Solo Trip

I remember the first time I went to Woolworth’s by myself. Like all genuine art, Woolworth’s belongs to a specific time. The smell of the oiled floors, the odor of fabrics, cheap tonics, popcorn, and fatigue. The old store, given a voice, would have sung the blues–or moaned. And there were men and women who appeared to have been sleeping, but were now moving again and some of them were simply there because it was an alternative and some of the men were veterans of the first world war and some of them had shell shock. And there was a wall of birds, little tokens of utopian dreams that no one ever bought. I always wanted to unlock the birds but there was a florid woman in charge of that department and rumor had it she’d had a lobotomy and all I knew as an eight year old was this meant there was something terrifying about her brain.  One had to keep away from her or something sinister would happen. But the five and dime could bring us good cheer with its heart shaped sunglasses, its concave mannequins, its bake light radio playing Connie Francis. Up and down the aisles I went with my calculations and visions of riches. 

Author: stevekuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by stevekuusisto