The odor of cheap perfume invades my breathing space. It clings to me. I consider moving to another booth and calculate the trouble. I measure it against the smothering stench thinking, Why should I have to move?
The smell reminds me of a decaying cocktail lounge where the smoke from a million cigarettes has bonded with stale liquor to foul the air, the exhaust of hard living.
All over the city, abandoned vehicles perch half-on, half-off the road, waiting to be towed. Hurricane-force gusts whip up loose snow and send it skidding into lampposts and doorways.
Through the blizzard, McDonald’s stays open. I come here every night after the library closes. I discover the regulars and wonder what circumstances have forced them to come out on the least hospitable night of the year. I’m here because I have no furniture. Except for a solitary folding chair and the air mattress I’ve been sleeping on that sprang a leak last night, the apartment is empty.
The elderly lady that takes each step as if it is her last, dodders in. She still drives. I hope she lives close by, her reflexes are weak but her mind, nimble. She holds court with the regulars. I can’t hear the conversations, but from her body language, I learn she is feisty.
After several visits, I notice she is curious about me. Oh, there she is again, I imagine her thinking as she watches me at the counter, ordering coffee or a hot fudge sundae. I make no attempt to befriend her. Sometimes it’s more fun to create your own story about people than to get to know them and learn there is nothing special about them, after all.
The elderly lady lives alone. Talking to her cat doesn’t satisfy her. So, she comes to McDonald’s for coffee and conversation.
Or this could be true:
She comes here to escape her elderly mate who roosts at the dining room table from dawn till dusk, ignoring her. He’s a button collector. An odd hobby but one of the few he can afford as a retired letter carrier. He gets to sit down all day now, very appealing to a former mailman that has trekked the equivalent of four round trips from L.A. to New York City.
I have to move. I unplug my laptop, gather my things, and find an empty booth in the back. Perfume Lady moves as well. She chooses a table next to the soft round bearded man who is teaching himself to play chess. He has a miniature set and a book on the table in front of him. I’ve seen him before and spoken to him, but no more than a brief greeting. He is meek. I’d be surprised if he has ever in his life formulated a strong opinion.
I’m as far away as I can be from Perfume Lady, but the stink still hangs in the air. Her voice is as loud as her fragrance. She prattles away and I pick up a sentence here and there. “When you’re young, ya think you’re gonna live forever, so ya don’t worry about it.” Occasionally the nebbish nods. Mostly, he thumbs through his How to Play Chess book. It’s hard to tell if he’s enjoying her soliloquy or just too timid to fully withdraw his attention and concentrate on the chess pieces in front of him.
I check my phone. New voice mail. It’s from the movers. The storm is passing. Snowplows are working overtime and my furniture will arrive tomorrow in the PM. At last, I can sleep in my own bed and after the library closes, my familiar belongings will be waiting for me.
It’s getting late. People spring to their feet as the maven makes a move for her cane. She commands respect. Her sentences are delivered with force. If she does have a button collecting spouse at home who ignores her, this might be true:
He was employed by the Postal Service for twenty-seven years and is done being ordered about.
Once she reaches the exit, she waves help away. People obey even though it’s obvious the heavy door on her sedan will create a challenge. I suspect she has led a life filled with challenges. Old age is mild compared to what she’s been through.
I glance over at Perfume Lady going on and on. She is neither young nor old; her hair is a weary blonde shade, her expression neutral. I decide the industrial-strength perfume is for protection. We all have walls we hide behind.
It’s a short walk to my apartment up the hill. I don’t worry about muggers. The sidewalk is pure ice. A robbery at this point would end in a slip-sliding Buster Keaton one-reeler. I walk slowly, carefully choosing where to place my feet. The telltale zigzag pattern of an athletic shoe is frozen into the iced-over snow. I try placing my feet into each footprint, but the stride is wider than mine.
My furniture will be here tomorrow. How soothing, those words.
Before turning the corner, I glance down at the famous golden arches below. The giant M, a yellow beacon, lights the way for the people of the night.
I think about those strangers who sought companionship in the middle of a blizzard. I’ll never see them again. I only went to McDonald’s at this hour because I didn’t have anywhere else to go. Maybe that is their story, too.
