Today there are four men directing traffic in and out of the dirt roads and parking lot of the Trails End Market just outside of town.
I have never seen this happen before, but Jean assures me this happens upon occasion. I nod back as she tells me. Jean knows these things.
Jim is driving and irritable at the traffic. He does not want to walk for hours just to get to the market.
"Jim, we always pull around back where no one seems to know they can park, anyway. Quit your moaning," Jean says to him and Jim shuts up.
But grins at her when he sees another person pulling out of a spot. "I think today we are going to park up front."
Jean rolls her eyes and Jim nods his shit-eating grin head at her.
Trails End is fabulous. And cheap. It is a large wooden building with two floors. There are large walkways, with vendors on each side of you. The walkways are usually packed and the vendors yell.
"Strawberries! Strawberries! 2 for $5! Come on people! It's deal."
"Sweet corn here!!"
"Best asparagus in town to be found!!!"
My son loves Trails End. He loves to look at all the food, picking out his wish list for the week. There are live animals there. My son pretends he does not know they are there for the purpose of 'real' fresh food. He always picks one animal to spend sometime with.
There is also a huge furniture section. In this section, they have a smaller section filled with paintings and pictures. There are some real gaudy light-up pictures that make sounds like waterfalls or the forest. My son loves them.
I got to tell you. I am not looking forward to visiting my son's first apartment someday.
There is also a little Vietnamese stand that sells spring rolls. And there are a few fabulous chip wagons to choose from. My son likes the spring rolls better.
He is cute to watch at Trails End. We always go with Jean. My son loves Jean. He holds on to the straps of her black purse as we all walk along.
It is a ritual.
And sometimes it is a real nice break for me. Jean lets me lag behind for as long as I want. I will watch my son. Happy to talk to Jean. Or happy to watch everything around him. Then I will look at other things I want to.
Sometimes when we are at Trails End, Jean will not buy mushrooms. This upsets part of the ritual. My son will get mad at her, even though I could not pay him enough to eat a mushroom. At least, not with his knowledge.
Today, Jim and I were lagging behind at the same thing.
"Let's go," Jean says to my son. "Those two are bozos."
He laughs. Jim and I laugh at him.
"Bye, Mom," my son tosses over his shoulder, his hand already wrapped in purse strings. They are heading over to two large doors, further down the walkway.
Jim spots a friend he knows. We make our way over to him, but it is a task. There is more people here then I have ever seen.
You know the kind of crowd. You know other people want to elbow you. You want to elbow some of them back. You watch the people plaster-smiling anyway, through clenched teeth.
I am polite to Jim's friend, but I beg off quick.
I am a girl.
I am here to shop.
There is a path taken at Trails End, so I go off in search of Jean and my son. I head over towards the two large doors.
I start at the meat and work my way pass the mushrooms into the Vachon area and think about buying some. I decide to wait until I catch up with Jean and the kid. He likes to pick out something from there.
I walk pass the baked goods and the pizza. I walk pass the book guy and the quiche guy. I walk pass herbal remedies and notice there is a new man set up in one corner. He has CD's and he is playing the guitar. I stop to listen to him for awhile. I try to appreciate the music my ears are not. I walk pass the fish guy, the calendar and t-shirt guy into the furniture section. pass the carpet section and into the live animal section.
I stop for awhile in the antique garage sale section.
I notice the prices of all the fruits and vegetables as I walk along so I can tell Jean later.
Jean really is a shopping guru. I hardly ever have anything to bring to the plate.
I hear Jean's voice call me while I am looking at the price of apples. I turn and smile.
But there is a look in her eyes.
"You do not have him," her hand comes out.
"What?" I say. Then I look. My son is not with her.
"He is not with Jim?" I ask. I hope.
"No," she says.
"What?" I say.
She looks at me.
"What?" I say, again, louder. "What?"
"When you and Jim walked by us, he saw you and went running towards you...I just thought..."
"What?" I felt panic wash into me, ice cold, burning my arms. "That was 20 minutes ago..."
"I know," says Jean.
I stand there. I look around me at the hundreds of heads I can see, the hundreds of faces and legs. I cannot hear anything and I feel hysteria pulling at me. I feel it trying to drag me in. And I do not know if I want it or not.
Jean's hands are on my shoulders.
"Beth. It is going to be okay," she says, so firm. "You go back this way until you find Jim, I am going this way."
She goes and I stand there nodding.
I turn on my heel and look around. But he is not there like I want him to be. I yell his name. I do not look at people's faces when I do, I am looking lower as I place one foot, one foot, one fucking foot after another down on the dirt path.
I yell his name again and I can feel the hysteria creeping back.
Where is my child.
Who has my child.
My child.
I decide to stop yelling his name. Someone might have him. They might be moving faster because they hear me.
I do not trust my own eyes. I stop to look over what I already have. I do not know if my brain is registering what I am seeing. I feel blind, my mind is racing with too many thoughts, too many sights. And the sights in my mind, too.
None of them are good.
I see Jim.
"Jim, I do not have him."
"Let's go," he says and he moves forward. He moves fast, graceful, with purpose. Jim walks taller than any man I have ever seen. He parts the way for us and does not stumble once along the way amid the packed walkways. I just follow him.
Because I am still blind.
"We have to call the police," I do not even know my own voice.
"No. Wait." he says. He just keeps moving forward.
"He could already be dead," I choke.
I stop moving.
Jim keeps going.
I am totally blind.
But it is so loud.
"Tomatos! A dollar for 4!"
"We got cherries! We got corn! We got peaches!"
My arms are alive with fire, tearing through them down into my stomach. It wants to consume me. I have been holding back letting it.
The murmurs of hundreds rage in my ears, playing warfare, trying to take over my thoughts.
I suddenly know.
I know what it feels like, sitting alive and full and twisting in my bones.
I know what it feels like to want to die.
My child is gone.
I want die.
And that scares me enough.
"You! YOU!" I turn and point at a vendor. I am loud and people stop. I look at her first.
She looks shocked in her blue shirt.
"My son is missing. He is 6."
She starts nodding.
I look to my left. I look at the people.
"He is wearing a red Scooby Doo shirt and blue jean shorts."
I look back at the woman.
"The office. She needs the office," she looks at her son. And he nods, heading towards me.
"He is also," I continue looking over to my other side."...Right there."
And there they are. Jean and my little boy coming towards me.
And I run.
I am holding my son when a gray haired lady walks up and pats my son's head.
"Thank God," she says.
She looks me in the eyes and she means it.
"Thank you," I say.
She nods and walks away.
People smile as we move ourselves out of the middle of the walkway.
"Mom, I wasn't lost," he says, looking at me, kneeling in front of him. "I was looking at the food."
"Weren't you scared?" I ask him.
"No," he says. "Only for a minute and I looked around and then I saw Aunt Jean."
"Oh," I say to him. "I was scared."
"I wasn't," he replies. "I saw some strawberries I want, though."
I stand up and look down at him. I am so proud of him. I admire him. I love him. He was all alone for the first time.
With hundreds of other people.
For half an hour.
"Let's do our shopping now," Jean says and I nod.
"This way," my son points down over to the sets of doors, tugging at Jean's purse strings slightly, marching his skinny little legs forward.
We always start at the meat counter.
It is a ritual.
I have never seen this happen before, but Jean assures me this happens upon occasion. I nod back as she tells me. Jean knows these things.
Jim is driving and irritable at the traffic. He does not want to walk for hours just to get to the market.
"Jim, we always pull around back where no one seems to know they can park, anyway. Quit your moaning," Jean says to him and Jim shuts up.
But grins at her when he sees another person pulling out of a spot. "I think today we are going to park up front."
Jean rolls her eyes and Jim nods his shit-eating grin head at her.
Trails End is fabulous. And cheap. It is a large wooden building with two floors. There are large walkways, with vendors on each side of you. The walkways are usually packed and the vendors yell.
"Strawberries! Strawberries! 2 for $5! Come on people! It's deal."
"Sweet corn here!!"
"Best asparagus in town to be found!!!"
My son loves Trails End. He loves to look at all the food, picking out his wish list for the week. There are live animals there. My son pretends he does not know they are there for the purpose of 'real' fresh food. He always picks one animal to spend sometime with.
There is also a huge furniture section. In this section, they have a smaller section filled with paintings and pictures. There are some real gaudy light-up pictures that make sounds like waterfalls or the forest. My son loves them.
I got to tell you. I am not looking forward to visiting my son's first apartment someday.
There is also a little Vietnamese stand that sells spring rolls. And there are a few fabulous chip wagons to choose from. My son likes the spring rolls better.
He is cute to watch at Trails End. We always go with Jean. My son loves Jean. He holds on to the straps of her black purse as we all walk along.
It is a ritual.
And sometimes it is a real nice break for me. Jean lets me lag behind for as long as I want. I will watch my son. Happy to talk to Jean. Or happy to watch everything around him. Then I will look at other things I want to.
Sometimes when we are at Trails End, Jean will not buy mushrooms. This upsets part of the ritual. My son will get mad at her, even though I could not pay him enough to eat a mushroom. At least, not with his knowledge.
Today, Jim and I were lagging behind at the same thing.
"Let's go," Jean says to my son. "Those two are bozos."
He laughs. Jim and I laugh at him.
"Bye, Mom," my son tosses over his shoulder, his hand already wrapped in purse strings. They are heading over to two large doors, further down the walkway.
Jim spots a friend he knows. We make our way over to him, but it is a task. There is more people here then I have ever seen.
You know the kind of crowd. You know other people want to elbow you. You want to elbow some of them back. You watch the people plaster-smiling anyway, through clenched teeth.
I am polite to Jim's friend, but I beg off quick.
I am a girl.
I am here to shop.
There is a path taken at Trails End, so I go off in search of Jean and my son. I head over towards the two large doors.
I start at the meat and work my way pass the mushrooms into the Vachon area and think about buying some. I decide to wait until I catch up with Jean and the kid. He likes to pick out something from there.
I walk pass the baked goods and the pizza. I walk pass the book guy and the quiche guy. I walk pass herbal remedies and notice there is a new man set up in one corner. He has CD's and he is playing the guitar. I stop to listen to him for awhile. I try to appreciate the music my ears are not. I walk pass the fish guy, the calendar and t-shirt guy into the furniture section. pass the carpet section and into the live animal section.
I stop for awhile in the antique garage sale section.
I notice the prices of all the fruits and vegetables as I walk along so I can tell Jean later.
Jean really is a shopping guru. I hardly ever have anything to bring to the plate.
I hear Jean's voice call me while I am looking at the price of apples. I turn and smile.
But there is a look in her eyes.
"You do not have him," her hand comes out.
"What?" I say. Then I look. My son is not with her.
"He is not with Jim?" I ask. I hope.
"No," she says.
"What?" I say.
She looks at me.
"What?" I say, again, louder. "What?"
"When you and Jim walked by us, he saw you and went running towards you...I just thought..."
"What?" I felt panic wash into me, ice cold, burning my arms. "That was 20 minutes ago..."
"I know," says Jean.
I stand there. I look around me at the hundreds of heads I can see, the hundreds of faces and legs. I cannot hear anything and I feel hysteria pulling at me. I feel it trying to drag me in. And I do not know if I want it or not.
Jean's hands are on my shoulders.
"Beth. It is going to be okay," she says, so firm. "You go back this way until you find Jim, I am going this way."
She goes and I stand there nodding.
I turn on my heel and look around. But he is not there like I want him to be. I yell his name. I do not look at people's faces when I do, I am looking lower as I place one foot, one foot, one fucking foot after another down on the dirt path.
I yell his name again and I can feel the hysteria creeping back.
Where is my child.
Who has my child.
My child.
I decide to stop yelling his name. Someone might have him. They might be moving faster because they hear me.
I do not trust my own eyes. I stop to look over what I already have. I do not know if my brain is registering what I am seeing. I feel blind, my mind is racing with too many thoughts, too many sights. And the sights in my mind, too.
None of them are good.
I see Jim.
"Jim, I do not have him."
"Let's go," he says and he moves forward. He moves fast, graceful, with purpose. Jim walks taller than any man I have ever seen. He parts the way for us and does not stumble once along the way amid the packed walkways. I just follow him.
Because I am still blind.
"We have to call the police," I do not even know my own voice.
"No. Wait." he says. He just keeps moving forward.
"He could already be dead," I choke.
I stop moving.
Jim keeps going.
I am totally blind.
But it is so loud.
"Tomatos! A dollar for 4!"
"We got cherries! We got corn! We got peaches!"
My arms are alive with fire, tearing through them down into my stomach. It wants to consume me. I have been holding back letting it.
The murmurs of hundreds rage in my ears, playing warfare, trying to take over my thoughts.
I suddenly know.
I know what it feels like, sitting alive and full and twisting in my bones.
I know what it feels like to want to die.
My child is gone.
I want die.
And that scares me enough.
"You! YOU!" I turn and point at a vendor. I am loud and people stop. I look at her first.
She looks shocked in her blue shirt.
"My son is missing. He is 6."
She starts nodding.
I look to my left. I look at the people.
"He is wearing a red Scooby Doo shirt and blue jean shorts."
I look back at the woman.
"The office. She needs the office," she looks at her son. And he nods, heading towards me.
"He is also," I continue looking over to my other side."...Right there."
And there they are. Jean and my little boy coming towards me.
And I run.
I am holding my son when a gray haired lady walks up and pats my son's head.
"Thank God," she says.
She looks me in the eyes and she means it.
"Thank you," I say.
She nods and walks away.
People smile as we move ourselves out of the middle of the walkway.
"Mom, I wasn't lost," he says, looking at me, kneeling in front of him. "I was looking at the food."
"Weren't you scared?" I ask him.
"No," he says. "Only for a minute and I looked around and then I saw Aunt Jean."
"Oh," I say to him. "I was scared."
"I wasn't," he replies. "I saw some strawberries I want, though."
I stand up and look down at him. I am so proud of him. I admire him. I love him. He was all alone for the first time.
With hundreds of other people.
For half an hour.
"Let's do our shopping now," Jean says and I nod.
"This way," my son points down over to the sets of doors, tugging at Jean's purse strings slightly, marching his skinny little legs forward.
We always start at the meat counter.
It is a ritual.
Comments
I also like strawberries :)