Inside Out

Inside, bronze-skinned men crouch above a waist high stack of Oriental rugs. This is the set-up: Two workers on each side and the Manager at the helm, a respectable length away from an old money, Chicago couple sleeked out in names like Armani, Rolex, Cartier, and Vuitton.

The Manager was trying to keep up. He is a fat man shined-up nicely in vested tweed. His eyes disappear behind last year’s Gucci specs. He spent his holiday bonus on them. He had gotten hell from his live-in girlfriend; but the Manager explained the glasses were an investment. He had to keep up to get respect and had to have respect to make the sale.

The misses was clucking her tongue in disapproval over the rug.

“Now, Richard, it rings a trifle overdone. What a bore. The agate buttressing the burgundy. What will the Reisendorf’s think of this?” She arched her brow in a check mark and sighed heftily, “We can’t possibly, dear boy.”

“Whatever, darling.” The gentleman, his arms crossed, nodded his head at the nodding Manager, whose arms were crossed. The Manager waved at the workers. They hoisted rug after rug, folding over each other. Price tags flashed: $ 18,000.00, $ 17,250.00, $ 19,200.00.

Outside, dead winter. The kind of stuff that kills folks. The mother and her son retract bare, stiff hands into the sleeves of their coats. The son is playfully kicking at the pigeons and smiling. He didn’t smile much. The mother’s mouth opens as shoppers pass. Words don’t seem to come out. Only the air from her lungs, steaming against the cold. She is still alive.

Inside, a woman is sipping on a $5.00 espresso and watching the mother and son on the other side of the storefront glass. Interrupting the afternoon, the rugs flipping in a subtle, rhythmically mammoth “Whap! Whap! Whap!” Then a voice of disapproval. This was the background song coming from Macy’s rug department.

It is 2 below 0 with the wind chill today.

The woman orders a venti hot chocolate. The barista takes too long. The mother begins to walk away. The barista is still taking too long. The mother is gone.

The woman grabs the hot chocolate and darts down Wabash Street after spotting the pair through the crowd two blocks down.

The mother, her face full of tears, her voice cracks against the cold when the woman hands her the chocolate and money.

“I thought you might be cold. I thought this would help.” The woman says.

The mother begins to cry, “This is Brandon, my oldest son.” The woman shakes Brandon’s hand. “We lost everything in a fire. I have four kids and we don’t know what to do.”

The woman can’t construct the right combination of words. She asks Brandon how he is. Brandon smiles and says he is fine. She tells him it will be okay. She doesn’t know if it will be okay. But, she tells him it will be. Who are we without hope.

The mother cries and holds the woman’s hand, “Pray for us. Thank you.”

“I will pray for you,” She says.

And inside, the couple buys the $ 18,000.00 oriental rug. Azure and gold.