear the steady,firm voice of a police o∞cer. Hetold her to stay calm, keep quiet.He needed her to get herbrother and walk straight out ofthe house, not stopping foranything, just walk straight outof the house. They were outsidewaiting for her. Did sheunderstand? Straight out of thehouse. It was very important forher and her brother.

She saw the red strobepainting the garage outside herwindow as she answered andhung up. In the next room shewhispered something about afire to Pat and covered his headwith a shirt. He didn’t reallywake up till Nikki laid himdown in the wet grass behindone of the many police cars.

That was when the o∞cer toldher everything the newspaperwould tell everyone else the nextday. Her mother came home toget some things and while shewas on her cell with hergirlfriend, her husbandconfronted her.

They argued. He wanted herto hang up and when sherefused he pulled out a gun andshot her in the head. The pixiecalled the police. Then theyfound Nikki’s dad in the garage.He had tried to hang himselfand done such a piss-poor job in his hurry that he just passedout. He woke up on the floor,under arrest.

Ellie and me never went to themall again with Nikki Blake,though sometimes Ellie’d bringup how much it sucked to haveto pay for stuff now that Nikkihad moved away. Last I heardfrom Julie, Nikki lived with anaunt in Minooka but spent allher time with her newboyfriend, listening to deathmetal, smoking pot, andwearing black. v

up. “Jesus, Sid, if that isn’t adouble standard, what the hell is?The things you come up with!”

Kemp set the drinks beforethem. “What’s with the ice?”demanded Sid. “I said neat.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kemp replied.Apologizing had become asreflexive as an eyelid wipingclean an eye.

“Get back there and bring ustwo Jim Beams neat, you dumb-bell.” Kemp’s face burned. Theparty interrupted their banter towatch, as if the floor show wereincluded with the meal. An Italianjig played in the background.

“Why don’t you leave the kidalone?” Carla demanded. Shetook one of the drinks andsipped it. Sid fumed and pickedup the other.

“Would you folks care for anappetizer?” Kemp knew he oughtto tell them about the lasagna,but the insult had him cowed.

“All right,” Sid said, softening a little. “Bring us the fried mozzarella.”

Kemp delivered the sodas tothe party and fronted them ahumorous smile. When he toldthem the only dinner availablewas lasagna the kids groanedand the parents traded anxiouslooks. Sid had overheard: heshook his head and muttered thenews to Carla, whose shouldersfell. “Well, I guess we’ll have 11orders of lasagna,” one of thehusbands said crisply.

“I’m sorry.”Each kid demanded a separate

salad dressing; Kemp’s pen wasgoing dry, and he’d forgotten aspare. Something as small as apen going dry might suck himinto the void.

On his way back to the kitchenKemp was collared by one of thehostesses. They were all dishy highschool girls, sucking up to Barryand screwing over the waiterswhenever possible. They thoughtnothing of seating 20 people all atonce. When the south side closedearly, they filched silver and nap-kins from the north and gavethem to friends on the south,who would present 25 table set-tings to the manager and signout; the northerners were left toroll their own silver as they

waited on packed sections.“Pauline didn’t show up,” the

hostess said. “Barry said you’dpick up 16.” Kemp caught aglimpse of the table: theWinstons. He’d waited on the oldcouple about a month earlier.Mr. Winston threw a fit whenKemp brought him salad beforedinner—he’d ordered soup.Kemp and Mrs. Winston finallyconvinced the old man that soupwas coming, it came free withdinner. Shamed, the old manspent the rest of the eveningfeverish with remorse andstuffed ten bucks in Kemp’spocket as they left. And Kemphad been wrong all along.

“Be right with you!” He duckedback into the kitchen.

Hysteria reigned. Waitershollered for ice and shoutedcurses at each other. A waitressknelt in the middle of the floor,picking up broken glass as black-panted legs jostled her.

“Kemp!” Darlene shouted.“Pauline didn’t show, you’ll haveto do her side work. Dessertcooler— right now!” Kemp ranback through the kitchen, pastscrambling cooks and prepworkers accusing each other ofgross stupidity. Inside the walk-in refrigerator, Kemp shut thedoor and stood in the frigid air,his head in his hands.

W hen Kemp told theWinstons about thelasagna they looked at

each other in silent deliberation,then the old man gave in andordered the salad and mine-strone. Kemp didn’t even lookup. He’d bring the soup andleave it off the bill; no one hadever noticed before.

He loaded three salads on thenear side of his tray and salvagedfrom the barren chiller 11 ice-coldplates, which he scraped clean ofice and food particles left by thedishwasher and stacked oppositethe salads as a counterweight.The Winstons’ coffee and iced teahe placed in the remainingcrevices on either side.

The quartet of parents wererelieved to have something on thetable because Sid and Carla hadfinished their drinks and theirargument was boiling over. Sid’sfist on the table was a brick ofSpam with black hair. Carla beck-

oned Kemp over to the table.“Bring me another Jim Beam.And I want a separate check.”

“I’m taking care of this meal,”Sid cut in.

“Would you like another drinktoo, sir?”

“Yeah—Jim Beam, neat. Thatmeans no ice.”

Back in the kitchen, 11 plates oflasagna were lined up under theheat lamps. “Kemp! You’re up!”

“Who’s on ice?”“Desserts!”“Who’s on ice?”“Kemp!” He took the drink

order to the bar, then cartedsome ice to the cooler. The dish-washer chugged and screamed,the rubber mats beneath Kemp’sfeet slick with scum, soap, andgrease. Desperate waitersgrabbed drink glasses straightout of the steaming trays andshouted as the glass burned theirfingers. A cry went up as twowaiters collided at the southdoor, spilling dishes everywhere.

He took bread to all his tables,delivered the Winstons’ soup,and brought out two big trays oflasagna for the party of 11. Thekids grabbed at the trays, andone of the mothers slapped atthem. The child in the high chairpoked a bread stick in herbrother’s ear, he swung at her,and she began screaming. Theyall wanted more soda and bread.Kemp took the salad away.

No drinks yet. Coming out ofthe bar, Kemp ran into Carla,who had slung her handbag overher shoulder and was headed forthe lobby. “I’m leaving,” she said.“He’s paying for my drinks.” Shepressed a folded ten into Kemp’shand and, before he could react,whispered in his ear, “Here. I’msorry to leave you with him, but

we’re not getting along at all.”Then she was gone.

From the back Sid stared, hisface placid with rage: he had seenthe whole thing. Only fawningsubservience could save Kemp.He walked back to his section.“Sir, your friend gave me somemoney to pay for her drinks.”

“I’ll. Get. Her. Drinks.” Sideyed his thick red hands as heshook a cigarette from a pack ofCamels. “And get me an order ofthat lasagna, and salad with bleucheese dressing.”

The kitchen had begun tosettle into the typical chaos of abusy Friday night. Some of thedinners had thawed, andDarlene was taking advantage ofthe lull to get everyone caught upon side work. Two or three sub-stitutes arrived to fill in theholes, and the cook announcedthe manicotti and cannelloniwere back on. Kemp filled thedessert cooler and the ice coolerto capacity. “Kemp! You’re up!”The Winstons’ lasagna. Kempfetched the plates, made up Sid’ssalad, and went to get the drinks.He figured he’d bring Carla’s tooand let Sid do whatever hewanted with it.

As he came back into thekitchen, something tripped him:he fell headfirst toward thecounter, and broke his fall withhis right hand, letting one of thedrinks fly. The glass burst, scat-tering shards and whiskey acrossthe countertop. Waiters withtrays on the counter cursedhim—now they’d all have todump their dishes and start over.Kemp put in a new lasagna orderand ditched the Winstons’plates; miraculously, he hadsaved Sid’s other drink—neat—and the salad, with its high-

Paint It Beigecontinued from page 23

Lasagnacontinued from page 10

He liked to imagine his customers asthe Gluttonous, mired in the third circleof hell and mauled by Cerberus, thethree-headed dog: “His eyeballs glare abloodshot crimson, and his beardedjowls are greasy and black; potbellied,talon-heeled, he clutches and frays and rips and rends the souls.” Theresemblance to Barry was uncanny.


rimmed bowl, would be fine. Hewould have to stall the Winstonswith a second helping of soup.The party of 11 had disappearedexcept for the two husbands,who sat tapping their wallets onthe table. At the beginning they’dtold him it was all one check, andnow they wanted two separateones. “Could you refigure it andbring us two checks?” one hus-band said. “Tax purposes.” Kempsmiled. No point in blowing thetip after all this sweat.

Sid accepted his salad anddrink in silence. Kemp couldalmost hear him brooding overthe argument with Carla. Despitethe browbeating he’d taken, hefelt sorry for the old guy.

The Winstons’ lasagna was up;Kemp wouldn’t have to push thesoup after all. Kemp separatedthe party of 11 into two ordersand rang them up. He’d have toask Barry for an override.

“Another one?” Barrydemanded, his eyes narrowing toa pair of razors. “You’ve got therecord for the summer, Kemp.No one can lay a finger on you.”

“I’m sorry,” Kemp said, butboth heard it as “So what.”

By the time Kemp made itback, the two husbands weregone. Sid jabbed a finger atKemp. “You! Get over here.”

“Where did they go?” he askedSid. “Where did they go?”

“They just walked out,” said

Mrs. Winston. Kemp ran out tothe lobby, but the hostesses hadwatched the men hop into awaiting SUV and drive away.Kemp felt sick. One of the host-esses ran to find Barry.

When Kemp returned to hissection, Barry was standing atSid’s table. Kemp walked up totake the blow. “Barry, somethingterrible happened. I had a party of11 and they walked.” The two menlooked at Kemp, then at eachother, then at the table. Kemp fol-lowed their eyes down to the saladbowl: in it lay a twisted shard ofglass as long as Sid’s pinkie.

The warmth ran out of Kemp’sface, and he fought to keep hisbalance on watery legs. “I—Ipicked everything else off thetray,” he pleaded. The menstared. He started to compose anapology, but before he couldbegin, he’d been fired.

Kemp retreated to the kitchenin shock. He yanked the apronfrom around his neck and pulledoff his bow tie. “Kemp! More ice!”The pain and anger began to takeshape inside him somewhere, butlike snowy images on a TV theydidn’t quite register. Sacked! Justwhen he’d begun to like it in aperverse way—the narcotic ofmonotony and the warm, insub-stantial friendships. He hadn’tmeant to garnish Sid’s salad withglass. But if Sid had eaten it . . .

Who could blame Barry for

sacking him? He was a danger tohimself and others.

Barry returned to the kitchenbut wouldn’t look him in the eye.“Turn in your apron, book, andbadges before you go. Someoneelse will get your tables. You cancome get your last check onFriday. Frank will sign you out.”Kemp heaved a leaden sigh andturned in his stuff, ignoring thecries for ice and dessert. No onebothered with him; he had madea few friends on the lunch staff,but none of the dinner waitersknew him as more than a con-fused face.

Because no one was allowedout the back entrance, Kemp hadto leave through the restaurant.Nothing on earth could makehim walk past Sid and theWinstons, so he went outthrough the south side. A clot ofelderly people blocked him,trying to inch around a newwaiter who had put his tray inthe aisle. Kemp turned around;he would cut through the bar.

A waitress behind Kemp wascarrying four plates, and whenKemp knocked her off balanceshe flipped the tray onto a table,landing a veal piccata in the lapof a frail old woman with paperyskin. The waitress stared atKemp in disbelief.

Kemp couldn’t feel his body.He smiled dumbly and shrugged.“Sorry.” Then he bolted.

I n the mall’s basement foodcourt, Kemp called his girl-friend and told her the bad

news. She didn’t get off work foranother hour, so he’d have towait for her to pick him up. Withthe ten spot he’d gotten fromCarla he bought a hamburger,fries, and shake. He sat down atone of the canopied tablesaround the great fountain, theneighboring conversationsabsorbed by the echoing rush ofwater. A giant round atriumopened above the fountain,exposing a skylight and six floorsof human tra∞c. Flirtingteenagers ran in packs, parentsdragged their kids, old peoplehobbled around. After eatingKemp strolled over to the glasselevators and rode one to thefirst floor. As he exited, he caughtsight of a familiar sport jacketabout 30 yards away. Sid sawhim and his eyes hardened;Kemp considered running butpushed back into the elevator. Bythe time Sid reached the elevator,its doors had slid shut and Kempglided toward the second floor.

Through the glass wall he sawSid run for the nearest escalatorand board it, forcing his way pastthe people in front of him. At thesecond floor the elevator emptiedand filled again before Sid made itto the top of the escalator: hepaused, hu∞ng and pu∞ng, thenswung up the escalator to the

third floor. How angry could hebe? Didn’t he know it was an acci-dent? What could he be thinking?

Kemp got off on the sixth floor,ran like hell down the corridoraway from the escalators, anddarted into a toy store. He passedimmense stuffed animals andwindup toys that walked aroundwith grinding gears, emittingmetallic cries. He made his wayto the back and hid behind therows and rows of Monogrammodel cars, and waited.

Sid emerged from the gamessection. “You son of a bitch!”Kemp turned to run, but Sidgrabbed him by the collar anddelivered a stinging blow to theback of his head. Kempwrenched free, feeling his collartear, and ran for the front,pulling down a giant stuffed dogin Sid’s path. He dashed acrossthe hall to SportsWorld.

“Help! Help me!” The cashiers,dressed as referees, stared atKemp. Sid loomed, his cheekscrimson, his teeth bared. Kempdodged in and out of the weight-lifting equipment and hoppedover the railing to the store’ssunken rear area. Sid followed butcouldn’t make it over the railingand had to go around to the steps.

Kemp picked up the firstweapon he could find, a disk ofyellow foam rubber on a woodenhandle. “Soft Squash,” it wascontinued on page 26

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