All Write, Already!

There's a minivan out in the parking lot, advertising the family that belongs to it with little white stick figure decals. Contained within: one mom, curly hair, propensity to wear skirts. One dad, hair unkempt, polo shirts. Two daughters - one in karate, one in the girl scouts. An infant son, old enough for a healthy head of (mom's?) curls, but not yet old enough to be cutting teeth. Dad's name is Jack, mom's is Lydia, karate daughter is Steph, girl scout is Chrissy, curls is Nathan.

Advertised.

Jack works in the bank building off of 17th, downtown; I don't think he actually works at the bank proper, because he rarely wears a tie. Lydia has a part-time thing, cutting hair in the mall. The girls go to school, and she drops Nathan with an old woman I can only guess is his grandmother.

There's something I want from them.

It's dark out, now - the leasing company hasn't bothered to fix the parking lot lights in some time, so the little light that filters my way does so through mini-blinds and sliding glass. There's a piece of steel in my pocket, folded carefully around a razor blade - a scraper. The decals are like braille under my fingers. I slide the blade along the lower edge of the names, stopping as I come to Chrissy. A smooth upward press, and she's mine - this little idol.

Maybe they won't even notice, I think.

I ask myself now and again why exactly I'm so fixated on this family, their sunshine perfection. And the answer is this: they advertised.

There's a mirror in my bathroom, advertising the girl who belongs to me with a little stick figue decal.

Someday.