A Hungry Day

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The minute I wake up I know it's a hungry day. A day when I am so hungry that I try to eat myself and when that doesn't help I try to eat a stranger on the street corner. Sometimes I'll just walk into people's houses and take a bite out of their ankle. It's not enough. Still hungry — in this case — for pretty things that I can take home and tuck inside my drawers and closets. Things that belong to me and no one can take away from me, ever.

Luckily, I live in America, where taking things home in bags and boxes is encouraged and rewarded with the ooohss and ahhhs of friends when they notice that I have pretty things. It can be as simple as a hand painted soap dish, as indulgent as fresh fruit out of season. But I do not want pretty things to impress others. The thrill comes the moment I get home and close the door and take the pretty things out of the bag or box and look at them, hold them. So many wonderful, pretty things.

At Christmas time Dan mentioned that we had to start being more careful with the debit card. "One hundred dollar limit."

The next day, on the way to Toys-R-Us, I swung by the ATM machine and tried to take out $200. The machine gave me $100. I spent fifty dollars at Toys-R-Us, for Julia, and another ten dollars for a bottle of brandy — a present for Dan that I could use.

The next day I took Julia shopping. She wanted to buy presents for us. She put her allowance money in her Barbie purse and we headed to the mall.

I found the sale racks and looked at the price tags. Jeans were $39.95, underwear, $6.99. I turned to leave. My throat filled with bitter, stinging saliva as I walked past the aisles of clothes into the household goods section. Stacks of beautiful pottery, a pile of plush double plied towels, Egyptian sheets. I grabbed Julia's hand and headed for the exit. I saw cashmere sweaters hanging on the wall. They were displayed to resemble the colors of a sunset. I went to the dressing room and tried on a sweater. I looked in the mirror. The wool was warm and soft and the color of my eyes. I held Julia against me, against the cashmere.

So, this is the way people were supposed to feel. This is why I saw other people smiling, so comfortable with themselves and the world. Two sweaters went into my bag when Julia wasn't looking. I wrapped a pair of cashmere leggings and a cashmere scarf around my waist, inside my coat and walked out of the dressing room.

The store smelled like apples, spice and snow. Shoppers were humming along with the Christmas music as they piled their carts full of perfumes, leather goods, silks, satins, belts and hats. A woman held up a Christmas ornament for her husband and child. It glowed under the fluorescent lights like the North Star. I put Julia in the child's seat of the cart with a stuffed reindeer and joined the shoppers.

I spotted a rack of colorful corsets in 18th century design. They belonged in a museum, lined with silk, velvet and gold ribbons, interwoven tapestries. I could not decide which one was most beautiful. They went under my coat, under my armpits. I kept my arms tight to my sides as I lifted Julia out of the cart. I had lost my breath. I held her close to my chest until she struggled for release.

As the speaker played "Come All Ye Faithful," I started towards the nearest exit. A hand grabbed my arm. It was a gruff looking man, a store detective, with a heavy set of keys rattling on his belt buckle. "This way, please," he said lazily.

Julia was silent, sensing a problem. We were brought through a door into an ugly, stained room with a desk. "I'll take the kid in the other room," said the woman at the desk. "Come on, Honey." Julia's face was white; she looked to me for comfort. "It's fine, Julia, mommy just has to fill out some forms." Julia reluctantly went out the door with the woman.

"Using your kid as a decoy, eh? That's pretty sick," said the detective. "Hope you're ready to go to jail."

The detective dumped my purse contents on the desk; the woman took off my coat. As though completing a mundane inventory list, the detective called out the names and prices of the items in my pockets and bag.

"One bottle, Chanel No. 5, $49.95. Two pair lace Calvin Klein underwear, size medium, $14.00 a piece."

"One, two, three... five corsets. One blue, one print?"

"I can't go to jail now, my daughter..."

"You should have thought of that earlier, lady."

The police arrived. One of the policemen picked up the bottle of Chanel. "Good taste," he joked.

"Please. My daughter." And I cried. I shook with grief and fell down on my knees in front of the policeman. "Please, let me take my daughter home, please let me."

One of the policemen, chewing gum: "This your first offense? Tell me the truth, we can check on it."

"Yes," I said. "God, yes." And I thought of God for a moment, wishing I believed. "Give her a court date," said the policeman to the woman with the clipboard.

They left as quickly as they had arrived, bored with the pettiness of my crime. They tipped their hats to me with respect. They seemed sad for me, that I was caught.