That weekend the mall featured an eight year old
Bob Dylan impersonator. Business went on
as usual. In the wake of Occupy Wall
Street nothing seemed bizarre. Single
mothers pushed strollers past potted palm fronds. Pursed their lips to cool steaming mochas and
nod their heads coolly to, “you make a tax-deductible check to charity
organizations.” Lily and Naomi observed the scene while sloshing the straws in
their Orange Julius’. Naomi pointed to a feathered blonde woman whose eyes were
closed and head tilted back, swaying her shoulders to the rhythm. Her toddler
shuffled forward and grabbed the tip of a plant, stared at it in wide eyed
wonder before jamming it straight into its mouth. “There’s something happenin’
here but you don’t know what it is… do you… Mr. Jones,” the eight year old had
a decent slur. The ladies had no interest and continued to the food court.
There was no shortage of women at the mall. Eating in pairs or with children spread in fractals throughout the dining room. Teenage boys were grouped in front of the Taco Bell, two of them trading punches. There were old men in large overcoats lining the aisle ways, newspapers unfolded before their faces. Some distant wife haggling the price of a cardigan or a sneaker. The same type of women who were watching the Dylan impersonating eight year old had their hoodies drawn and were circling the Food Court like planes waiting for a runway to clear. A few boys a little younger than Lily and Naomi took notice of the girls. They began to shift their postures into exaggerated relaxing of the shoulders. They cast looks long enough to be recognized as looks. The girls unconsciously checked their outfits and never peered back to their admirers.
Lily tossed her empty cup out while Naomi threw herself down at a table. She set her oversized purse down next to a small store bag of which she pulled out the paper stuffing contents. She hoisted a plaid pencil skirt in the air and grimaced.
“I’ll need to borrow your leggings,” Naomi disguised the fun in her voice.
Lily couldn’t keep her eyes rested on the skirt. She found it loud and appalling and completely in line with Naomi’s theory that good looking people can wear whatever they want. She knew immediately that it matched the green argyle leggings that Naomi coveted. From that point on there was no hiding her disdain. Lily feigned disinterest and scanned the court. The directives of mothers to cheek stained children wandering and weaving between tables echoed back from the skylights above and then doubled yet again. It made a distorted delay that was in fact, exactly how the children perceived the order. The trees indoors tickled the trusses and one cast a shadow that fell along the row of benches to the side. Lily followed the dark to its conclusion. She believed she saw an old man with a bright red afro, but he pulled a newspaper in front of him. She spotted the paper vendor box. When she looked back towards the man she noticed everybody was reading a newspaper. She wondered if something really important had happened recently.
“Oh, look what fell in my purse at Claire’s,” Naomi pulled out two headbands with colorful feathers attached. Lily watched her pawing them in the store, but couldn’t think what Naomi would be doing with them.
“Do you want to wear them at the next show?” Lily asked.
Naomi’s phone began vibrating and moving toward the edge of the table. She told her to try it on now and handed one to Lily. Then she scooped her phone and began punching in a response. Lily shuffled through Naomi’s purse looking for a compact to examine herself in. She saw herself with the feather and thought it looked cute. Naomi didn’t have hers on yet. They were playing a show at the usual dive next weekend. They had been packing the place lately and weren’t just the closers, but mixed music between sets. This weekend they would simply DJ for a few hours before playing their new set. Naomi had cut-up a few Of Montreal records and slowed them down. She isolated the vocals and kept those dance-pop speed, but slowed down the funk grooves and distorted them in areas.
Lily added violin parts and looped her own vocals. When they practiced, Naomi kept time on the drums to add a dual percussive element that could be dropped instantaneously. Then the violin could carry behind the refrain of a cover in which they sang, “Let’s pretend we don’t exist. Let’s pretend we’re in Antarctica.” The live drums would crash back in following Naomi’s programming. The girls were calling themselves Coruscant Cacophony. The shit was beyond dope.
Naomi put her phone down, put her feather head-band on and scanned the food court. “We look crazy,” she laughed.
The noise escalated, reverberated and pulsated until in a matter of seconds the place was swelling with semi-shrieks. One at a time, in a spacey, single file, youth were coming in from outside. They had brown suede looking toga’s and moccasins on. A few were carrying drums made from animal hides. Others were carrying fake tomahawks and plastic daggers. There were plenty that were less elaborately dressed and some not at all, simply running full flight while patting their open mouths with their hands, producing stereotypical native chirps.
At the back of this line of blended Abercrombie-Indians came a chief in full war headdress and all the trimmings. He was surrounded by a few more Indians in terrific dress. They had bows armed with plungers. They came in and stopped by the double-doors, cocked and ready to shoot. The chief came in the center with a girl dressed like Pocahontas. Her clothes were cut in a sexualized manner which didn’t concern itself with the utility of the actual Native Americans and her two braided pony-tails were clearly a wig. It was obviously an improved Halloween costume. That said, she was perfect in that she distinguished herself as Pocahontas and not merely some JCPenny Sacagawea.
Simultaneously and all of this happening much too abrubtly for Lily to determine the reality of the situation, the men reading newspapers crashed out of their benches, disrobing their trench coats. A few of the women pushing strollers removed their hoodies and stuffed them into the carts, grabbing stacks of yellow post-it notes. They were in cheap pant suits that resembled high end versions from the 1980’s. The men had oversized suits, some of which had rips and were stitched back together with yellow police tape. Reams flung like banners from some of their sleeves.
The women were putting post-it notes all over the walls. An Indian and a business-woman finally connected and the woman attached a few post-it notes to the natives face, before the native playfully scalped her and she faked her death. A business man had caught one and was strangling him with telephone cords. The scene was a complete riot, choreographed and acted out. Everyone was laughing at one another and smiling. Lily had spun in so many directions from her seat. She hadn’t even noticed that Naomi was standing on her chair and Karate chopping the air. Lily ran her fingers on the edge of the sole, smooth feather sticking up from her head. It was dawning on her that she was a part of this. The on-lookers were falling out of their seats with joy. A few held their children tight with anxiety and one kid was crying and screaming at volumes well above the crowd. Across the food court, an Indian had fallen dead and a little boy ran up to join in the chaos by giving the Indian a swift kick in the ribs.
There were a group of businessmen pushing up the main aisle with a stroller. They were undoing their clothes and revealing shirts with corporate mascots on them. The woman pushing the stroller stopped and adjusted her laptop and a man in a GM t-shirt pulled two speakers up from the stroller. It was blasting advertisement slogans. Running behind them and beating his chest, was a full-on, Ronald McDonald. Everything about him was precise. He was throwing fake green money at the on-lookers. They were headed towards the chief, who was also moving in their direction.
During all of this pandemonium, the food court was brimming with spectators and customers and populated with security guards. The security guards that first rushed in latched on to the people nearby who were rehearsing violent movements. None had yet recognized the developing atrocity in the center aisle. The Indians armed with plungers were finding their advances repelled and subdued by the monotonous drone of the speakers. The advertisements. They fired their plungers, but a Joe Camel representative took the brunt of the attack. Out of ammunition they fell to their knees and covered their ears. One of the businessmen drew a replica hand-gun and fired red dye at the chief. He went down and Pocahontas cradled his head. She was captured immediately. Meanwhile, most of the other skirmishes had either ended in corporate victory or the kids had simply worn out and turned to watch. The businessmen produced the writhing Pocahontas to Ronald McDonald. Nobody could keep a straight face. Naomi was yelling obscenities in the yellow clown’s direction. Ronald looked around as if lost and finally realizing what was going on. They released Pocahontas and pushed her in his direction. She stumbled forward. Without hesitation he grabbed her and fluidly turned her around, bent her over the stroller and began thrusting his groin into her ass. In a mall mind you. Plenty of observers. Watching Pocahontas get sodomized by Ronald McDonald during a routine afternoon of shopping.
There was no shortage of women at the mall. Eating in pairs or with children spread in fractals throughout the dining room. Teenage boys were grouped in front of the Taco Bell, two of them trading punches. There were old men in large overcoats lining the aisle ways, newspapers unfolded before their faces. Some distant wife haggling the price of a cardigan or a sneaker. The same type of women who were watching the Dylan impersonating eight year old had their hoodies drawn and were circling the Food Court like planes waiting for a runway to clear. A few boys a little younger than Lily and Naomi took notice of the girls. They began to shift their postures into exaggerated relaxing of the shoulders. They cast looks long enough to be recognized as looks. The girls unconsciously checked their outfits and never peered back to their admirers.
Lily tossed her empty cup out while Naomi threw herself down at a table. She set her oversized purse down next to a small store bag of which she pulled out the paper stuffing contents. She hoisted a plaid pencil skirt in the air and grimaced.
“I’ll need to borrow your leggings,” Naomi disguised the fun in her voice.
Lily couldn’t keep her eyes rested on the skirt. She found it loud and appalling and completely in line with Naomi’s theory that good looking people can wear whatever they want. She knew immediately that it matched the green argyle leggings that Naomi coveted. From that point on there was no hiding her disdain. Lily feigned disinterest and scanned the court. The directives of mothers to cheek stained children wandering and weaving between tables echoed back from the skylights above and then doubled yet again. It made a distorted delay that was in fact, exactly how the children perceived the order. The trees indoors tickled the trusses and one cast a shadow that fell along the row of benches to the side. Lily followed the dark to its conclusion. She believed she saw an old man with a bright red afro, but he pulled a newspaper in front of him. She spotted the paper vendor box. When she looked back towards the man she noticed everybody was reading a newspaper. She wondered if something really important had happened recently.
“Oh, look what fell in my purse at Claire’s,” Naomi pulled out two headbands with colorful feathers attached. Lily watched her pawing them in the store, but couldn’t think what Naomi would be doing with them.
“Do you want to wear them at the next show?” Lily asked.
Naomi’s phone began vibrating and moving toward the edge of the table. She told her to try it on now and handed one to Lily. Then she scooped her phone and began punching in a response. Lily shuffled through Naomi’s purse looking for a compact to examine herself in. She saw herself with the feather and thought it looked cute. Naomi didn’t have hers on yet. They were playing a show at the usual dive next weekend. They had been packing the place lately and weren’t just the closers, but mixed music between sets. This weekend they would simply DJ for a few hours before playing their new set. Naomi had cut-up a few Of Montreal records and slowed them down. She isolated the vocals and kept those dance-pop speed, but slowed down the funk grooves and distorted them in areas.
Lily added violin parts and looped her own vocals. When they practiced, Naomi kept time on the drums to add a dual percussive element that could be dropped instantaneously. Then the violin could carry behind the refrain of a cover in which they sang, “Let’s pretend we don’t exist. Let’s pretend we’re in Antarctica.” The live drums would crash back in following Naomi’s programming. The girls were calling themselves Coruscant Cacophony. The shit was beyond dope.
Naomi put her phone down, put her feather head-band on and scanned the food court. “We look crazy,” she laughed.
The noise escalated, reverberated and pulsated until in a matter of seconds the place was swelling with semi-shrieks. One at a time, in a spacey, single file, youth were coming in from outside. They had brown suede looking toga’s and moccasins on. A few were carrying drums made from animal hides. Others were carrying fake tomahawks and plastic daggers. There were plenty that were less elaborately dressed and some not at all, simply running full flight while patting their open mouths with their hands, producing stereotypical native chirps.
At the back of this line of blended Abercrombie-Indians came a chief in full war headdress and all the trimmings. He was surrounded by a few more Indians in terrific dress. They had bows armed with plungers. They came in and stopped by the double-doors, cocked and ready to shoot. The chief came in the center with a girl dressed like Pocahontas. Her clothes were cut in a sexualized manner which didn’t concern itself with the utility of the actual Native Americans and her two braided pony-tails were clearly a wig. It was obviously an improved Halloween costume. That said, she was perfect in that she distinguished herself as Pocahontas and not merely some JCPenny Sacagawea.
Simultaneously and all of this happening much too abrubtly for Lily to determine the reality of the situation, the men reading newspapers crashed out of their benches, disrobing their trench coats. A few of the women pushing strollers removed their hoodies and stuffed them into the carts, grabbing stacks of yellow post-it notes. They were in cheap pant suits that resembled high end versions from the 1980’s. The men had oversized suits, some of which had rips and were stitched back together with yellow police tape. Reams flung like banners from some of their sleeves.
The women were putting post-it notes all over the walls. An Indian and a business-woman finally connected and the woman attached a few post-it notes to the natives face, before the native playfully scalped her and she faked her death. A business man had caught one and was strangling him with telephone cords. The scene was a complete riot, choreographed and acted out. Everyone was laughing at one another and smiling. Lily had spun in so many directions from her seat. She hadn’t even noticed that Naomi was standing on her chair and Karate chopping the air. Lily ran her fingers on the edge of the sole, smooth feather sticking up from her head. It was dawning on her that she was a part of this. The on-lookers were falling out of their seats with joy. A few held their children tight with anxiety and one kid was crying and screaming at volumes well above the crowd. Across the food court, an Indian had fallen dead and a little boy ran up to join in the chaos by giving the Indian a swift kick in the ribs.
There were a group of businessmen pushing up the main aisle with a stroller. They were undoing their clothes and revealing shirts with corporate mascots on them. The woman pushing the stroller stopped and adjusted her laptop and a man in a GM t-shirt pulled two speakers up from the stroller. It was blasting advertisement slogans. Running behind them and beating his chest, was a full-on, Ronald McDonald. Everything about him was precise. He was throwing fake green money at the on-lookers. They were headed towards the chief, who was also moving in their direction.
During all of this pandemonium, the food court was brimming with spectators and customers and populated with security guards. The security guards that first rushed in latched on to the people nearby who were rehearsing violent movements. None had yet recognized the developing atrocity in the center aisle. The Indians armed with plungers were finding their advances repelled and subdued by the monotonous drone of the speakers. The advertisements. They fired their plungers, but a Joe Camel representative took the brunt of the attack. Out of ammunition they fell to their knees and covered their ears. One of the businessmen drew a replica hand-gun and fired red dye at the chief. He went down and Pocahontas cradled his head. She was captured immediately. Meanwhile, most of the other skirmishes had either ended in corporate victory or the kids had simply worn out and turned to watch. The businessmen produced the writhing Pocahontas to Ronald McDonald. Nobody could keep a straight face. Naomi was yelling obscenities in the yellow clown’s direction. Ronald looked around as if lost and finally realizing what was going on. They released Pocahontas and pushed her in his direction. She stumbled forward. Without hesitation he grabbed her and fluidly turned her around, bent her over the stroller and began thrusting his groin into her ass. In a mall mind you. Plenty of observers. Watching Pocahontas get sodomized by Ronald McDonald during a routine afternoon of shopping.
|||||
We hope
you’ve enjoyed reading from this season of The Hindsight Bridge as much as the
writers have enjoyed writing for this season of The Hindsight Bridge. This
summer has certainly captured the spirit of THB in that writers have completed
and showcased otherwise unfinished work. In addition, we’ve had more traffic
this summer than ever before! We hope that you will return for future
installments of The Hindsight Bridge. Please keep in touch on our Facebook and
Twitter pages for information in the future. Goodbye for now.
