Lost

This morning a little boy, about 6 years old, came up to me at the desk and timidly told me that he couldn't find his dad. His eyes were all big, and his lip was all trembley, and I could tell that he was on the verge of totally losing it. He was in a total panic, and I could see in his eyes that he was trying his hardest, his best, to be brave. People, my keyboard confessional for today is simply this: this kind of shit KILLS me. I can't take it, honestly. It's so friggin' saaaaad. This is one of my major problems in life- my empathy goes amok. I am the type of person that sees an elderly person running after the bus and missing it, and I think about it all day. I can see a dog that is waiting outside a store for its owner, and the doggy-cries can make me mist up. People don't really know this about me, as I am a lass full of mirth and cheer. But seriously, Deanna Troi can feel other people's feelings, and so can I. I pulled it together and put the lost kid at ease, walked him around the library, gave him a sticker, and found his papa, but whoa. Now I really need a shot of V-8 or something.

I remember what it feels like to be that little kid. My parents were awesome, loving, and attentive, but losing a kid here and there is bound to happen to anyone. One time, when I was about five years old, I got lost in the mall. My brother and his friend Robert wanted to go look at gerbils in the pet section of Woolworth's, and my mom had to go to the department store at the other end of the mall. In typical tag-along fashion, I wanted to stay with the boys. So she left me with them, with strict orders for them to keep their eye out for me. That lasted for about a half hour, but the gerbil fascination was just too much for them to watch me AND Alvin, Simon and Theodore (yeah yeah I know they were chipmunks, not gerbils, but just let me get on with the story, ok?), so I wandered off into Woolworth's and couldn't find my way back to where they were. Thus began the first Odyssean journey of my young life.

I remembered my mom saying that she was going to be in Hudson's, and I knew that Hudson's was all the way on the other side of the mall from where I was. So I started walking. People, I walked the length of that mall all by myself. At FIVE YEARS OLD. Does this strike anyone else as strange that no kindly adult saw this little trekker and tried to help? What the shit is that all about? I walked the length of a large mall. I mean, it's no Rabbit Proof Fence or anything, but sheesh.

So once I arrived at Hudson's, I had no idea where my mom would be. So I decided I needed to think about what to do next. This memory is so crystal clear, people. From beginning to end, I remember everything. My thought process, what I did, where. In my mind this journey takes days, although I'm sure it was about an hour or two, tops. At this point, I was moving beyond scared, into one heartbeat away from a full on bug out. I needed to regroup. Where did I go to do some thinking? I went into the women's clothing section, and found a nice, big circular clothing rack. I pushed aside the clothes, climbed through them, and sat cross-legged in the middle of the circle. I was perfectly hidden in there, amongst the skirts and shirts. I sat there, and tried to figure out what to do. I knew I should try and find some sort of authority figure, but I hadn't seen anyone obviously dressed in a policeman outfit, or such like. So, who could I ask? What should I do? As I thought, I absently started pulling the paper tags off of the clothes, and throwing them out of my little circle of safety. This, as you can imagine, attracted some attention. Suddenly, my dark and cozy lair was invaded by a shaft of light from above. I looked up. A wrinkled old woman's face peered down at me through the parted hangers. "Oh my!" she said. "How ya doin' punkin?" That's really what she said. How ya doin' punkin. Lemme tell ya, lady, punkin ain't doing so hot. Punkin is having the worst day of her god damn life.

This lady went and got a saleswoman, who came over and coaxed me out of my office. She led me over to one of the counters, and asked me my mom's name so she could page it throughout the store. I remember my mood brightening at this. Oh-KAY, now we are getting somewhere! Things are happening, moving, shaking! We waited a few minutes, but nothing happened. This saleswoman beckoned to another saleswoman, and told her to walk me around the store and see if I could spot my mom.

This woman picked me up and started walking me around the store. She was grumpy and exasperated by this task, and her negative energy, like, really started to harsh my mellow, dude. THIS is the point where I started to cry. I'd HAD it. Wit's end. I started to cry this silent cry, tears rolling down my face, and I started to ask her, over and over, "where's my mom? where's my mom?" Now, I know that this probably annoyed her. She was probably already tired after a long day at work, and now she had a blubbery, soggy-faced kid to deal with. But do you know what this lady said to me? I'm sure you won't be ready for this one, not in a million years. Brace yourself. This fuggin' lady said to me, a five year old kid lost in the mall who was asking "where's mom? where's mom?".... "Maybe she went back to AFRICA, because she SHOULD."

Let's pause here for a second. Just ruminate on that for a moment, if you would.

Ok, so in my young mind, I didn't know what the heck this nutter was talking about. I knew what Africa was, and I knew that my mom had never been there, and had no plans to go. This did nothing but confuse me. Why should my mom go to Africa? Africa??? All I could think was this lady was completely loco.

It was at this moment, my mom spotted us. I still remember her look of confusion, and her arms outstretched to take me back. I did not tell her about what the crazy white lady had said to me. I was just happy to have found my mom again, and too excited to get my brother in some mammoth trouble.

My vivid memory gets me many things in life, not the least of which is the ability to transport myself back to some situation that is similar to the ones that I see around me all day, every day. I know the panic in that young boy's face, and in some ways I make it my own. It's my own version of looking at the world and always wanting to ask: how ya doin' punkin? How ya doin'?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl