Inspiration

 

The inspiration for "The Objects of My Desire" is a now-closed department store I once worked at in one of many small, crumbling industrial cities you can find scattered throughout New England.  The original store was built and opened in the 1880s, and did, in fact once house a hotel on the upper floors.  My mundane job had me rolling my janitor's cart throughout each floor, cleaning, polishing, vacuuming and removing trash as needed, and I hadn't been at it long before I got severely bored and dared to explore the upper, long-disused floors.  The eeriness of these darkened corridors as I tip-toed through massive cobwebs was chilling, and the brass numbers were indeed still attached above most of the doors.  If ever there was a Twilight Zone moment in my life, this job- and this store- would have to be my #1 choice.  I wasn't there long, and was only part-time, but the store that time forgot was like something right out of the fifties.  The room where I found the mannequins piled atop one another- some fully intact, others missing parts and pieces- was real, but rest assured I did not have my way with them. 

The Objects of My Desire- Conclusion

     The creaky freight elevator, down in the back of the store and out of sight levels off at #4 and comes to a slow, groaning halt.  Carefully I open the inner gate, then raise the outer steel door with the tiny, smudged window and roll my cart onto the dark, wide planks carpeted with decades of dust, pausing briefly to make sure I’m alone.  With the exception of my footprints, it appears as if no one has been up here in years, and the room that contains the mannequins is just down the corridor and around the first corner from the elevator.  The first rooms I pass contain dusty shelving units, jewelry display cases, and old office furniture.  The lighting on these floors is poor, and my skin prickles at the eerie shadows that line the wide corridors. 

     Finally, my destination.  “Hello my friends,” I whisper.  “I’ve come back.”  They are all silent, but I know, deep down, that they’ll be happy to finally have identities.  I pull the things I previously collected from the office supply section out of my cart, and set to work, cutting and taping, and before long they all have their faces on and I grow excited.  Pleased with my work I open the lower storage compartment of my cart and remove the cordless drill and hole saw bit I removed from the maintenance shop in the basement, and grab the bottle of lotion I snatched from Cosmetics off the top of my cart.  I set these aside on a pigeon shit- covered shelf nearby, and walk among my friends, my gorgeous co-workers, laying them down, one at a time, promising them I will be gentle.   

     Only a select few- the ones in the more active poses- will do, since the ones simply standing upright don’t excite me, and these chosen ones are my girls.  After the drill quiets each time, I listen for approaching footsteps, and grow more aroused once I realize I am still alone.  I end up with five, to be exact.  Their names aren’t important.  Four of them, young, smiling, overly made-up, work in different clothing departments, the fifth, I’m not ashamed to admit, is probably in her fifties and reminds me of my mother.  I think she does payroll.  I’m not sure.  They look so beautiful and helpless, staring at me, watching as I undress and reach for the cool, viscous gel that will ease my efforts. 

The Objects of My Desire- part 1

   Light bulbs and bubble wrap.  Mannequins and long-neglected, antique display racks.  These things and more are left to rot in the rooms throughout the dusty fourth and fifth floors.  Items once inventoried, now forgotten, shuffled off to the upper reaches of this century-old downtown relic.  The main display floors, beginning with the sidewalk-level ground floor and up through the third, offer furniture, clothing and accessories no one will ever buy.  Perhaps in previous decades, but not these days.  “How does this place stay in business?” I often ask myself (as many other people do, I’m sure).  During my shifts I see few shoppers.  I roll my janitor’s cart through the different departments, wondering where the paychecks even come from. 

     The upper floors are haunted, I’m sure.  The building used to house a hotel, and the tarnished brass numbers are still mounted over many of the doorways, the smooth, dull finish on the well-worn oak looking much the way it did a hundred years ago.  A downtown staple, Winthrop’s is a destination for old ladies, mostly.  No young person in their right mind would shop here now.  This place is a throwback to another time, a dinosaur.  The few young girls that work here- some hot, some not so- are snotty, and offer better customer service to their cell phones than their customers.  My camera- my phone- fits perfectly in my shirt pocket, well-hidden.  They don’t know they’re the subjects of my project, the objects of my desire. 

     At home, in my little rented room down Main Street, safe from people and trouble, I log onto Walmart’s photo site and create their life-size faces.  All of them.  Even the old ones that have worked there since the forties and fifties, the smelly ones that still douche and wear the perfume that the stinky old ladies wore decades ago.   

Counterpoint III (finis)

Damn fool couldn't even tell me where he put the mail.  For years now, we've set the mail just inside the front door on the side table.  Same.  Damn.  Place.  For.  Years.  I'm not perfect.  I have my own ailments and shit to deal with, but come on.  How much is a woman supposed to tolerate?  What am I supposed to do, pay someone to sit here with him and watch his ass all day? Hire a babysitter?  I mean, it's like living with a child again, and I already aced that exam years ago.   What's next, diaper rash, ointments and thumb-sucking?  I mean, come on.  Been there, done that.  I'm maxed out.  I've exhausted my patience.  I know it's wrong but don't care.  Dan next door's been a godsend. He and I have struck up a relationship and it feels good to get some of those feelings back if you know what I'm saying. If it wasn't for Dan I'd surely lose my shit.  Mama needs a stuffin', and the fuckwit doesn't even have a clue what's going on.  Doesn't know enough to question my "night out with the girls" schtick.  In some ways I guess I should be grateful he's such a feeble-minded idiot.

I can do this.  Make it look natural.  It'll look like apnea or something, or he just simply stopped breathing during the night.  It happens.  I am so done.  I'll wait until he's asleep.

I'll tell you this- it most certainly is not the way it's portrayed in the movies and on television.  He struggled, boy did he struggle.  And it was anything but quick.  It was all I could do to hold the pillow still, and at one point I thought for sure he'd actually overpower me.  It took him, like, five minutes, it seemed.  After he stilled I maintained pressure just to be sure.

I'll let him be until morning.  Say he must've passed in his sleep.  I'll be able to put on a more convincing show after a decent night's sleep.