To the Loop

by

Gregory Stephens-North

You know you’re okay when you’re okay when you’re alone. My therapist either said that or something like that which I then reduced to achieve that. Regardless, it is now my mantra, my challenge, and my world.

Walking the Loop at Methuen alone I wondered about the retrograde notion of a "shopping center." Seeing the chilled but cheery New Englanders walk beside me, peering into its trendy but still inexpensive stores like Old Navy and Claire’s, I sense that whoever thought up this return to the pre-Mall world of my childhood hit a home run. The parking lot was crammed with as many Friday after Thanksgiving shoppers as it could hold. Here they could walk along the seasonably bedecked storefronts, warming their hands in either the hand of another or wrapped around a steaming Starbucks cup, discussing whether this or that was just right for him or her. There is no winter in a Mall, only winter decorations.

A couple walked in the opposite direction, man laden with K&B Toy Store bags, woman pressing on at a good pace. They were talking loudly enough to overhear. "We’ll stay out all night if we have to…" I caught the man saying as they passed. They seem hurried, even desperate, but enjoyably so. I remember Christmas shopping with my wife for the kids. It was just like that.

I was on my way back to the car after having ducked into Borders just for a large Hazelnut or some reasonable facsimile thereof. I stayed long enough to build a list of Great Books to buy next, primarily new translations of Montaigne and Rabelais. Literature of the Renaissance in general and its French masters in particular represent holes I intend to fill in my self-education. I have long depended on what others have said of authors such as these, failing to experience them first hand, a common flaw in the semi-literate. Prior to the coffee run I had been in the Loop’s Loews Cineplex Theatre 15, occupying a solo seat on the aisle separating the upper from the lower rows, soaking in Shyamalan’s second sortie into cerebral cinema, Unbreakable. Was it as good as his first? No. Was it ten times more creative that just about everything else I have seen on the big screen this year? Yes.

Going to movies is one of the ways I stay okay when I am alone.

I was originally sitting in one of two isolated seats right smack in the middle of this section, which happens to be my favorite spot. Just as the previews were coming to an end, a Hispanic gentleman came up and asked if the seat next to me was taken.

"No," I said motioning to the seat, "it’s all yours."

He sat down, then straightaway turned to me and said "Would you trade seats with my wife?" He pointed to this single seat on the far left, nestled against the handrail that lined the steps to the upper seats, in which sat his wife, an African-American woman bundled up in a full length, fur collared coat, staring straight ahead.

"Sure, no problem," I said, bounding out of my chair. He motioned to his wife who rose, passed me without catching my eye and took my former seat. I sat down in my new location, assessed it as adequate and gave my attention to the screen.

Later, during a particularly intense sequence, the gentleman’s cell phone rang in his winter jacket pocket, loudly enough to hear halfway across the theatre aisle, where I was sitting. He fished it out, pressed talk, and proceeded to carry on a conversation. Unbelievably, I could hear the muffled but unmistakable sounds of the voice at the other end of the line. As he got multiple dirty looks from audience members, he explained at a conversational volume that they were at this movie theatre watching this movie and that it started at 3:30 and would probably be out close to 5:30. More followed on both ends, then he hung up; leaving the phone set to ring out loud again. It did so about ten minutes later. Again, he engaged in animated conversation with his invisible partner. This time I turned and shushed him. Whether my indignant action had an effect on him or not, the second call was brief. I returned rapidly to concentrating on the chilling images flashing in front of me that I had paid to see.

In the nineteenth century, we held our nose as we passed the brass spittoon at the door. In the twentieth, we endured the omnipresence of commercials, slithering out of our TV’s and onto our clothing. In the twenty-first century we listen to others’ conversations whether we wish to or not. Our planet has become a party line.

Next in queue at Borders, holding my bag of yet to be ground Hazelnut coffee, I listen intently to the conversation between the tall, pretty, young self-possessed woman behind the counter and two middle aged men. They point to the brown, earth tone, sans serif font laden menu board above and behind the counter and quiz her in Spanish as to the nature of the proffered cafes. She replies in native Spanish, describing the ingredients of "un cappuccino." They seem satisfied, place their order, and then move off to the left where the order is to be retrieved from a young man working the espresso machine. Stepping up, the young woman whose badge reads "Trisha" spies the bag nestled in the cork of my arm. She reaches out to take it from me and says, "I’ll get that ground for you" in English devoid of accent.

"Thank you," I replied handing her the dark red bag filled with the beans that are one of my remaining vices. "I’d also like a large coffee," I added.

She turned to the same young man who ran the espresso machine and asked, "Would you grind this while I ring up his coffee?" The boy looked quizzically back at her. I was reminded that this concern had been opened for less than a week, the last of the businesses to open its doors, just making it prior to the commencement of the holiday rush. This was clearly the first time he had been asked to grind coffee beans. "It’s easy," she said encouragingly, "Just use that machine over there and pour it through." He turned to where she was pointing, noting the simple looking device with an opening at the top and a spout below. Looked easy enough. He took the bag from her hand and moved on to grind my beans.

This Borders employee with her easy grace and comfortable command of two languages reminded me of how culture cosmopolitan may be forced on we stubborn American WASP's, a product of our insular worldview’s very success. In her eyes, though young, I could see a bit of the refinement of the Old World taking up residence here in the New.

Back in the car, heading home, I congratulated myself for not buying more stuff for me. The limits of my consumption included:

These were awards for my meat and cheese diet, on which I had lost forty pounds in six weeks. I convinced myself that now was the time to start buying pants that would stay up. Obviously I would need a new shirt to match. My only regret was that I was partially covering them in a jacket that was very last year, golden brown microfibre with a little leather collar. This year screamed for black leather, mid length and form fitting. I made a note to let my daughters purchase the books and clothes I left behind as presents to be opened in four weeks time.

Continuing my list of purchases there were:

Riding the long sloping ramp up onto 213, seeing the glitzy faux Egyptian Loews façade off to my left drenched in spotlights, a beckoning beacon to my fellow highway goers, I thought back over the day. So much time, so many things to buy. But I basically came away with what I came for, nothing more.

And I spent the day there alone and okay.