Leo waddles over to another bed.
“This is the biggest bed we have,” he says. “It’s a
California king size and can hold up to five other adults.”
I throw him off guard. I say, “But
why would I want to sleep with five other adults?”
He gives me a long awkward stare. He
digs his finger in his ear. I let it go. I don’t expect him to give me a
logical answer. So I look away and pretend to be interested in a noise. I do
this sometimes so people don‘t feel uncomfortable. Or I’ll change the subject.
I’ll ask someone if they’ve seen the new Die Hard film and they will say “no”
and I will say “me neither.” Or if they say “yes” I lie and say that the last
action sequence was really phenomenal and they will agree.
I look around. I see a little girl
on the other end of the store shopping with her mom. She’s wearing a checkered
dress in the same colors as a Rubik’s Cube. She’s screaming. The mom is holding
on to her arm and pulling her around the store. I’m thinking that the little
girl hates bed shopping. Or perhaps she has a perfectly fine bed at home that
she’s being forced to give up. A kid’s bed, with a pink ruffled quilt and a
layer of stuffed animals.
I can’t help but stare. I feel
involved now. Like I need to do something. I’m thinking that I should just say “fuck
the bed” and save the girl. But I wouldn’t be able to just stop there. I would
have to save all the girls everywhere from bed shopping. Kind of like Zorro.
And this could go on forever.
I look for Leo. He’s already over by
another bed. I catch up to him. Now we are both standing in front of another
bed. It’s a queen. I know this because there is a sign that says, “Queen.”
Leo yawns. I put my hands in my
pockets. “Excuse me,” he says. I study his face. I dig around in my pockets. I
find a hairpin.
“This might be what you’re looking
for,” he says. “It’s a little bigger than a double and a little smaller than a
king. And this particular model qualifies for an instant rebate.” He pats the
side of the bed. He has a proud face.
I test the queen out a little by
bouncing slightly up and down on it‘s edge. Then I fall back onto the mattress.
I stretch out in to the snow-angel position. I run my fingers across the top. I
wonder if Leo is watching me. I wonder if the little girl and her mom are watching
me. “I’m setting a bad example,” I think. But who cares.
I stare at the ceiling. It’s
comprised of rectangular tiles, which are separated by thin metal bars. The
pattern resembles a city. Each tile is its own block, and the metal bars are
the streets. I close my eyes. I picture the city. Now I picture a neighborhood.
It is big. It looks like my own neighborhood. It has houses and trees along the
sidewalks. Now I see my old house. It’s on Washington Street. It
has a red door and a crabapple tree. Now I look for the furniture store. Its
five blocks south. I imagine that Leo lives pretty close to the furniture
store. Maybe a couple blocks away on Evergreen. Perhaps he has a blue house.
And after work he will go home to his blue house and be greeted by a small dog.
His name might be Jack. And Jack will jump up and down because he wants to be
pet, but Leo will push him away and say “not now Jack,” and collapse on the
couch because he‘s had a long day.
Then I picture another neighborhood.
That’s where the little girl and her mom live. They probably have a large white
house with a porch that wraps around the front. It has a swing. And later this
evening they will go home with a new adult bed and the little girl will cry on
that swing because she misses her old bed with the pink ruffled quilt.
Now I picture the whole city again.
There are three schools, a few parks, some restaurants and shops. And somewhere
on the outside of the city is my beach. And we’ll all go there some days to get
away.