Slightly Cursed

Sunday night at Macy’s should never be dangerous. It should be quiet. Nearly empty. Devoid of small children. One certainly shouldn’t need body armor.

But there I was, standing on the carpeted edge of the walkway, waiting politely to pay for one, small item. I saw a blur of blue and white motion to the right. I turned just in time to see a guy in his late 20s zip around the corner, wielding what must have been at least 30 pounds of toddler. The stroller was decorated with at least another 20 pounds of stuff, dangling dangerously from a brightly colored collection of plastic shopping bags.

With maybe five seconds to spare, I leaped backward as he swerved away from the great, open space of the walkway, and headed straight for me.

I’m not sure why he needed to run me over with a loaded stroller, but he didn’t seem terribly concerned about my plight as he skidded past me with his wife close at his heels. I heard a short, “’Scuse me,” as he mowed me over. I assumed he was talking to me at the time, but he never actually looked in my direction so he could have been talking to his invisible friend for all I know.

Luckily, I wasn’t injured. The tie rack behind me had lots of little arms on it which conveniently lodged themselves into my flesh, effectively stopping me from moving at all. If I’d knocked over the huge display behind the tie rack, that would have been embarrassing.

It was almost eight o’clock in the evening, and the department store had pretty much emptied out. No one else was around, so I dusted myself off, muttered an unkind word about his parentage, and left. I figured that as late as it was, and being a Sunday, I had a pretty good chance of survival in the mall.

Stepping out of Macy’s, I found the rest of the people who’d been inside along with their extended families. I’m pretty sure there were a few serial killers out there, too.

With my amazing mental powers, I controlled my bodily functions and did not sweat or show my terror in any other way. Strong and controlled, I tried desperately to maintain my requisite three feet of personal space. That lasted maybe five minutes, and I determined to make them pay for it.

That didn’t last long either. It was like I’d stepped onto a giant pool table, and I was the ball. I banked and shot myself from store to store, never actually making it inside any of them. I was just trying to get to my car on the other side of the mall. Around a corner. Up an embankment. In the cold.

The people in the middle of the mall converged into a small army of strollers. I avoided them warily, knowing how dangerous those people could be from my earlier encounter. But also because two-thirds of them looked like they were on the edge of a dangerous precipice, and I didn’t want to be the one to tip the balance and cause another riot.

People were beating each other up over toys the week before. My kids wear me out; I’m too tired to fight crazy people in crowded shopping malls. Thankfully, getting to the Starbucks didn’t require a black belt or anything beyond basic gymnastics.

At nearly nine o’clock, I reached the upstairs mall exit where my car was parked. Climbing inside, I placed my small, precious bag of gifts gingerly on the passenger seat and laid my head on my steering wheel. I nearly sobbed with relief.

Half an hour later I was home, renewing my love affairs with Amazon.com and eBay. It’s been three weeks, and I’m afraid to go back. But if I don’t, there will be small, disappointed people on Christmas morning.

As I write these final words for 2006, I face the darkness of the unknown with fear in my heart. Tomorrow, I’m braving the mall with my friend. We’ve been working on a strategic defense plan all week, and I think we have a good chance of coming out of this alive. And mostly in one piece. Yes, I’ll be armed.

To those of you out there who still have shopping to do, I have only these words of wisdom to strengthen you:

1) don’t go out there alone because they outnumber you by several orders of magnitude;
2) take a full water bottle with you – it’s good self-defense;
3) even if you’d gone shopping a month ago it wouldn’t change anything; and
4) watch out for the crazy guy with the blue and white stroller.

Happy holidays, and have a safe New Year.

written by vic

My bail money refund came in the mail just in time for Black Friday.

You’re probably wondering why they had my bail money in the first place. Honestly, I still wonder that myself. I’ve never been in trouble with the law before (okay, except for that Ratt concert in 1984, but I swear that was an accident, and yes, I cried like a little girl at the police station, but we won’t talk about that).

That spring, I’d received a certified letter from the lady I’ve boarded my dog with for years. It turned out that an $88 check I’d given her was returned for insufficient funds. This made no sense to me; I had the money in my account.

I chatted with the bank. I chatted with the now unpleasant kennel lady. The bank chatted with the unpleasant kennel lady. Everyone chatted with everyone else, and yet no one knew what was going on. Finally we figured out that despite being identical to all the other boxes of checks the bank sent me, this one had different numbers on the bottom.

(New rule: if you’re unpacking boxes two years after you’ve moved, don’t get excited about a box of checks.)

The checks I’d used were for an account I’d been required to open as an attachment to my business account, and it was several years old. I’d never used that account, so the bank automatically closed it. Why I had the box of checks baffles me; I’d never ordered any.

My bank, being the awesome people they are, sent the kennel lady a certified check that afternoon. I told my husband, “Problem solved!” He’s been married to me for a long time now, so naturally he said, “Ha!”

A few weeks later, I received a warrant for my arrest in the mail. My first thought was, “This is sure to ruin my husband’s political aspirations for me! Bonus!” and was quickly followed by more dizziness than usual.

Breathing into a paper bag, I finished reading the notice. It politely said that I was to immediately turn myself in, or I could wait around and be arrested at a less convenient time. Probably in public, with small children and grandmothers in full view. A toll-free number was included on the bottom of the notice, in case I preferred to be arrested by phone.

I checked my online banking information; the funds hadn’t been deducted from my account. I called Kennel Lady.

“I may have gotten a check. If I did, I threw it away. And if you send another one, I’ll toss it in the trash too.” Things got less pleasant, quickly.

“My dog’s been boarding with you for more than six years with no problems, ever. Why would you treat me like this?” It made no sense!

“You wrote a hot check. This is what you get.” She refused any type of payment from me, saying she’d planned to prosecute me all along, and that she was going to “teach [me] a lesson.”

After browsing eBay for a while in search of some Canadian real estate, I called the 800 number. A pleasant female voice informed me that I was arrested and gave me some options for bailing myself out over the phone.

(Note to self: When being arrested, do it by phone. It’s much less embarrassing.)

Arraignment was two weeks later. I entered my plea, was fingerprinted and processed in a room full of people. There wasn’t much of a wait before I was stuffed into a tiny room full of table, and the prosecutor. She was at least six feet tall, and she was having a bad hair day.

Shuffling her paperwork impatiently, she said, “Why didn’t you try to pay Kennel Lady for the NSF check?” I choked on my thoughts, got my temper under control, and went with a more PMS-friendly response than the one which had instantly sprang to mind. Calmly, I recounted the events and showed her my documentation.

The Prosecutrix was openly skeptical of my story. It was almost as if she was used to dealing with liars and criminals all the time. Or maybe she had lots of kids. So I countered with logic, as always.

“If the $88 was such a huge deal, why did it take her a month to get around to telling me there was a problem? And why did she throw away the replacements I sent?” Neither of us had an answer to my question.

I sat, miserable, while the Prosecutrix berated me for a while. My lawyer friend says this helps drive home the humiliation. It works.

When it was clear that she wasn’t going to scare me into pleading guilty and easing her caseload, she offered to try and mediate. An hour later, it was mostly over with. Kennel Lady had happily acceded to Prosecutrix’s request to accept a cashier’s check, and the charges against me were dismissed.

Sort of.

As I was leaving, the Prosecutrix warned that she was going to “check up” on me in six months time. So much for continuing my wicked crime spree. I wonder if she can see me out of the security cameras. I won’t risk it.

The law is not for breaking.

written by vic