Iberia

Fiction by Colin McGowan

They had chosen this place because it was nowhere but as I studied the nearly tenantless mall, the chipped gray parking lot mirrored by late December sky, it occurred to me I'd rather be doing business at midfield during the Super Bowl. There were two dozen other cars parked nearby, mostly older model Ford and Toyota sedans, two-toned with streaks of road salt, interiors embellished with flaming and geometric seat covers, dashboard bobbleheads, sun visors scaled with CDs. As I rose from the back bumper of Cory's Ford, I discovered that my knees had no spring in them. It was like I had walked to Potsdam. Or maybe this was technically Massena?

An hour-and-a-half early and sick of the car, I cruised the mall, a ruined civilization in miniature with walls of metal shutters interrupted occasionally by the lit signage of an open store. Poor sleep and what I'd burned driving up Route 81 produced ghost attendants at eyewear and jewelry kiosks. Outdated directories indicated bathrooms that were in fact bricked up hallways and utility closets. Overhead, flocks of pigeons cooed and fluttered among the struts.

Exiting an FYE with a bargain bin DVD of Heathers, I encountered the food court, a vast plain of beige tile dtted with green and brown puddles of plastic that turned out to be deflated palm trees. Its two dining options: Taco Bell and Auntie Anne's.

The girl at the counter, short and gothish, her eyes blue headlights set in a deep liquid black, stuffed a cinnamon-sugar pretzel into a sleeve and said, “$4.27.” Lil Wayne bleated from a phone on the shelf behind her head.

“Must be fucking spooky, working here.”

“It's boring,” she said, bright eyes disappearing into her skull.

“Is this Potsdam or Massena?”

“Madrid.”

“The Spanish capital,” gesturing with a broken-off piece of pretzel.

“There's a Lisbon a couple towns over.”

“That eases my sense of dislocation.”

“I have a boyfriend.”