Read Online Waiting for Joe by Sandra Birdsell - Free Book Online
Authors: Sandra Birdsell
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garbage can back inside, thinking that although Joe has his own set of keys, she doesn’t want to go far, or for long. She’ll browse her way through Walmart to the mall and to the food court, where she’ll read.
She follows the people streaming toward the entrance, entire families, she notes, and realizes that it’s Friday. There’s a sudden pounding of feet behind her and several young men go galloping past, whooping loudly, all of them wearing tank tops and shorts, their flailing limbs startlingly white. Several people around her laugh, and she shivers for the half-dressed young men. She stops to feed coins into a newspaper box at one side of the entrance and tucks the
Globe and Mail
into her tote. Moments later the doors swing open before her to a collage of colour, a welcoming draft of heated air, and the tall white-haired greeter vibrating in a red vest and cobalt blue shirt.
“Welcome to Walmart,” he calls out.
“Thanks,” she says knowing that she’s not expected to reply, but she likes the way his mouth turns up at the corners when she does, and is surprised now when he doesn’t smile.
He sounds less chirpy too, as though he knows that she’s come with no intention to buy anything. Rather she intends to wander among the aisles and continue to be disconcerted by the low cost of various items, and the fact that the quality seems to be almost as good as what she often paid twice as much for elsewhere.
“Are you returning something today?” The greeter has stepped directly into her path and holds up a little gun with a roll of green stickers attached. She sees his watery eyes are intently fixed on the tote bag at her side.
“No,” she says. He’s clearly reluctant to let her pass without being able to peer inside it, but he calls out, “Have a good day,” as she goes past him. The words are like a finger counting the vertebrae in her spine.
Soon after, she’s in the food court and feeling fortunate to have gained a table under the skylight, given the crowd. She sips at a smoothie. The long mid-morning sleep left her feeling wobbly inside and she’s hoping the potassium in the banana smoothie will balance her electrolytes. She takes her notebook from the tote bag and writes:
Smoothie, $5.25. Newspaper 2.00. Picture frame $7.99. Glue $2.95
.
She bought the picture frame and squeeze bottle of white glue believing she would make a collage of the postcards to give to Alfred when she sees him. It will add colour to his otherwise drab and small room. When next she sees him. Which may be never.
I
will
make a collage, Laurie vows, even as she admits to herself that likely she will not. It’s not something Alfred would want, and yet he’d make a big show over it, knowing that she was hungry for his approval. She looks up at a loud sizzling and sees the cloud of steam rising from the grill at Edo, the people there lined up waiting to order food. Saliva fills her mouth. While the smoothie is filling, she craves the saltiness of a bowl of hot yakisoba noodles.
She sees the woman from the parking lot then, with the girl in pink. The woman moves away from the lineup at Edo carrying a tray of food, looking out of place in the dark head scarf, which narrows her features and turns her complexion sallow. When she reaches the edge of the food court, she hesitates as she looks about for a place to sit. The young girl darts off and quickly finds a vacant table and calls out to her mother, her voice sharp like a sparrow’s, piercing the din of adult voices. When she sees a couple hovering nearby, intent on gaining the same table,she scrambles up onto one of the seats, leans forward and spreads her arms across the table, leaving no question that she’s claimed the space.
An outburst of laughter draws Laurie’s attention to a group of people across the food court. Seniors, she realizes, people years older than the woman who has parked her cleaning cart on the periphery and goes among them, clearing and wiping
She follows the people streaming toward the entrance, entire families, she notes, and realizes that it’s Friday. There’s a sudden pounding of feet behind her and several young men go galloping past, whooping loudly, all of them wearing tank tops and shorts, their flailing limbs startlingly white. Several people around her laugh, and she shivers for the half-dressed young men. She stops to feed coins into a newspaper box at one side of the entrance and tucks the
Globe and Mail
into her tote. Moments later the doors swing open before her to a collage of colour, a welcoming draft of heated air, and the tall white-haired greeter vibrating in a red vest and cobalt blue shirt.
“Welcome to Walmart,” he calls out.
“Thanks,” she says knowing that she’s not expected to reply, but she likes the way his mouth turns up at the corners when she does, and is surprised now when he doesn’t smile.
He sounds less chirpy too, as though he knows that she’s come with no intention to buy anything. Rather she intends to wander among the aisles and continue to be disconcerted by the low cost of various items, and the fact that the quality seems to be almost as good as what she often paid twice as much for elsewhere.
“Are you returning something today?” The greeter has stepped directly into her path and holds up a little gun with a roll of green stickers attached. She sees his watery eyes are intently fixed on the tote bag at her side.
“No,” she says. He’s clearly reluctant to let her pass without being able to peer inside it, but he calls out, “Have a good day,” as she goes past him. The words are like a finger counting the vertebrae in her spine.
Soon after, she’s in the food court and feeling fortunate to have gained a table under the skylight, given the crowd. She sips at a smoothie. The long mid-morning sleep left her feeling wobbly inside and she’s hoping the potassium in the banana smoothie will balance her electrolytes. She takes her notebook from the tote bag and writes:
Smoothie, $5.25. Newspaper 2.00. Picture frame $7.99. Glue $2.95
.
She bought the picture frame and squeeze bottle of white glue believing she would make a collage of the postcards to give to Alfred when she sees him. It will add colour to his otherwise drab and small room. When next she sees him. Which may be never.
I
will
make a collage, Laurie vows, even as she admits to herself that likely she will not. It’s not something Alfred would want, and yet he’d make a big show over it, knowing that she was hungry for his approval. She looks up at a loud sizzling and sees the cloud of steam rising from the grill at Edo, the people there lined up waiting to order food. Saliva fills her mouth. While the smoothie is filling, she craves the saltiness of a bowl of hot yakisoba noodles.
She sees the woman from the parking lot then, with the girl in pink. The woman moves away from the lineup at Edo carrying a tray of food, looking out of place in the dark head scarf, which narrows her features and turns her complexion sallow. When she reaches the edge of the food court, she hesitates as she looks about for a place to sit. The young girl darts off and quickly finds a vacant table and calls out to her mother, her voice sharp like a sparrow’s, piercing the din of adult voices. When she sees a couple hovering nearby, intent on gaining the same table,she scrambles up onto one of the seats, leans forward and spreads her arms across the table, leaving no question that she’s claimed the space.
An outburst of laughter draws Laurie’s attention to a group of people across the food court. Seniors, she realizes, people years older than the woman who has parked her cleaning cart on the periphery and goes among them, clearing and wiping
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