Hazel’s Compulsion
Perhaps the Las Vegas Airport was not the best place to pick a fight.
Simon and Ethel sat on the fused molded chairs at gate C4. Simon wondered if they are molded so no one steals them. Ethel digs into her bag like Mary Poppins.
“What type of food are you in the mood for?” he asked.
“Well, we have the usual choices: sushi, fried chicken sandwiches with pickles, sandwiches with egg on them or burgers that are thin and meager. They have pickles too.” she said.
“Usually, money is an issue for you, so I’ll let you decide.”
Silence hung like a moldy shower curtain between them. The noise of casual conversation, terse directions, and fighting with carry-on luggage increased as the seats fill up. She looked at the seat next to her occupied by her carry on. She was hoping no one asked her to move it.
She applied red lipstick from a gold tube. She paid close attention to the case mirror.
“I don’t want anything.”
This was the third trip they had taken in as many months.
*****
I watch the body language of the people sitting in front of me. The background noise at C4 is loud and the garbled announcements do not help. There is nothing like watching a woman put on her lipstick. People don’t do it the way they used to. I wonder the name of the color. Airport Red would be perfect. If that isn’t a color name I am going to write someone a letter and suggest it.
I Google lipstick names: Dragon Girl, Devil, Red Rival, and Fire and Ice are my favorites. I order three tubes to be shipped to my apartment.
The man has come back with some sort of breakfast sandwich which lipstick lady clearly doesn’t approve of. In honor of her frustration, I will make pancakes when I arrive at my destination no matter what time it is. Breakfast has no time differentiation. I feel she would have been happier with pancakes as a food option.
The smell of the syrup container lifts off him and I think it is the most amazing smell in the world. I Google maple syrup scent perfume which I find and order that too. I love coming home to boxes in front of my door.
Time to board.
As I settle into my seat I lay out my collection on the tray table. Gold tube of lipstick and the paper trail of where I have been today. I save all the evidence.
***
It started at Diablos. We ordered Vixen Margaritas by the pitcher but the chips and guac came before the drinks. The waitress put down cork coasters with the logo printed on them. Before the afternoon is over, I know I will steal them. I have an obsession with throwaway souvenirs. The receipts, the pamphlets, etc are a collage at the end of an experience.
The utensils are daggers and pitchforks; no spoons. I make a point of stabbing my spicy carne asada tacos with the pitchfork and make a growl every time. I amuse myself. It does not amuse my companions when I steal burrito pieces and potatoes off their nondescript plates.
The massive battered wood doors look like they belong on a castle, not a restaurant. The stick people who label the bathroom have horns and forked tails. I will carry this image with me.
Three floors hold a basement bar, a floor for table seating, and a lighted roof with standing tables and music.
We climb to the roof to polish off another pitcher of blood red drink poured into salted cold tumblers. It never seems too warm, even in the sun.
Time is only measured in pitchers on the roof but do not correspond with the minutes.
***
No one knew Hazel’s secret structure of thinking her life was a series of various stops of different museums and points of interest. She looked outside for her perceptions. She always felt like she was auditioning for a reality show that only happened in her mind.
Some of the museums weren’t real in the brick and mortar sense but she had maps, drawings, displays and inventories of items she had collected. They all went into boxes that were the same size and shape. It was a large card catalog that quickly took over the apartment.
Her childhood displays had been shrinking lately by her own hand. There were certain things she kept because she liked the tactlessness of them but others she just wanted the visuals. It made sense to her to just take a digital picture and then discard the actual item. Burnings were her favorite way to dispose of rubbish.
Hazel pulled a box from its holder and lifted out a piece of broken glass that had a dark outer ring and a swirl of three blues in the middle. This she had gotten while she was walking in the trails of Hell, Michigan. She liked telling people that she had been to Hell before. The airline ticket stub was in the box as well as the receipts from the three restaurants she had been when she was there. The food she had was documented on index cards by meal: the drink first, then the appetizer or salad, and then the main dish. She always listed the ingredients she remembered and then she could recreate the dishes at home.
She had never attempted to cook any of the dishes she had eaten out. But they were there for her when she was ready. All her boxes were ready for her to revisit whenever she desired. One day she would be on a plane to her reality show and she would be somebody. She was ready now, they just didn’t know it.
Flight of the dragonfly 