FOR MIKE ANDAHL

A semi-circle of poles jutted skyward, topped with flags which snapped and twisted in the high wind. 732 slick autos were parked before the West entrance to the mall, like dead beetles in an Entomologist’s display drawer, though, without the formaldehyde reek. Andahl walked through the rows, looking at rearview mirror danglies; mainly air fresheners, but some fake Hawaiian Leis, too. Peering through the tinted windows of coupes and convertibles, he rose tiptoe to squint into the impossibly luxe dens of tall SUVs, where shopping bags from some other mall nestled next to floppy sun-hats and other poolside accoutrements. Andhal was waiting for Mitsy, (his date, who’s cubicle was diagonal to his cubicle at their shared Place of Employment). She was supposed to be meeting him “by her car”, which he found incredibly difficult to locate, since she had only described it as “a good looking shitty car, you know?”.
Well, he thought he’d just be able to see her standing, looking around for him. It was 5:32 P.M.
She was missing, or late; either way it was impossible to stand still in the perishing heat of July 30, on blacktop, in a shirt and tie. So, Andahl wandered the parking lot, dabbing at sweat and blowing his nose on his back pocket hankie, which today was “turtle love” themed. Turtle love themed things seemed to come up from time to time for Andahl. First, it was a cartoon valentine he’d gotten in third grade from Eva Swozie, who’s face he couldn’t remember, but who’s Turtle Love Themed valentine refused to dislodge itself from his memory. The front had a picture of a couple of cute, green turtles, beak to beak, about to start smooching. He remembered that their shells were kind of big, and almost looked like flat soccer balls. There was a big, red heart between the turtles, and inside, in white letters, the valentine read;

“My Shell Is Your Shell... Turtle Love!”

And on the back there was a spot that said “To:” (Andhal) and then “From:” Eva Swozie. Underneath, in her own pencil, Eva had written something else, which looked almost like “Sloppy Vulva” but, after asking her to explain, the cryptic lettering was revealed to have said “Sorry no Envelope”. She guessed that the Valentine Card Company hadn’t made enough of them to include the right number in the box she’d bought. When he’d brought it home to show his mom, she’d taken a good five minutes to analyze the subversive, right-wing white-capitalist content probably embedded in the text, and upon finding nothing, handed it back with “well, it was probably printed in China, anyway”. Andahl was suddenly grateful that he no longer lived under a parental roof, blew his nose, and regrouped his efforts in locating Mitsy. He decided to start looking at tire tread-wear, in order to judge vehicles by Mitsy’s description. Since she was nowhere to be seen, and their date had started (by his watch) fifteen minutes ago, he thought that maybe she’d planned this car-park obstacle in order to help him work up an appetite for dinner. “There’s nothing worse than a date who’s not borderline Ravenous”, he could almost hear her say. With his neck craned to the left, hands on his drastically bent knees, Andahl squat-walked along a North pointing row of cars, face at tire-height. The smell of hot asphalt and rubber mixed with his own sweat. It was nauseating, but that’s how summer is. He wiped his nose, cleared his eyes of sweat, and examined the tread on a ’97 Subaru Outback. It was a white station wagon, with a little rust over the wheel wells, but no other dings or signs of maltreatment. The tread was in perfect condition. These seriously could have been brand new tires. He thought about Mitsy. She hadn’t mentioned new tires during coffee breaks, cigarette breaks, air breaks, lunch breaks or Crazy Pete’s Friday Afternoon Managerial Meeting in Shorts Breaks, either. He moved on from the Subaru. A brown minivan trolled past, looking for a parking place. There were very few available, and actually, the parking lot appeared to be near or at capacity. He began to wonder if Mitsy had even found a place to park in the first place. This was troubling. The thought bothered him as he squatted near a Firebird with a cracked windshield, fingering the nearly bald tread. “So this is why people get cell phones. So they can find Mitsy” he said to an exhaust pipe on a Ford Ranger with a Pot Leaf Sticker on the bumper. Though the company they both worked for provided phones to all employees, Andhal preferred to rely on a landline that was connected to a portable phone in his apartment. Were his grandfather still alive, he would have been appalled. His grandpa, “Grampapio” was 90 when he died, having been playing internet poker for 15 hours in his hospice room before he had a massive heart attack. He embraced technology as it came, never throwing a nostalgic glance backward to simpler, quieter times. “You start thinking about the past, and kid, you’ll slide right into that coffin like predigested fish from a Mama Pelican’s pouch. You get me kid? Now bring me my pager, I think its buzzing.” That was in 1995. Andahl just never took to the technological revolution like so many of his peers, preferring to spend time staring into nothing than into an LCD screen. He liked to think of his preference as being a symptom of a ‘sensitive disposition’, knowing from experience that extended use of small handheld devices would usually leave him with a fracturing headache, or worse; dry eyes. So, Andahl, phoneless, was unable to call Mitsy without first getting back into his own car (1996 Black Dodge Neon), diving home, and calling her cell phone from there. He decided to make for the high point in the lot, and have a look from there. The spot was home to a very young tree, something that would probably provide substantial shade in about thirty years. Mechanically, he removed his hankie & blew his nose, which was starting to run profusely as his allergy medicine wore off. The tops of the 732 cars glistened blindingly, reflecting the intense 6:00 pm pre-sunset. With his hand at his brow in a kind of wincing salute, Andahl attempted to shade his eyes while he threw his gaze wildly over the sea of cars. He was beginning to get thirsty, his feet hurt. He pulled out the note that Mitsy had left attached to his cubicle wall with a turtle-shaped thumbtack;

“I am busting out of here early to hit up some sales at the M-A-L-L. Meet me at 5:30 in the West parking lot, by my car. You choose the restaurant.”