Beautiful Blemish (2 page)
Authors: Kevin Sampsell
Locker Room
The first thing I see is a short old Greek guy with a potbelly and an upside-down horseshoe haircut. He walks into the showers with a small bottle of cologne in his hand. My nine-year old son and I are visiting the local community center for free swim night. It’s a Friday night and it’s getting crowded. There’s a lot of noise coming from the rest of the building and it all seems to funnel into this cold, sad locker room. It sounds like a
staticky
talk radio station being played in a cave at a loud volume.
A Mexican kid and his father come in and start peeling off their wet shorts a little too close to our chosen locker. The father breathes heavily, his skinny bowed legs shaky. The kid seems like he could go down the water slide another twenty times. He says something to us but we don’t understand him. The swirling noise of the locker room drowns him out. He yells and yells but the unbearable clamor matches him syllable for syllable. He grabs his towel, winds it up, and tries to snap it at my son. I look to the father who does nothing.
Doesn’t say a word.
The kid is shouting and laughing like he’s playing a game. My son just looks at him blankly. The old Greek guy wobbles past us and sits, naked, on another nearby bench. I start to wonder if my son will be disturbed by all this later on (
I saw this fat bald man walking around naked at the community center once,
he might say). I impatiently tell him to get his swim trunks on. Of course he can’t hear me, especially with the kid trying to whip him with a wet towel. As I slip into my shorts the kid looks me over invasively and says,
My
dad’s penis is bigger than yours is.
I haven’t even been in the pool yet—I can’t claim shrinkage. I glance in the direction of the kid’s dad, to see if he’s even paying attention. He’s standing by the hand dryers, aiming hot air into his armpits. He’s wearing only a tank top, and yes, he is blessed with a larger penis. I look a little too long perhaps, until I notice that it’s growing and…curving. Like his legs, his penis is crooked. It points to something just left of us. It laughs.
The sound of the dryer stops, jarring me back to reality.
My son is hit by a towel-whip. He might have a welt from it. He finally tells the kid: Don’t. I feel helpless.
Skip the
Walker
When the doors open at
, they are there.
Some days there are less than ten, others there are nearly thirty.
They wear designer fitness outfits made out of fabric that never existed when I was a kid.
They are shining and bright and have words emblazoned on them like:
Fila
, Adidas, and Lane Bryant.
These people barely talk to each other and cross their arms impatiently.
Some of them stay in their cars and drink fresh-squeezed juice.
They are perhaps the most inhuman clan of people I witness on a regular basis.
They are the mall walkers.
Around
, after they work up a good sweat, I show up at the office, in need of cheap coffee, the kind that makes my piss brown.
I work at a job recruitment center inside of
Lloyd
Center
mall in
Portland
,
Oregon
.
I'm an accountant and a 47-year-old widow of Paul Franklin III.
Paul was a stiff old coot about twenty years my senior.
He made a small fortune in the mannequin business before secretly blowing most of it on prostitutes the last three years of his life.
He never told me he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease until it was too late and I'll never forgive him for that.
I didn't cry at the funeral for Paul.
I cried for myself.
"Excuse me," says an old man as I swipe my card and punch in the code to unlock the office door.
He is walking briskly toward me in an aqua-blue warm-up jacket and unseemly black shorts that make his pale white skin look all the more like hastily sculpted pizza dough.
He has a small head that doesn't match his overworked sloping shoulders and his impossible-looking curly hair is white with dull black patches.
"There seems to be a problem with the bathrooms in the food court.
Do you have facilities that I could use in your office?" he asks shyly.
I am put off guard by this request, and even though it is against the company's rules to allow anyone in before
, I've always had a hard time saying no to older people.
"Oh sure," I blurt out.
"We do have a small washroom you can use, but you do have to be quick.
I don't want to get in trouble."
I give him the kind of wink that tells him that my bosses are tight-ass rule mongers.
He raises his hand to me in a gesture of understanding.
"Say no more," he whispers.
I walk him through the aisle of cubicles and past the conference rooms to the one set of bathrooms we have.
"Have at it," I say awkwardly.
I watch the time nervously as the minute hand approaches the twelve.
The other employees don't start streaming in until ten minutes before nine, but I'm supposed to be making coffee and downloading e-mail during this time.
I scoot closer to the door and for a second it sounds like the old man is moaning and I think: Great, I let someone into the office so they can die in the bathroom.
A great way to start off the new month.
I knock lightly at the door.
"Are you okay, sir?"
I hear the flush of the toilet and he replies, "Just about there, doll face."
A couple of minutes later, he comes out and extends his hand to me.
"There's no better way to start your day," he proclaims while shaking my
ringless
fingers.
He notices this and looks at my left hand, also lacking jewels.
"I'd like you to know my name," he states.
"I'm Skip, been walking this mall for only two weeks.
But I can tell you, it's really paying off."
He reaches back and pats his own ass.
"It's nice to meet you, sir.
My name is Carol and I'll probably get in trouble if anyone sees you in here before nine."
"Oh, sure, sure," Skip says.
"We don't want anyone getting the wrong idea.
Me with my full head of hair and you with a body like yours."
He gives me a clammy nudge and I feel my comfort zone instantly vanish.
I try to play it off and giggle while thinking of something stern I can say.
The best I come up with is: "I hope they get those bathrooms fixed for you."
As the day goes on, I start to hear people talking and giggling about something.
All the men go into the office bathroom and come back out a minute later with either a look of disgust on their faces or a smirk of astonishment.
When I go to the parking lot that night there is a football card stuck under my windshield wiper.
It says:
Jake "Skip" Tuttle, Center,
Chicago
Cardinals
.
It's dated 1959 and has a picture of a slope-shouldered buzz-cut looking man with big ears.
I scream.
That night I decide to dye my hair and wear a different jacket the next day, already fearing the strange behavior of the man.
I run the water in the tub and stick my head underneath the spout.
I see the reddish water swirling down the drain.
It was about time I got rid of my graying blonde hair anyway.
The next two days are uneventful.
I go into work a half hour early and avoid looking directly at any of the walkers.
I almost fear answering my phone or looking out the long window near my cubicle.
It's not that I fear meeting
people,
it's just that I don't like to get involved.
I don't have the energy.
I have friends and some family that I spend time with and I just can't imagine getting involved with another man.
I mean, I really don't need one, especially a character like this "Skip."
The following Friday morning is when Skip catches me as I enter the mall.
"Top o' the morning to
ya
’, Red," he calls out to me.
"The new look is red hot there, Carolyn."
I nod shyly at him.
"Thank you, Mr. Skip.
Have a nice walk now."
"Why don't you join me?" he asks.
I laugh politely and try to gage whether he's joking or not.
"I'm sorry, I have to work.
Exercise isn't my thing anyway."
I swipe my card and punch in the code for the office door.
It doesn't open.
Skip stands next to me, smiling slightly, walking in place.
He is wearing a brown
sweatsuit
.
I try again and it still doesn't respond.
I swear under my breath and look through the windows, hoping someone else might be in the office but it's unlikely.
I'm always the first.
"Problem?"
Skip asks.
I look around, trying not to make too much eye contact with the former football player.
"The door's not opening for some reason.
I'm going to have to call the mall office," I say as sweat starts to appear on my forehead.
"Well,
there's no phones
around here.
The office is just down the mall a bit.
I'll walk you there.
They could probably get you in your office with no problem."
He offers his arm and as if in a sudden trance I grab inside his elbow and feel myself being pulled into the suddenly large swarm of mall walkers.
My white blouse and gold wheat-colored skirt billow at my sides as if I've taken flight.
All the walkers are wearing matching
sweatsuits
, orange, blue, yellow, red, pastel green.
They stream past, walking widely from us as if we were protected by force field, yet enveloping us. Everything seems to be moving at a milky slow motion.
Sam Goody, Hallmark,
Christian
Supply
Center
, Kay Bee Toys, Hot Dog on a Stick, and Jay Jacob's seem to light up brilliantly around us.
Skip snakes his arm inside mine until we are locked together.
I feel his elbow brush my breast.
I then realize that all the other walkers are going the other direction.
We are going against the tide.
I feel no power.
I feel weightless.
The
muzak
sounding from the mall intercom suddenly blooms into an orchestral symphony.
I wonder if this is really what walking is supposed to be.
I look down and see my feet responding--heel, toe, heel, toe.
I feel disoriented, sickness coming on.
Skip tilts his head and slowly glances over at me.
His smile is framed by sparkling mall lights and a never ending wave of matching
sweatsuits
as they float around us, seemingly dancing in a ballet style.
A cold sensation covers my face and lips.
Water.
"Wake up.
Wake up.
C'mon Carol."
It's the guy from the mall manager's office.
The one who always wears bow ties.
He is squeezing a cold water rag over my face.
I am on the floor of the office with my feet propped up on a chair.
For a moment I think it was all a dream, the office door, the walking, the floating, but then I see Skip, his face looming over the guy's shoulder.
"You started hyperventilating and I had to carry you here from the Chick Filet," says Skip.
I start to get up.
"What time is it?
I have to get to the office."
"It's okay.
Everything is being taken care of," the guy says.
I see that he is wearing a name tag that says
STEFFEN
.
"It's a good thing Mr. Tuttle was there to help.
You almost hit your head on a bench when you passed out."