Them

A few years ago, right after my first semester in college, I came home from work and felt sad for judging someone and then later realizing I was quite wrong about them. I used to write a lot to get out my feelings so I started typing and ended up with this little story. I found it yesterday rummaging through files on my computer - I'm glad I did because it was a needed reminder. I've never let anyone but Chase read it. I'm not a writer and I know this "story" is super corny, but I wanted to share it as part of our journal/blog so I don't forget.

Why? Why should I sit here while they all stare and taunt me? I can see it in their eyes; “This is going to be good,” they say. I just glare. They don’t notice. They don’t notice very much. All they really want is to see me fail. I know they are waiting for me to screw up, to act like a fool. I brace myself.

They see everything. They see the wealthy housewife with her Prada purse and oversized sunglasses. She seems to look down on even them. They see the mother of three working night shifts as a janitor. Her back looks like it will break if she bends down one more time. They feel bad for her. They see the twelve-year-old girl wandering off by herself, trying to lose her mother. They even see me.

But I don’t understand. They judge all these people they see. The wealthy housewife probably spends all of her money on worthless, worldly possessions. Her kids are spoiled with gifts and starving for love. She’s too worried about looking the part, she doesn’t even take off her sunglasses when she comes inside. The janitor. They feel bad for her, like I said. She’s probably illegal and can’t even speak English. They are glad they are not her. Poor thing should go back where she came from. And then the young girl. She keeps peeking around corners, hoping her mom won’t come by and bother her. She has a cell phone. At that age? Soon they will give them everything they want and they’ll never learn what it’s like not to have nice things.

What of me? Do they judge me too? Of course. Why shouldn’t they? But I can’t imagine what they would think. “The poor lady, she is stuck here all day, almost as much as us.” They must think I have a nice family to go home to. I don’t. They probably think it’s noble that I at least try to live a happy life. I’m a good person, really I am. They are the ones who judge everyone. They probably look at my clothes and think I’m old fashioned. But I choose to be that way; I don’t want to conform just because something may be the latest trend.

The wealthy lady comes up to me. I brush the hair out of my eyes. I try to sound sophisticated, like I don’t even care that she probably hasn’t worked a day in her life while I sit here 10 hours a day working my tail off. She doesn’t even smile when she speaks. Permanent frown lines mark her fake, plastic-surgery tightened face. “Ha!” I think to myself. “That’s what money does to you. Makes you unhappy.” I’m glad that I don’t even care about money; it’s not important for happiness. Even they seem to stare smugly at this lady, as if to rub in the fact that they are permanently and pleasantly plastered with grins of contentment. They can see it when they look at her. She has everything that money can offer and nothing that it can’t. She must have had terrible parents, to end up that way. I answer her question and she moves along somewhere else.

I glance at them. “Bravo,” they say. “Way to show her that you are way more put together than her without all the diamonds and sports cars.” That’s right. I am. There is that girl again. On that cell phone. Doesn’t she have homework? And where is her mother? What kind of parents just drop their kids off here on a school night? Irresponsible. This girl is going to end up just like the Prada lady. When I was her age I didn’t have a cell phone. In fact I don’t have one now. How unfair is that? I roll my eyes and she yet again pops her head up to scan for her mother. You’re just fine princess; mommy won’t catch you using up all of her minutes and spending those bills you hold in your hand.

The janitor is here early. Maybe to look around at all the things she wishes she could have but simply can’t afford. She walks slowly. A lot is on her mind. They wonder what worries could be running through her head.

Another customer. I help her. And now the Prada purse lady is back. She’s probably having trouble finding the women’s section. They seem to wear smirks as she approaches. She hands me a long sleeve shirt with a tag on it. She starts to fish through her purse for the credit cards. Her glasses slip off her face and fall on the ground. Janitor to the rescue. She bends down and picks up the glasses as she passes and hands them to her. Suddenly I notice a deep purple bruise over the woman’s eye that had been concealed by the glasses. For a brief moment as wealth meets poverty, the two ladies exchange a look. As if even though they are from two different worlds, for one moment they completely understand each other. The woman murmurs her thanks to the janitor.

Maybe they were wrong about these two women. Maybe.

I look at the Prada lady again. Only she’s not the Prada lady. Now she’s the beaten wife. I notice it now. The way she walks tenderly, with a small limp. The sunglasses and long sleeve shirt. They seem to realize it too. It’s not what it seems.

They point to the girl with their vacant eyes. No sign of the cell phone. Still holding the money in her hand. It’s almost closing. She better get whatever she came here to get. But she keeps scanning, searching. What for? They come up with many scenarios. Not likely the mother. A boyfriend maybe. One that she’s not supposed to see. Or maybe employees? She did have her eye on some shoes. Maybe… maybe. I keep watching to see if she tries to slip them into her purse.

An alarm. I look down at my watch. Time to leave at least. No sign of any more shoppers. The girl must have walked past me without me even noticing. I go to collect my things.

As I head for the exit, I see the janitor. She is sitting near the large sliding-glass doors with a bucket and mop. She’s crying. In her hands I see some bills. It reminds me of the young girl. She had some… I turn around and walk back to the register. I feel like I’ve forgotten something. Or I just feel confused. I see them. They look at me. They are taunting me again. What do they see in me? The answer comes without words. I know now. Look at this lady. She chooses to see what she wants to see. How could she know what those people were really like? She passes judgment on them. She ridiculed them in her mind. She cares about no one but herself. Maybe not even herself. That’s what they think. But they are wrong. Maybe they were right once, but not anymore. I walk up to them. The three manikins stand there, always in the same place, in the same clothes, with the same judging looks on their faces. I laugh to myself. They don’t move or make a sound. They are manikins after all. They see only on the surface. They don’t have the ability to see what is inside. But I do.

Slowly I walk back to the exit. She is still there, with silent tears streaming down her face. I stop in front of her and pull my wallet out of my bag. She looks up at me as I hand her some money. She says thank you in a voice shaking with emotion. “No… thank you,” I say, equally as grateful. As I turn to leave, I glance at them.

They are just a bunch of dummies.