Mall Minister by Maureen Sherbondy (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) My fellow ministers don’t understand the thrill of this assignment at the center of excess, where gluttons roam in herds, driven into debt and theft by advertisements and impulses. Eventually, people take a break from shopping and drop in, some with newly stolen goods in their pocketbooks or on their wrists. They need to clear the air of self-loathing, crimes, and doubts, and seem relieved to find me here, all ears and patience, in this rackless, hangerless sanctuary within the building buzzing with the chaos of Muzak and bright adrenaline-red clearance signs. They spill their guts, seek guidance, walk away smiling as if heavy shopping bags have been lifted. Buffered here between Cookie King and Tuxedo Trends, how sweet it is to see a prospective bride and groom walk in holding hands in rented tux and veil. For a paltry fee of three hundred dollars, I play the wedding background CD purchased at the music store. My assistant scatters rice, and the couple leaves joined as one, wearing golden bands selected an hour before at Jewelry Palace, three stores down. I throw in a just-married Polaroid photo for page one of their Hallmark newlywed album. Once, while shopping at Macy’s, a woman received news of her father’s death right there in the lingerie aisle, seeking solace she stumbled in, fell into a back pew and wept for hours. When she composed herself enough to leave, she told me she didn’t know what she’d have done without me. You have to go to the people, I always believed, and the people— the people are shopping at the mall evenings, weekdays, Sundays too, except on Christmas Day and Easter Sunday.
by Maureen Sherbondy (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) It’s not as easy as it appears standing here guard-like by the metal poles and velvet ropes for hours, nodding, asking for show tickets. Some lose the printed slips of paper, hold up the line; tactfully I ask them to step aside to search for proof-of-purchase. There’s an art to tearing that ticket apart into two equal stubs and quickly returning one half to the patron. After a popular movie premiere with big-name stars, my fingers cramp and hurt by night's end. Arthritis is beginning in my hands; two swollen fingers bend and fail to straighten. I can always tell which patrons smuggle in sweet treats, ignoring the decree posted on the sign. These rule breakers keep one hand inside their bulging pockets and fail to look me in the eye. What can I do? Pat them down as though it’s a felony? There’s no movie prison, only the door to throw them out. I just nod, wave them in, and always say Enjoy the show.
|
