sunshine_queen | Hungry like the wolf

Julia dream, dreamboat queen, queen of all my dreams...

Yes, the Julia song hunt continues. We're fascinating creatures, really.

I love puggywuggy . Yes, yes I do. And thepodsquad ? She is my Julesy. non_horation , however, she's not here. So we're having issues.

I'm putting a fic here, mainly because I'm afraid of losing it and also because I'm considering putting it somewhere but I'm too afraid too. Whatever.

To hide in plain sight is an art form I've perfected. My hair is combed, my face is placid, my appearance neat and orderly. I could be any of thousands of women at a shopping mall, carrying a shopping bag with a sweater I've gotten on sale (I hate cashmere). I got spritzed by an overeager saleslady in the anchor department store. I hate the perfume.

It is only a matter of time.

I considered being melodramatic and finding some catholic church and running in, desperate for sanctuary, but in the end it was too Victor Hugo for my taste.

I hum as I buy an orange julius- they make me nauseous. I buy it because it seems like something a normal person would do- except for women my age are supposed to be worried about carbs and calories and if I was on Weight Watchers an orange julius would certainly screw me over. I sip at it anyway.

I sit in the middle of a sea of identical plastic tables at the food court, my bag in the chair next to me, my purse in my lap, legs crossed at the ankle, orange julius in my hand. Two tables over is a mother even more orderly and neat than I. She is either relatively wealthy or very good at bargain hunting and outlet malls. I've never cared much for labels.

She belongs in a Ralph Lauren catalogue, though, watching her handsome husband take their precious daughter to the carousel, watching proudly as the fairy of a toddler hands the man the fare solemnly and picks a horse with a molded flowing gold mane and a garland of flowers. They're like a family you could buy to go with your dream dollhouse, the mother and the father and the happy little girl, the box saying the Fisher Price Happy Family for the upscale toy stores because the mother's decked out in Burberry and Prada. This is the family, the box says, that you’ll never have.

The daughter- a Nina or Kate or Marion or Sara or Victoria or Molly- waves to the mother as the carousel starts to move, her horse rising and falling. The father stands beside her, his hands on her waist to keep her steady. The mother waves back. So do I.

It's involuntary, really, and I stick my hand under the table quickly, jamming my orange julius straw into my mouth. I really must be more careful.

There is another mother across the food court, alone with four children that I'm guessing are under the age of seven. She's got a double stroller with two small children, a baby carrier with an infant, and a seven-or-so aged boy who is zooming around their table with a toy air plane. She looks haggard.

I don't want to be me anymore. I want to be normal. I want strollers and soccer and ballet and homework and late-night feedings. Some feminists might argue that it's not normal, that it's what society dictates, but I don't think any of the feminists have ever been told in not-so-many words that having children is more dangerous than joyful.

When I was little I thought that clouds must taste like whipped cream and that the sunlight tasted like lemonade. They don't.

The little girl on the merry-go-round is waving to her mother every time they go by, and I really think I want to marry the father. He looks responsible and normal. Becoming his wife would make you normal by default.

People get lost in malls- well, they got lost everywhere. I never did- not as a child, and not in a mall. When I would go when I was young, Mommy always held my hand or kept an eye on me, and when I ventured too far, there would be the sharp crack of my name, followed by, ‘I can’t see you!’ Panicked, frantic, and I would hurry back to her side and lean against her, or hold her hand, or be picked up, and she would chastise me gently.

People get lost everywhere, and they don’t always have a Mommy- ha, a Mommy- or anyone to go back to, they just continue farther, the lost beach ball floating away, the balloon you let go of after a party, the stone you drop into a lake, going, going, gone, until they’re just specks on the horizon or lost in murky waters, and no matter how hard you cry to Daddy, he can’t get the ball, the balloon, the stone back.

The orange julius is disgusting. I choke it down anyway.

When I got lost, it wasn’t in a mall, and there were no Hansel and Gretel breadcrumbs to lead me back, no golden thread to save me from the Minotaur of memory (oh, behold the wonder of my literary genius). There was the endless horizon and the shafts of sunlight from the surface: in both cases, I was stranded and drowning. Quiet, I would tell myself, don’t panic, tread water, kick in the direction of the bubbles, help is coming- isn’t it?

Maybe getting lost as a child would’ve helped me, wandering around the mall with a face sticky with tears, being given lollipops by kind mall security, hearing my mother’s name being paged over the loudspeaker. Would she have come for me?

Brain freeze. Ouch. The mother to my right glares at my wince, how dare my facial expressions mar her day. Lady, you have no idea.

They could come and get me right now, I think vaguely, not bothering to give them a name. They could come in and start shooting. I could be endangering everyone here, the mothers with toddlers in Gymboree, the teenagers in Abercrombie and Fitch, the harried mother with her four children, the iced queen two tables over. They’d descend through skylights and swinging doors, guards in the parking lots, security disabled.

I liked Tom better, in the Tom and Jerry cartoons, because even though I didn’t want Jerry to get caught, I didn’t want Tom to be tortured by the stupid little mouse. The predator over the prey. I liked Tweety and Road-Runner better than Sylvester and Wile E. Coyote, but Tom was infinitely more likeable to me. I liked Ernie better than Bert, because he was anal, and I could relate to that, my father as a muppet. I can’t have things both ways, they say? Mary Ann over Ginger. Plain over Peanut. Smooth over crunchy. Cheese over Pepperoni. Coke over Pepsi. So there.

I live in fear of, more than drowning, of being caught, in any way shape or form. At first, as a child, I had no reason to be rebellious, as I grew older, I had no wish to upset anyone. I grew up to be a rebel, a rogue, the accidental agent, now hiding in a shopping mall, afraid to say boo to a goose. Growing soft in my old age. My God, I am middle-aged now, aren’t I?

I hear my name before I feel the hand on my shoulder, heavy with resignation and disappointment. Two syllables, emphasis on the first, and I’m caught. No guns, no planning, no screams, just someone walking up to me and saying my name, a gentle hand. The rabbit gets the Trix.

When you ride the carousel, I remember figuring out a long time ago, you never get caught, and you never lose the race, and you never escape, and you never win.