The Last Straw

         What if she was to jump out of the car, strip off her clothes, stand buck naked on the hood of the car and scream “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!” just like that guy in the movie? Right there in the shopping center parking lot, in full view of the ready-made audience - the perfect blond arranging groceries in the back of her SUV, the wanna-be Cowboy swaggering out of his 4x4 in hat, boots, and “too clean for the real thing” Wranglers, and the homeless guy with the “We all need help sometime and WILL work for food” sign.

         The naked scream thought passed through her brain in the 3.2 seconds it took the teeny bopper in the VW to take advantage of her hesitation and whip into the parking space Shelby had smugly thought was hers. Thus was placed yet another straw upon the crumbling stack that amounted to her pathetic life. What would be the “final” straw? And would it be as equally petty as that one?

         Granted, she knew an extremely good case could be made for the fact that she had no idea what a truly pathetic life consisted of. Probably the homeless guy with the sign would have been first in line with an opening statement. But Shelby figured it was all relative and entirely subject to personal perspective. If you felt your life was pathetic, it was, regardless of the circumstances that others might perceive qualified you for “living in a perfect world” status.

         Yes indeed, thought Shelby, I’m apparently living the American Dream. She and Mr. Perfect Spouse had plenty of money, all the right friends, just the right house and his and her exotic import cars. And she was so damned happy about it all that she was contemplating on more and more frequent occasions acts akin to the car hood exhibition. Why only yesterday she’d pondered what it would be like to be totally truthful. How would it feel to tell a grocery clerk, upon her robotic delivery of “how are you today?”, that she “sucked, thank you,“ and proceed to ask if the clerk would like a detailed list of precisely why?

         Shelby continued to circle the packed lot looking for another space. Once again she passed the homeless guy with the sign. This time she made herself really look at him, albeit without making eye contact. A more intentional observation provided a vision of weariness; a sagging spirit draped in sagging clothes. His filthy jeans should have been on the wanna be with the 4x4 she’d seen earlier, and his torn T-shirt had some incongruent advertisement on it. She couldn’t make out exactly what the shirt said, before she was past him and on her way to playing another round of motorized ring-around-the-rosy. Too many damn cars, too many damn people. She found herself giving a dirty look to the gray-haired old lady that snagged a spot at the beginning of the next row......and then wondered why was she so angry inside?

         She pondered again the thought that there was this increasing desire on her part to shock, to do something completely out of character for the persona everyone thought to be her. A way to somehow break out of the stereotypical mold that she felt her true self was more and more attempting to ooze out of. She supposed she should be glad her mind was only drifting toward exhibitionism and sarcasm, and not contemplating driving off cliffs, or playing chicken with a train. Then again, she wondered if she wasn’t just in the beginning stages of a natural progression. What “was” the proper procedure for one to follow when apparently going nuts? Plenty of books out there on how to avoid the process. Perhaps for those truly determined to walk the path, someone should write a how-to manual...“10 Steps to Going Crazy Naturally,” or... “The Art of Losing Your Mind - A Handbook for Breaking Down.”

         Finally, Shelby came down a row in time to be the first in line for an emptying space. She pulled the Jag in, shut off the engine, and found that her spot gave her a perfect view of the homeless man. She could now make out the advertising on his shirt - Crayons. For some reason, that suddenly made her achingly sad. His hair was long, oily, and curly, pulled loosely into a ponytail. His beard was of the Rip Van Winkle variety; extremely long, coming to a pointed end and so matted and thick that she found herself wondering what might be living in it.

         He turned at that moment and looked at her, making eye contact. She resisted her immediate urge to look away, and suddenly found herself smiling at him. He smiled back. Not in a creepy, unnerving way, but with kindness and soft eyes that seemed as out of place on him as his T-Shirt. Suddenly the sagging spirit she had noted previously seemed to have vanished, and in its stead she saw a fleeting glimpse of humor and life.

         The moment was brief; all too quickly the mold she was cast in closed around her once again...the Shelby that had tried to ooze out and make contact was shoved back in. Her smile dropped from her face, her eyes went for her purse and she quickly got out of the car, walking nervously towards the store.

         She got as far as the entrance before she was stopped by Madeline Blake. “Shelby darling, how ARE you and Martin? It’s been way too long since we’ve seen you two!” Talk about stereotype, Madeline was a walking definition of the word perfect; perfect as defined by Vogue magazine. Hair, nails, clothes, and an air of intense superiority were all polished and refined. It dawned on Shelby that Madeline could also be a walking definition of the word shallow. Without waiting for a reply to her query as to how she and Martin were, Madeline launched into a long babble of words that Shelby realized she not only didn’t care about, but which she suddenly felt was an enormous waste of time to stand and listen to. Something was oozing again. Only now the ooze seemed to be building pressure, and the walls of the mold began to show stress cracks.

         “Oh I’m sooooo sorry Madeline,” Shelby found herself saying, “it’s good to see you but I’m running late, and I just realized that I left my wallet in the car.” Before that could drag out into a long goodbye, Shelby waved and dashed back toward her car. She could feel Madeline burning holes into her backside with thoughts of how “rude”. She could also suddenly feel how little she cared.

         Deciding that she didn’t need anything she couldn’t live without in the store, she got back into the car and started the engine. As she put it in gear, her car phone rang. Answering it, she found her gaze moving back toward the homeless man, still sitting on the curb holding his sign, as her husbands’ voice filled the interior on the speaker phone, “Shelby hon,” her perfect Martin said, “mind picking something up for dinner? The Carltons’ just called and had to cancel our date at Chez Legume tonight.”

         A slow, deliberate smile etched its way across Shelby’s face as she backed out of the parking space, headed towards the homeless man and stopped, reaching over to open the passenger door. “Not at all darling”, she replied, “Not at all.”