Greasy Dogs

His eyes were bright red and bulging like weak moons trying to escape orbit. And he was smashing his hands into the chip drawer, screaming, as he stomped on black olives. Trying to make some sort of sour wine perhaps. In front of me, very, very, calmly stood a secondary associate who was trying to tell me something. But I couldn't really make out what he was saying, and in my head I was tracking a hurricane with a weak low-pressure center but solid outflow. It had warm water under it, and very few landmasses ahead of it, but somehow I could just tell that it wasn't going to pull itself together.

It was that kind of season.

And this green manager at the brilliant but flawed new Moe's at the Melbourne Square Mall hadn't read the charts well at all.

"We're closed."

"Your closed?"

"Yup."

"What happened?"

Now the grease on the heavily bearded manager's hands causes the phone he's screeching into to slip to floor and crack. I note it's not cordless, and when he retreats into the back I find myself hopping he doesn't hang himself.

"We ran out of something."

"Something important?"

I'm getting old. It's noon in the mall, my jokes aren't funny, and high school kids wear black socks. But our friendly associate either doesn't care, isn't catching on, or....well he probably just doesn't care. He keeps playing the game.

"Very much so."

"Your out of tortillas aren't you?" I say.

He looks past me now, out the front door and then quickly back over his shoulder. The new manager is hyperventilating somewhere, but not here.

He leans in: "No man, it's much worse then that."

And then he walked away. So it goes and always goes, bright lights green shirts and rimless glass. Don't dance if you own a hat.

I leave the food court with a belly full of Sbarro and regret. But these things were out of my control.

It's a few days past Christmas when I meander into the Pet Store. A true stalwart of any mall; the Pet Store is a miracle of commerce. More of a meeting place then buying place, sketchy morals, and a rotating cast. And they manage to be simultaneously sad and cute. But oh lord, the Pet Store is much worse a few days after Christmas. Nearly every crate was empty, the walls were completely extinguished of treats and toys, and yet two unlucky narrow-eyed Cocker Spaniels' sat alone and unloved. They were out of water and hope. I viewed them briefly and then ran from the Mall at full speed, past the abandoned Santa area (city? shanty? dojo? What do you call that place?), around the fountain that used to a monument, a lap through the Spencers, and then straight out through Dillard's running at full speed.

I tried to distance myself from those sad dogs. But I had left them a sticky note on the hand stained glass they moped behind. I don't remember what I wrote on it. Maybe it's still there.

I'm still here, but not like I should be, and not like I will be. It's a new year. To borrow from Foer, I've at times been extremely loud and incredibly close. But really, more loud then close. I've got a lot of eggs to crack and no place to put the yoke anymore. And 2012 is an election season. The fat is about to return to the fire. And every dog will have a home soon. I'll see you there. I promise this time.