#maryland strip mall

[thestuffmybraincomesupwith]

September 27, 2024

Dream:

Sonic, Knuckles, and what my brain interpreted as Amy, but really wasn't? There was something about when all the Chaos emeralds were together, Amy's (who looked like Rogue in the X-Men animated series from the 90s) hair changed from super curly to super straight with the white highlights going through it, which we were trying to keep that fact from the bad guys. Knuckles stole an emerald and then the bad guys he worked for took the emerald (the bad guys were mercenary types), and we knew because Amy's hair changed.

There was a part in here where we were all recouping from the bad guys' win, and trying to figure out what to do, and u wandered away in a daze. I came up to one of those video game tables, where it's like an arcade game but flat top and you look down at the screen through a piece of glass. Except it was a Nintendo Switch, with Animal Crossing on it, and the AC world was on fire. There were fires everywhere you went in the game, all houses and crops and fences and buildings were on fire in the game. I switched to another game, Pokemon maybe, but the world inside the Pokemon game was on fire too. I left that console and found another console and opened Madden, and the field and the stands were all on fire. The benches, the entrance to the locker rooms. I tried a computer and Skyrim was all on fire, all the cities and bushes and trees and encampments. I realized that all video game worlds were on fire.

When I looked up, I realized that the entire real world had been set on fire too. The entire world had fires everywhere, houses and buildings on every street, trees and bushes and tall grass and everything.

As I wandered around in a daze, I remember getting off a bus and being part of a conversation with a cute butch woman, something about city planning (truck? Sewer? Road layouts? Public parks? Upcoming community outreach meeting for public discourse or whatever?). There were other people standing together in our little group of people, but her and another woman were doing all the conversing and the rest of us were just kind of taking it all in. Everyone started walking away in different directions, with cute butch woman walking in a direction I hadn't been planning to go, but I started trying to think of reasons to walk with her that direction. I couldn't come up with any and just stood on the corner as everyone left. By this time it's that early, just-past-sunset, still-half-lit nautical twilight. Part of the sky was lit with light pollution from cities and fires, part of it was obscured from all the smoke, and part of it was just soft blue grey clouds clinging to the last pieces of light before darkness took over.

At this point in the dream, there was a shift where I had knowledge i didn't before, as if things happened and it fast forwarded, except my physical place and time of day didn't change. I remember having seen a board of maps, like the kinds found on nature preserve trails showing the area with a You Are Here ☆ and has information and history of places on the side. Except it was a map that showed what I originally thought was the Bible belt area of the US, labeled "this area is known as 'little France'." but as I looked harder at it I realized it was actually northern Canada and the highlighted province just happened to be shaped like Tennessee. There was also a map of America was divided into quarters with round area in the middle (so 5 areas total). The boundaries weren't defined by any land masses or structures, just straight lines/perfect circle in the center. Dream knowledge, I knew that the five areas had large physical walls/boundaries made of brick and rusted steel and thick barbed wire, with heavily armed border check points. But I needed to get from Florida up to the Northeast American Territory.

I started walking north, because I had no car, and lots of cars were on fire anyways. I started walking up this steep hill that had blazing grocery stores just on the other side when a big brown extra soft horse came running from over the crest of the hill towards me, riderless. A lot of people just watched, thinking that nothing could be done about it, but instead of letting it run past I caught its reins. I figured out it was a service horse for people with special needs, and therefore trained to be extremely docile and easy to ride, and I decided to ride the horse north. I tried running with the horse back up the fiery hill it came from and hopping into its saddle as we ran. I think I eventually got it.

Fast forward to i was sitting outside at a Cafe table at a strip mall in Maryland. I was watching an ad for a liquor store that just opened online only. "We don't do brick and mortar anymore! We invested in a truck, but since our stuff is seasonal and comes and goes too fast, it made sense to just switch to online only!" [My best friend, irl] was talking with a cute gay boy waiter that also cashiered for a Hot Topic-esque shop (think a more flamboyant sassy version of Charles from Dead Boy Detectives) while sitting at a high top table. They were discussing a recent Korean Drama show, and [my best friend, irl] said they had been on Korean Forums discussing the gay ships, and said "look, the Koreans have a phrase for that, and it's my favorite thing ever now". The waiter/cashier said, "What?" and they replied "Itchako. It means 'look, it's going to lead you into a tree'." *with a hand flourish from face out and wide*

And then I woke up.

[archivaltrigger]

“Because the US government was not acting on mass shootings, we directly attacked a trait Americans are most known for: their pride in their country. Change the Ref created the Shamecards, a postcard collection designed to demand gun law reform from Congress. Subverting the traditional greeting cards that depict each city’s landmarks, ours show what cities are becoming known for.”

shamecards.org

There is 54 cards total representing:

Annapolis — Maryland: Capital Gazette Shooting

Atlanta — Georgia: Day Trading Firm Shootings

Benton — Kentucky: Marshall County High School Shooting

Bethel — Alaska: Regional High School Shooting

Binghamton — New York: Binghamton Shooting

Blacksburg — Virginia: Virginia Tech Massacre

Camden – New Jersey: Walk of Death Massacre

Charleston — South Carolina: Charleston Church Shooting

Charlotte — North Carolina: 2019 University Shooting

Cheyenne — Wyoming: Senior Home Shooting

Chicago — Illinois: Medical Center Shooting

Clovis — New Mexico: Clovis Library Shooting

Columbine — Colorado: Columbine

Dayton — Ohio: Dayton Shooting

Edmond — Oklahoma: Post Office Shooting

El Paso — Texas: El Paso Shooting

Ennis — Montana: Madison County Shooting

Essex Junction — Vermont: Essex Elementary School Shooting

Geneva — Alabama: Geneva County Massacre.

Grand Forks — North Dakota: Grand Forks Shooting

Hesston — Kansas: Hesston Shooting

Honolulu — Hawaii: First Hawaiian Mass Shooting

Huntington — West Virginia: New Year's Eve Shooting

Indianapolis — Indiana: Hamilton Avenue Murders

Iowa City — Iowa: University Shooting

Jonesboro — Arkansas: Middle School Massacre

Kalamazoo — Michigan: Kalamazoo Shooting

Lafayette — Louisana: Lafayette Shooting

Las Vegas — Nevada: Las Vegas Strip Shooting

Madison — Maine: Madison Rampage

Meridian — Mississippi: Meridian Company Shooting

Moscow — Idaho: Moscow Rampage

Nashville — Tennessee: Nashville Waffle House shooting

Newtown — Connecticut: Sandy Hook Elementary School Shooting

Omaha — Nebraska: Westroads Mall shooting

Orlando — Florida: Pulse Nightclub Shooting

Parkland — Florida: Parkland School Shooting

Pelham — New Hampshire: Wedding Shooting

Pittsburgh — Pennsylvania: Pittsburgh Synagogue Shooting

Prices Corner — Delaware: Delaware Shooting

Red Lake — Minnesota: Indian Reservation Shooting

Roseburg — Oregon: Umpqua Community Collage Shooting

Salt Lake City — Utah: Salt Lake City Mall Shooting

San Diego — California: San Ysidro Massacre

Santa Fe — Texas: Santa Fe School Shooting

Schofield — Wisconsin: Marathon County Shooting

Seattle — Washington: Capitol Hill Massacre

Sisseton — South Dakota: Sisseton Massacre

St. Louis — Missouri: Power Plant Shooting

Sutherland Springs — Texas: Sutherland Springs Church Shooting

Tucson — Arizona: Tocson Shooting

Wakefield — Massachusetts: Tech Company Massacre

Washington — D.C.: Navy Yard Shooting

Westerly — Rhode Island: Assisted-Living Complex Rampage

[the-gone-ton]

The dead malls of York

Continuing on the theme from my last post about York Galleria, I'm going to talk more about the four now-closed malls in York that came before the Galleria.

The York Mall

The York Mall opened in 1968, developed by the famous Kravco Company of Philadelphia. It was a fairly large mall for its era (about 700,000 Square feet of retail space, I believe). It was primarily a single-level mall, though in this rare interior photo you can see stairs leading up to a small 2nd level that included a community room and some offices. The opening anchors were JCPenney, Montgomery Ward, and Maryland-based Hochschild-Kohn (seen in the above picture). The mall also featured a Trans-Lux Theater and a flagship location of McCrory's variety store. In fact, the McCrory's distribution center was located directly next door to the York Mall, and a concrete ramp led straight from the distribution center's parking lot right up to the back of McCrory's store around the rear side of the mall. The ramp still exists today as a relic of this bit of McCrory's history. The layout of the mall had Penney's at one end and Wards at the other, with Hochschild-Kohn right in the middle. You'd have to walk through the Kohn's department store to get from one end of the mall to the other.

Hochschild-Kohn's declined in the 70s, closing their York Mall store in 1975. York's own local department store, The Bon-Ton, opened in this spot that same year. The York Mall remained the largest mall in town for 21 years until George Zamias built the 2-story York Galleria practically next door in 1989. Both The Bon-Ton and JCPenney left the York Mall for the York Galleria when it opened, but it wasn't a total loss because The Bon-Ton kept their store open as a new discount concept called "Bon-Ton Express" on the ground floor and put their corporate offices on what had been the 2nd floor of the department store. Still, the new competition from the Galleria badly hurt the York Mall and forced it to go more downscale. Looking to replace JCPenney, the York Mall signed a lease with Arkansas-based discount store Walmart in 1990 - it was the first Walmart in the state of Pennsylvania and was then the largest in the country at 130,000 square feet. Walmart also built a new Sam's Club right next to Montgomery Ward. At the time, the destructive tendencies of Walmart were not as widely-known.

The York Mall still did alright for a few more years with its new configuration. But stores in the mall noticed a drop in business after The Bon-Ton Express closed in May of 1992. Bon-Ton executives attributed the closure to Walmart, whose cash registers only faced their parking lot entrance (in other words, you could enter Walmart from the mall, but you have to leave out towards your car). Burlington replaced Bon-Ton Express in 1993, but it didn't do much to help sales at the small shops. Around the turn of the century, the demise of Montgomery Ward and McCrory's left gaping vacancies in the north end of the mall while an expansion of Walmart into a 240,000 square foot supercenter swallowed up the entire south end of the mall. It didn't take long after that for the remainder of the mall to be demolished.

North Mall

The North Mall - "the first completely carpeted, enclosed shopping center in the East!" - opened in 1969, as the 2nd enclosed shopping mall in York, PA. It was a smaller mall that was sort of split level; the upper level was fully enclosed and anchored by The Bon-Ton and a G.C. Murphy's variety store. At the end opposite of Bon-Ton, an artistic ramp took you down to a lower level that turned into an open air strip mall. This section was anchored by a J.M. Fields discount store, which included a Pantry Pride discount grocery store inside. The whole mall was owned by Food Fair Properties, which shared the same parent company (Food Fair) as Pantry Pride and J.M. Fields.

Food Fair became a pretty large company in the 60s and early 70s, having expanded its subsidiaries Pantry Pride and J.M. Fields nationally. But the business then began to suffer, leading to bankruptcy and the closure of all J.M. Fields stores in 1978. The Pantry Pride at North Mall closed as well. The anchor building that had housed Fields and Pantry Pride was large and difficult to find a replacement tenant for. It housed women's apparel store Marianne's for a few years in the late 70s/early 80s.

1981 brought the opening of West Manchester Mall, a project of famous developer Crown American Corporation. Compared to the nearby North Mall, West Manchester was much newer and larger. The North Mall had never updated, and was still very much a fully-carpeted, flower-patterned product of 1969. The Bon-Ton closed at North Mall to open a new store at West Manchester when it opened. The Bon-Ton was quickly replaced by the 4th location of discount department store Mailman's. Ironically, Mailman's had a collaboration with The Bon-Ton wherein Bon-Ton would supply their own apparel merchandise at Mailman's stores, so Bon-Ton never totally left the North Mall after all. At that point, the North Mall felt pressured to go downscale, so the mall became known as the "North Mall Factory Outlet Center". Burlington opened in the former J.M. Fields location in 1983, and the mall kept afloat for a while. In 1984, G.C. Murphy's closed their store, apparently in violation of a 20 year lease they had signed which did not expire until 1989 (this prompted a lawsuit from the mall). In 1988, the collaboration between Mailman's and Bon-Ton ended, so the North Mall Mailman's lost its whole apparel department. By the end of that same year, Mailman's closed after failing to reach a lease deal with North Mall management. This was the last staw for North Mall, which by 1990 was slated for redevelopment into "Manchester Crossroads," a strip mall. It was the first mall in York to be de-malled.

Delco Plaza Mall

The Delco Plaza Mall was a small, discount-oriented mall opened in 1974 in west York, not far from the North Mall. It featured Hills and Grant City (both discount department stores) as anchors as well as a United Artists movie theater in the mall and a Pathmark grocery store in the parking lot. The UA theater was the first 3-screen cinema in York and drove a lot of traffic into the mall. The name of this mall has always confused me because "Delco" is common shorthand for Delaware County, PA, a county which York is very much not located in. The first issue for Delco Plaza was the bankruptcy of W.T. Grant Co., the parent company of Grant City. This resulted in what was then the largest retail bankruptcy liquidation in American history when all of the Grant's stores closed in 1976. Many former Grant Cities, including the one at Delco Plaza, were snatched up by Kmart for new stores.

In 1981, the West Manchester Mall opened, hurting smaller, older malls like Delco Plaza. At some indeterminate time after this, the UA cinema in the mall was downgraded to a cheaper, second-run theater, which had an adverse effect on mall traffic. The Pathmark also closed, and slowly the stores inside the mall began to go under as well. Though the addition of some new tenants like a post office branch and liquor store helped keep the mall open, it was not enough to save it. Hills, struggling in face of competition from Walmart in particular, was bought out by Ames discount department stores in 1999. Ames, in turn, went out of business in 2002. Kmart closed shortly thereafter. The mostly vacant mall faced demolition in 2005.

West Manchester Mall

The West Manchester Mall was developed by Crown American, one of the nation's largest privately-owned real estate developers, in 1981. It was located in west York, nearby the much smaller North Mall and Delco Plaza Mall. It was a modern, single-level mall, about the same size as the York Mall on the other side of town. It featured The Bon-Ton, Hess's department store of Allentown (which at the time was a subsidiary of Crown American itself), and Gee Bee discount store of Johnstown as its anchors. West Manchester had little drama in its early years as it enjoyed dominance in west York while being far enough from the York Mall on the east side of town to maintain a delicate balance. That balance was only really upset in 1989 by the opening of George Zamias' York Galleria. The Galleria was much larger than any other mall in York, and drew a lot of business away from the York Mall in particular.

In 1992, Gee Bee, which had just survived a bankruptcy filing, was bought by rival discount store Value City. Then, in 1993, Hess's department store was circling the drain after recklessly opening too many locations too far from its home base. It closed at West Manchester, and Crown American signed a lease with Walmart to fill the space. Crown also expanded the mall in 1995, adding a new wing leading to a new Hecht's department store of Maryland. A few years later, they renovated the mall again and added a 13 screen Regal Cinemas to occipy vacant store space and keep the West Manchester Mall competitive. But the decision to bring in Walmart turned out to be a long-term curse for the mall itself, as Walmart chose to expand into a supercenter in the early 2000s. Just as it did at the York Mall, the West Manchester Walmart took over what used to be a whole wing of the mall when it expanded. Hecht's became Macy's in 2005, and Value City went out of business in 2008, to be replaced by Kohl's. A big nail in the coffin came when in 2011 The Bon-Ton announced that their store at West Manchester was "not performing as well as it should" and would close at the end of their lease the following January. At this point, Regal was mostly the only thing keeping people coming into the mall. The mall was sold in 2012 to new owners who pledged a nearly $50 million renovation to transform it into the West Manchester Town Center, an open-air retail center. With this closure, the York Galleria became the only surviving mall out of five in York, PA.

[airmanisr]

160756, Messerschmitt Bf 109 G-6/R3, NASM Silver Hill, Maryland, 09-08-1974 by Gordon Riley Via Flickr: For many years, the history of the NASM Bf 109G-6 was mysterious. In 1995, Jim Kitchens, an archivist at Maxwell Air Force Base, discovered a report on the defection of René Darbois on July 25, 1944. Darbois was a native of German-annexed Lorraine who claimed he was forced to fly in the Luftwaffe. He took off in the NASM BF 109G-6 on his first combat mission and proceeded directly to the airfield at Caserta, Italy. He landed and walked into the custody of the U. S. Army Air Forces 72nd Liaison Squadron. In 1989 Museum specialist Tom Dietz discovered the Gustav's Werk-Nummer to be 160756. The number falls within the range of airframes manufactured at Messerschmitt's Regensburg plant in summer or fall 1943. Messerschmitt built this particular model specifically to operate in tropical and desert climates. For desert operations, mechanics installed a sand filter but none was found with the NASM Gustav. The Army Air Forces (AAF) shipped the fighter to the United States for evaluation. AAF personnel stripped the aircraft of all unit markings and camouflage and the Air Technical Intelligence Command assigned it an inventory and tracking number, FE-496. The Air Force transferred the Messerschmitt to the National Air Museum (later National Air and Space Museum) in 1948, along with a group of other World War II aircraft, and was stored at the Park Ridge, Illinois, facility. Later, the collection was moved to the museum's storage facility at Silver Hill, Maryland, near Washington, D.C. During the mid-1970s, plans for a new museum building on the Washington Mall became definite. The Bf 109 was one of the first aircraft restored for exhibition. No information was available on the aircraft's original markings so restorers applied the camouflage and markings of aircraft number 2 of 7th Squadron, III./JG 27 (3d Group, Fighter Wing 27) flown in the Eastern Mediterranean in late 1943. Specialists completed the restoration during April 1974.

[cavenewstimes]

Maryland stabbing spree leaves 4 injured, 1 critically, and a suspect dead

Four people were injured, one critically, in a series of seemingly random stabbings in Maryland on Saturday, police said. The attacks were centered at a strip mall in the unincorporated community of Silver Spring, about 6 miles north of the District of Columbia, shortly after 10:30 a.m., police said in a statement. Montgomery County Police Assistant Chief Darren Francke characterized the violence…

[nogaleskitchenandbath]

Nogales Designs Kitchen & Bath

New Market is a small town with friendly people. It is also just 20 minutes from Frederick where there are many activities to enjoy.

You can also challenge your buddies to mini-golf or go-karting, if you're looking for a thrill. Also, you can find a variety of restaurants, serving up comfort food as well as distinctive cocktails.

New Market is home to a wide range of activities for the arts. It doesn't matter if you wish to learn about the town's rich past or experience adrenaline rush at an amusement park, you will discover something that will meet your preferences in this area.

The town is unique in its distinctive identity, which is expressed through its architecture and landscape. Most of the notable structures within the town are historic structures and buildings. The Historic District is a collection of 75 buildings that represent the architecture from 18th,19th, and 20th centuries.

The residents of New Market are proud of their town's heritage and tradition. This is evident in regular celebrations such as The Day in New Market and Christmas in New Market as well as in the historical Main Street lined with antique shops. New Market residents are also well-known for their hospitality and courtesy, as shown by how they treat guests.

New Market residents will discover plenty to spark their interests in local shops, ranging from American Indian jewelry to antiques as well as a winery that is a farmer's business that has a history. There are plenty of restaurants to satisfy their cravings as well as a Dunkin' Donuts shop to keep them refreshed throughout the day.

Residents are hoping for additional commercial amenities in town as well. Certain residents want New Market not to be like Rockville or have "a big strip mall" However, they do have specific ideas about what kind of business they would be happy to have. Some of them include Dunkin' Donuts, a computer shop, a hardware and gardening store, as well as the Giant grocery store.

Who We Are

At Nogales Kitchen and Bathroom Remodeling, we specialize in providing exceptional residential kitchen and bathroom renovation services. Our expert team of professionals offers top-notch home improvement solutions, incorporating innovative kitchen designs and bathroom remodeling concepts. Experience the transformation of your living spaces with our dedicated kitchen and bathroom remodelers. Contact us today for a personalized consultation!

If you are looking to find the right type of Kitchen Remodeling Frederick MD look no further other than Nogales Designs Kitchen & Bath.

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Nogales Designs Kitchen & Bath 33 W Main St, New Market, Maryland, 21774, United States (301) 882-4191

https://nogaleskitchenandbath.com/

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[whatisonthemoon]

Fishing for Respectability - on the Unification Church’s “Global Economic Action Institute”

Washington City Paper Vol. 13 No. 22 | June 11-17, 1993 Fishing for Respectability by Alan Green and Larry Zilliox Jr.

The Rev. Sun Myung Moon has dominion over three separate worlds - the religious, the nonprofit, and the entrepreneurial. But in the Unification Church, worlds collide.

▲Sun Myung Moon and Rev. Yang Hur

Yamano Hana APPEARS to be no different than any other Japanese restaurant in Northern Virginia. It's in a nondescript strip mall on Leesburg Pike, halfway between Seven Corners and Baileys Crossroads. It has a sushi bar, a cocktail lounge, and a favorable mention from Washingtonian displayed out front. You can get salmon teriyaki there for $7.20, and among the chef-created specials is a crab stick and fried flower dish called the Full Moon. Lunch is served beginning at 11:30 a.m. Reservations are not required.

But if Yamano Hana is indistinguishable from other area Japanese eateries, one thing sets it apart: This restaurant is at the tail end of a vast, vertically integrated fishing operation whose components are all tied to the Rev. Sun Myung Moon's Unification Church. Identifying the players in this network is like trying to navigate without a compass - and that's obviously the way Moon's followers want it because they've taken great pains to obfuscate their ties to one another and, most important, to the church itself.

Dig deep enough, however, and this elaborate connect-the-dot game yields a picture with at least a few clear edges.

Annual reports and other corporate records show, for example, that Yamano Hana is owned by Hana Enterprises, a Maryland company whose officers and directors have all been affiliated with other commercial enterprises run by Unification Church members. As recently as 1990, Hana Enterprises' corporate secretary was a director of New Wave Seafood, a Beltsville wholesaler that supplies Yamano Hana with its fish. New Wave's treasurer was at one time an officer of U.S. Marine Corp., a commercial fishing company whose catch ends up at church-affiliated wholesalers. Among U.S. Marine's wholly owned subsidiaries is Master Marine, which builds the boats used by the church-aligned fishing fleets. U.S. Marine is, in turn, under the corporate auspices of One Up Enterprises, a Virginia-based holding company whose president, R. Michael Runyon, is a longtime Moon confidant and an officer of other businesses controlled by Moon's followers. Virginia state corporate records also show that Runyon's wife, another Unification Church member, is a director of Hana Enterprises.

Keep following the serpentine paper trail, and you learn that the Washington-area seafood operations are just one part of an umbrella organization that includes some 65 Japanese restaurants across the nation - including Niwano Hana, on Rockville Pike - and at least a dozen seafood wholesalers in such cities as Philadelphia, Seattle, Los Angeles, and Bayou LaBatre, Ala.

There's even the tax-exempt Ocean Church, supposedly created to give young Unification Church members the experience of spending time at sea. Not surprisingly, Ocean Church branches are based at commercial fishing businesses run by Unification Church members. One Ocean Church branch even lists its address as a Gloucester, Mass., restaurant whose owners are part of Moon's octopan fishing enterprise.

These operations - and other marine-related ventures - are collectively referred to within the Unification Church movement as the "Happy Group," which derives its name from Moon's large Japanese trading company, Happy World Inc. Not officially part of this conglomerate - but nonetheless part of Moon's business network - is the Happy Mind Shop at Home Service, a catalog company in the 3500 block of V Street NE that sells everything from hardware and over-the-counter drugs to produce and, not surprisingly, fresh seafood.

This agglomeration of interlocking enterprises is just one component of a gargantuan corporate empire that includes hundreds of businesses and organizations around the globe. Moon may be well known for having founded the Washington Times and Insight magazine, which have bled his bank accounts of perhaps a billion dollars over the last decade, but these publications are just two pieces of an expanding international media conglomerate that includes foreign and domestic newspapers and newsletters, book publishers, video production companies, and a major interest in an American cable network.

Moon and his associates own travel agencies and health food stores, real estate agencies and office cleaning services, an equestrian center, and a company that bottles ginseng soda. In addition, Moon has financed the creation of dozens of religious and political organizations, including two benign-sounding groups headquartered here: the American Conference on Religious Movements and the American Freedom Coalition.

In Moon's world, however, nothing is benign, nothing is as it appears. Privacy may be universally valued, but Moon and his followers are so intent on keeping their affairs shrouded that even something as commonplace as selling fish becomes mired in a clandestine web.

Trying to trace this corporate lineage is an extraordinary challenge. Interlocking structures make ownership and control of businesses run by church members nearly impossible to figure out. Those who work for these operations will say little, if anything, about them. And the landscape is further blurred by an entanglement of nonprofit organizations, whose finances are subject to less governmental scrutiny than their for-profit counterparts, and whose affairs are therefore even harder to decipher.

The affairs of the Global Economic Action Institute (GEAI) provide a telling illustration of this.

GEAI is a 10-year-old nonprofit organization whose creation was inspired by Moon, supposedly to foster cooperation among nations in their efforts to achieve a stable international economic order. Over the years, GEAI has attracted an impressive collection of politicians, economists, and business leaders. It has published position papers and hosted international conferences, with support from the likes of the United States Information Agency and the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. It has received virtually no media recognition - and in fact has never sought any - but from all appearances, it has helped promote the sort of dialogue that might ease the world's economic problems. Finally, GEAI has received financial support from a wide array of corporations, foundations, and other institutions - the Unification Church among them. But it has always been widely believed that the church's contributions were not particularly significant, its influence on the organization tenuous, at best.

In truth, documents obtained by Washington City Paper show that GEAI has been used by Moon and his associates to facilitate contact with high-level executives around the world and advance the church's political and business agendas. GEAI's key staffers - all Unification Church members - have used the organization's resources to run their own for-profit corporations. Documents also reveal how GEAI's employees tried to recruit more than 100 of the nation's wealthiest individuals - including some well-known Washingtonians - into supporting an operation that appears to exist primarily to further Moon's goals, rather than the noble policy objectives outlined in the organization's charter.

But GEAI and the guileful manner in which the fishing operation is managed are not aberrations within the Unification movement. Relationships seem to be purposefully obscured.

The convoluted ownership of U.S. Marine Corp. is typical. According to a Dun & Bradstreet commercial credit report, 83 percent of the fishing operation's voting stock is controlled by the Holy Spirit Association for the Unification of World Christianity (HSA) - the nonprofit, religious component of Moon's empire usually referred to as the Unification Church. That part of the ownership picture is simple and straightforward.

But the remainder of U.S. Marine's stock is controlled by One Up Enterprises, the Virginia-based corporation that controls Moon's fishing businesses. One Up is in turn a subsidiary of a for-profit, Virginia-based holding company called Unification Church International (UCI), which operates a slew of firms whose owners are also followers of Moon.

UCI is so closely affiliated with Moon that the organization's amended articles of incorporation list as its operational purpose "To serve as an international organization assisting, advising, coordinating and guiding the activities of Unification Churches organized and operated throughout the world." What's more, UCI shares corporate offices with News World Communications Inc., the Moon-controlled company that owns both the Washington Times and the McLean home that Moon occupies when in Washington.

Despite this, HSA spokesman Peter Ross insists that the church is entirely separate from UCI, GEAI, and other ventures Moon has inspired or helped fund. "Rev. Moon is the leader of a religious movement," says Ross. "But he's free to engage in all sorts of activities. He's a patron of the media. He's an industrialist. That's all true, but that shouldn't mean the Unification Church is involved."

Ross' statements notwithstanding, additional documents obtained by City Paper tell an entirely different story. These documents, which chronicle GEAI's activities for 1990 and part of 1991, show that church money was sometimes keeping GEAI afloat. They show that GEAI's staff members sought to control the organization. They show that these same staff members aimed to convince GEAI's leadership to accept Moon's vision for the organization. Finally, the documents reveal that the church was so concerned about GEAI, members were actually instructed to pray for its success.

Since his release from prison eight years ago, Moon has been a shadow of his previously public self. But if he's kept a low profile, the founder of the Unification Church has only stepped up his campaign to expand his worldwide influence.

From all indications, his efforts have been successful, although the self-proclaimed messiah is now facing trouble anew.

On June 1, 1976, the Unification Church took over Yankee Stadium for its so-called Bicentennial God Bless America Festival, the highlight of which was supposed to be an address by the Rev. Moon. At the time, Moon was endlessly portrayed in the media as a cultist who enslaved young people and used their free labor as a means to amass a fortune for his church.

The Yankee Stadium speech, delivered in Korean and translated by longtime Moon confidant.

The Yankee Stadium speech, delivered in Korean and translated by longtime Moon confidant Bo Hi Pak, did little to quell the anxieties of nonbelievers. A wildly gesticulating Moon laid down his own version of divine law: America had been invaded by Satan, and God had dispatched Moon here to set things right. Moon's disciples were clearly enraptured by this homily, but spectators by the thousands stampeded for the exits. There was pandemonium, as the inclined rampways behind the stands swelled with a descending tide. Halfway through the speech, the stadium had the look of a visiting-team blowout in the bottom of the ninth: Down the lines and in the upper decks, only the die-hards and dreamers remained in their seats.

It would be another 17 years before Moon would venture on another national speaking tour, his 12-city roadshow having rolled through Washington on May 15. In the interim, he increasingly de-emphasized his religious pursuits, instead focusing his attention on politics and profit-making ventures. During this time, church real estate holdings increased. Moon's tangled web of businesses, once located primarily in Korea, Japan, and the United States, took root throughout Europe and eventually began creeping into Africa, South America, and even the Cayman Islands.

For his troubles, in '78 Moon faced a civil lawsuit brought by the U.S. government, but he escaped unscathed. His luck ran out in May 1982 when a New York jury found him guilty of four counts of conspiracy, including conspiracy to obstruct justice and conspiracy to file false income tax returns. The felony offenses brought a sentence of 18 months in federal prison, and on July 20, 1984, Moon began serving what would ultimately be a 13-month term.

Since his release, Moon has rarely been seen in public. But behind the scenes, he's been all business. In fact, the aging industrialist has not only increased the pace of acquisitions by his front organizations, but he's tried to establish a business/religious/political foothold in Russia and China. He's even negotiated deals with the governments of Vietnam and North Korea.

These days, the 73-year-old Moon has lost any charisma he may once have had. His recent Washington speech, at the Omni Shoreham Hotel, was a rambling, 75-minute patois that lacked the histrionics of years past. Moon delivered the address in halting, at times incomprehensible, English, repeatedly stumbling over words and stopping in mid-phrase, as if he were reading a phoneticized version of a text whose meaning he couldn't fathom. Occasionally, Moon almost seemed unaware that he was addressing an overflow crowd of nearly 3,000: Early in the speech, for example, he paused a full 10 seconds, and when he resumed, a mint in his mouth clacked against his teeth. The sound reverberated over the room's speakers, but Moon seemed either unaware or unconcerned. Instead, he just kept reading, poking at his eyeglasses every so often.

The speech itself, called "True Parents and the Completed Testament Age," amplified some of the same peculiar themes introduced in Moon's Yankee Stadium address - in particular, that America's role as a world leader hinges on its spiritual well-being, and God has dispatched Moon here to ensure that the country does not go off course.

"In these chaotic times," he told a rapt audience, which interrupted him with applause 25 times, "humankind is longing for a true direction and purpose, yet America and the churches have no confident answer. God has granted me an understanding of the forces involved in his providential history. Thus, I know the direction that humankind must go, and I, with the help of God, will lead the world there."

This time around, no one was fleeing for the auditorium doors. The room had been filled with invited guests instructed to RSVP. Business attire was required for admission. The audience was read letters of welcome from Mayor Sharon Pratt Kelly and Sen. John Warner (R-Va.); a proclamation from Maryland Gov. William Donald Schaefer declaring May 15 "Family Day" in honor of the event was also broadcast to the crowd.

Moon slowly made his way through the lecture, as onlookers unable to comprehend his broken English followed along with a printed text. As the speech progressed, it became more muddled and self-aggrandizing. Moon chastised Korean religious leaders for failing to believe that he was the Second Coming of Christ. He blamed the Cold War on the failure of the United States and worldwide Christianity to unite with him after World War II. And the self-proclaimed messiah railed against the media and other detractors.

"Can anyone disagree when I say that Reverend Moon is among the most persecuted religious leaders in the world?" he asked.

Not far away, a process server lay in wait, hoping to heap yet more bedevilment on Moon. A day earlier, a suit had been filed in a California federal court alleging that Moon and his associates had concocted an unlawful scheme to gain control of cable television's Nostalgia Network. In essence, the suit alleges that Unification Church International, One Up Enterprises, and other related businesses are all secretly structured to achieve Moon's objectives.

These charges are similar to others that have been leveled against Moon, and in each instance, the church has dismissed them as further examples of the religious persecution that Moon must endure. But the affairs of the Global Economic Action Institute may suggest otherwise.

The Global Economic Action Institute was founded in the summer of 1983, ostensibly to help promote policies that would foster world economic stability. The organization was incorporated in Washington on Dec. 1 of that year, with former U.S. Treasury Secretary Robert Anderson among its board members. A few months later, the IRS granted GEAI nonprofit status—important for the organization because would-be contributors could be promised that their gifts would be tax-deductible.

Much of GEAI's initial funding came from HSA, the religious component of Moon's operation, although in recent years dozens of foundations and corporations have signed on as benefactors. GEAI's membership roster includes individuals in some 75 countries, among them former heads of state, members of national cabinets, academics, and business leaders. Only one person on GEAI's original board of directors—Mose Durst—was affiliated with the Holy Spirit Association for the Unification of World Christianity, thereby creating the appearance of autonomy from Moon. Former Sen. Eugene McCarthy was even enlisted as GEAI's chairman emeritus.

GEAI's headquarters are in New York, and until last year, the group maintained a Washington office. Copies of tax returns provided by the IRS show that GEAI's 1990 budget was nearly $1 million, about 59 percent of which was spent on producing a series of national and international conferences.

These same 1990 tax returns show that GEAI's three highest-paid employees - all Unification Church members - were Garry Barker, Jeremiah Schnee, and Laurence Baer. Together, this trio ran GEAI's affairs.

But that's not all they ran.

The Unification movement typically portrays its involvement with nonprofit organizations under its control as that of a beneficent donor supporting worthy causes. Unification movement members insist that the church exerts no influence over groups such as GEAI - that Moon has no personal involvement in the direction of their operations, for example.

But documents reveal that the Unification Church was attempting to use GEAI to advance Moon's vast business empire. Other documents show that Barker, Schnee, and Baer conducted for-profit consulting work out of GEAI's Washington offices; in effect, the three men attempted to create business partnerships among GEAI contributors, for which they would receive finder's fees or commissions. The evidence also suggested that GEAI was not reimbursed by these for-profit companies for the use of its resources, as IRS regulations require.

Answers about GEAI's affairs were not forthcoming. Schnee, who apparently now runs the organization with one assistant, did not return phone calls. Durst, former president of the nonprofit Unification Church of America, who two years ago severed his affiliation with GEAI, willingly volunteered information about Moon's original vision for the organization but would say little else. Durst did insist that Barker, Schnee, and Baer never ran businesses out of GEAI's offices. He also maintained that he didn't own the building from which GEAI conducted its activities, then admitted that he "might have."

In fact, District of Columbia property records show that Durst was a longtime owner of the townhouse at 821 Massachusetts Ave NE that once served as GEAI's Washington address. Records from D.C.'s Department of Consumer and Regulatory Affairs and elsewhere also show that at least three for-profit corporations were conducting business from the Massachusetts Avenue address: RFR International, whose president was Jeremiah Schnee; Barker International Associates, headed by Garry Barker; and L.H. Baer International, run by Laurence Baer.

Although Barker, Schnee, and Baer were listed on GEAI's tax returns as full-time employees of the nonprofit organization - their annual salaries ranging from $36,049 for Baer to $57,251 for Barker - they were simultaneously conducting the business of their own companies. Internal memoranda obtained by City Paper show that the three men were trying to consummate more than 30 high-stakes business deals around the globe - from the sale of rare paintings to funding a Broadway musical to the sale of Nigerian light crude oil. In a number of instances, their would-be partners in these deals were the same people they had recruited - or were trying to recruit - for GEAI membership.

On Feb. 1, 1991, for example, Barker's daily agenda lists both GEAI activities and various for-profit undertakings, including a local real estate development project called Stafford Place that the GEAI staff had been trying to fund for at least eight months. The previous July, an internal memo describing the trio's ongoing business opportunities included an entry about Stafford Place and referred to a New York meeting with officials of some of Japan's leading banks. Among the banks represented that day was Fuji Bank and Trust, one of GEAI's corporate contributors.

A GEAI document detailing possible meetings in Washington on Aug. 1, 1990, once again lists both nonprofit and for-profit activities on the day's agenda. Among those whom GEAI staff members hoped to meet with that day was Richard Allen, national security adviser in the Reagan White House and now chairman of Federal Capital Bank, formerly Credit International Bank.

Allen was being actively targeted for a leadership role with GEAI, and the memorandum outlining the Aug. 1 meeting makes reference to discussing such a position with him. In addition, the memo says: "Explore likelihood of possible business ventures with Credit Int'l Bank customers."

The July '90 internal memorandum listing current business opportunities reveals that Barker, Schnee, and Baer hoped to include Allen in at least seven of their projects around the world. These included an overseas office/hotel complex, a European golf course, and a state-of-the-art jet-maintenance facility - a multimillion-dollar project that promised a 100 percent return on investment.

Other business projects that RFR, Barker International, and L.H. Baer were trying to develop from the GEAI offices included a Caribbean resort development, and the business opportunities memo notes that Abe Hoppenstein, a member of GEAI's international steering committee who worked for a New York investment banking firm, might be of help. Still, another project that GEAI's triumvirate hoped to involve Hoppenstein with was a Northeastern gold and ski resort. According to the memo, the investment banking firm was willing to give RFR a one percent commission. "Daiwabo director is interested and might want to visit," the memo added.

Sure enough, the Japanese textile firm Daiwabo was also a corporate contributor to the nonprofit organization, and GEAI's staff intended to take full advantage of their contacts. According to the July 18 summary of potential business opportunities, the Daiwabo connection was particularly promising: "Chairman Satoru Arinobe visited the U.S. in April. Likes [Jeremiah Schnee]. We get a 3% commission on the monthly volume of sales of the company's textiles. Possible Central American/Caribbean contacts. Possible buyers are Danskin, Fortunoff, Members Only, J.C. Penney, Phillips-Van Heusen, John Weitz Co., Donna Carron [sic]. Private arrangement where he helps us with Japanese companies and split commission 80/20 between RFR and Daiwabo."

Fortunoff's inclusion on the list of potential buyers was not just happenstance. Documents show that Elliot Mayrock, a principal of the Long Island-based M. Fortunoff of Westbury Corp., which manufactures such things as draperies and garden furniture, had pledged money for GEAI's upcoming conference in China.

This is the way Barker, Schnee, and Baer went about their business: Those who pledged money for GEAI programs were then targeted as potential business partners. According to a May 5, 1990, document detailing the fundraising efforts for "Campaign 21" - an effort by the staff to quickly raise $21 million - Mayrock had pledged $80,000 for a conference in China, $30,000 of which had been received. The memo notes that Mayrock had agreed to join GEAI's international advisory council as chairman of Fortunoff, and he referred his cousin, Josh Green, to Schnee.

Schnee was obviously glad to have such a referral. A document created by him and his two cohorts called "Individuals to Include in Various Business Deals" features this entry: "Children's Video/Animation. Josh Green. Connect him to animators in communist countries. RFR gets 50% of the difference in cost between U.S. animation costs and local costs."

John Haley, chairman of the board of Pace University, was another contact who Barker, Schnee, and Baer found valuable. A July 1990 confidential memo from GEAI President Lev Dobriansky to the organization's officers noted, among other things, that Haley had joined GEAI's international steering committee.

Other documents show that by the time Haley had been awarded his place on that committee, GEAI's staff had already tagged him as a possible participant in two business deals, including one involving a Midwestern chemical manufacturer. The chemical company's president was not only working with Schnee, Barker, and Baer on various for-profit schemes, including a Moscow office/hotel complex, but the three had also enlisted this corporate executive's counsel for GEAI's chairman search committee - even though he wasn't even a member of the organization.

There was a good reason why this person's counsel was being sought: Edward Kime, another member of GEAI's international steering committee, confided that the would-be business partner had "definitely decided" to give money for the organization's upcoming conference in Moscow. The May 18 documents detailing GEAI's fundraising efforts notes about this person: "Ed Kime says, 'The more active, the more $$.'"

And was he ever kept active. The July memo from Dobriansky to GEAI's officers reported that a delegation had recently returned from Moscow in preparation for the organization's upcoming conference there. Among the "prominent Americans" joining the GEAI group were this same chemical company president and J.B. Fuqua.

Fuqua is the chairman of the Atlanta-based sporting goods and garden products manufacturer Fuqua Industries. According to the May 18 fundraising memo, Fuqua was "very interested" in the U.S.S.R. and was looking for joint ventures there. The memo also states that the GEAI staff offered Fuqua the opportunity to be the international chairman of the organization's Moscow conference - for the sum of $75,000. According to this same memo, Fuqua's response when presented the deal was: "I'm listening."

And so it went. The men who piloted GEAI activity recruited high-level business leaders from around the world to make tax-deductible contributions to the organization. The next step was to get these donors to participate in GEAI's policy seminars. Finally, Barker, Schnee, and Baer tried to marry these same people in business deals, for which the trio was promised hefty commissions or finders' fees.

Such dealing raises questions about compliance with IRS regulations. IRS spokesman Domenic LaPonzina would not comment specifically on the activities of GEAI or its three employees, but he would say that, in general, the government requires that there be an "arm's length relationship" between nonprofit and for-profit activities and that individuals not receive "personal inurement" from their affiliation with a nonprofit organization. "Generally, if someone is benefiting personally from the equipment, facilities, or resources of a nonprofit, that's prohibited," said LaPonzina.

The law also says that a nonprofit organization may permit its employees to use the group's facilities for personal profit-making activities but only if those employees pay a fair market rental rate. If the organization doesn't comply, it can lose its nonprofit status - meaning, of course, it can kiss those tax-deductible contributions goodbye. In addition, there may be tax consequences for anyone who used those facilities and didn't pay for them.

There's little dispute that Barker, Schnee, and Baer ran their for-profit businesses from GEAI's offices. The address and fax number on both Schnee's RFR business card and Baer International's letterhead matched those on GEAI's stationery. Facsimile transmissions sent by the three are identified on the top as having been sent from GEAI's machine.

But if the three men were using GEAI's facilities to run their own for-profit businesses, there's no evidence to suggest that the organization required them to pay for these services. Neither is there evidence that the men voluntarily reimbursed the organization. Attempts to reach the three men for comment were unsuccessful.

An internal GEAI document detailing the group's finances for '90 and the outlook for '91 lists outside income from various sources, including corporate membership payments and rental income from a company called MVA. Nowhere in these documents are RFR, Barker International Associates, or L.H. Baer International listed as having made any payments to GEAI in '90, nor is there anything to indicate that GEAI anticipated income from the three firms in '91.

Related links and notes below

Chicago Tribune: Unification Church Invests Heavily Uruguay (December 1994)

Emperor of the Universe video ‘Privatizing’ covert action: the case of the UC / FFWPU

The Imperial Ghost in the Neoliberal Machine (Figuring the CIA)

C-Span videos of Global Economic Action Institute conferences and panels - one of these videos ("Foreign Trade and Domestic Subsidy Policy") features Most Durst

Moon on why he founded the Global Economic Action Institute:

I founded the Global Economic Action Institute to help distribute and re-invest inactive, or "sleeping" money to make it work for the world. A world-level bank is necessary to go beyond the boundaries of any one nation. This bank will not lend to individuals, but only to nations. The world is coming into unity, which means that independent governments will merge into one to be more operable on a global scale. Only global thinking and institutions can solve the world's economic problems.

[boxingcleverrr]

Yeah as a child of a Virginian raised in New England, Northern Diners and Southern Diners are actually equally good, but in often different ways. Obviously, when in Georgia I gorge on cheesy grits and fried chicken and waffles. A New England breakfast of maple sausage, pancakes, and berries RULES.

In between is a wasteland of chains. You find yourself in the one long strip mall that is Jersey-Delaware-Maryland, PRAYING for at LEAST a Waffle House.

maybe it is time to become a yankee yall have a beautiful thing going over here

[colsonlin]

“Cape Cod”: a good old-fashioned short story (a 45-minute read)

“Cape Cod” is an analysis of our society’s tendency to produce narcissism, sociopathy, and casual dehumanization. It felt so good to get all of this off my chest! —Nina

A lot of how we talk about middle school in America is something I take issue with—like, for instance, that it’s somehow not the most formative experience of our lives. (It is.) A lot of people say “college,” but I had already cycled into an idea of who I was going to be as an adult by then—an A student, a talker, a birdwatcher, a take-no-prisoners observer of human social life. I studied sociology at the University of Maryland. At my retail job now—I work at a Nordstrom in Connecticut—I interact with a dying breed: old rich white women who still buy their cashmeres at the mall. At my old retail job in Farmington I was a cashier. At Nordstrom I’m more of a saleswoman—I don’t hand my customers their purchases after I’m done folding their clothes into the bag, I walk around the counter to deliver their parcels to them personally. I work six nights a week until the mall closes at 11 and on Sundays, Mondays, and Thursdays I drive to my second job at a call center in Southington. I earn enough money to pay for my Hyundai and an apartment above the laundromat, have coffee on the weekends, keep up with my student loans, and map out what the next step will be.

College feels like a million years ago.

Middle school still feels like yesterday.

“Brenda” (not her real name), my supervisor at my old department store in Farmington, was the portrait of managerial incompetence. She was fat and unmarried and all of the associates who weren’t actively helping a customer used to crowd into the stock room whenever she came out of her office, usually to berate one of us for misplacing a store key. We all know a Brenda from middle school. Everything you say is wrong, and everything she says can’t be improved upon. Three of us quit within the first ten months of Brenda’s arrival, and at least one of us later wrote an anonymous email to the district manager about her obvious drinking problem.

My old department store—I don’t want to get into any trouble here so let’s just call them “Not-Quite Sephora”—was in a strip mall. I never knew who to feel more sorry for during the day, myself or the customers who came in. I once explained to my boyfriend that we were kind of like Wal-Mart’s “more youthful older sister”—a high school varsity cheerleader perhaps, but still stuck in the past all the same.

There were ten of us on the first floor—the second floor, “Men’s,” might as well have been a different planet entirely. Brenda acted like she was better than all of us, because she has a master’s degree in “Global Business Administration,” whatever the fuck that was. Brenda didn’t seem to understand that all her master’s degree did was make her look both underqualified and overqualified for her job at the same time. (Her main role, from what I could tell, was assigning holiday bonuses and amplifying customer complaints.)

Not-Quite Sephora has a dying business model, but we were kept artificially alive by a steady stream of suburban glum as the principal anchor of a once-iconic strip mall. The first floor was perpetually understaffed—our Google reviews under Brenda’s mismanagement decayed from 4.2 to 2.8 stars (and this coming from a woman who tends to take “American public opinion” with a grain of salt). The turnover rate among everyone except me, Ashley, and Gabby seemed to be such that a new Chris, Brian, or Andy was being fired every three months. Good riddance, I always thought.

Men don’t understand how to take orders from a woman, and the ones who say they do are liars from the black lagoon.

I understand Brenda.

I really do.

Brenda’s most direct feature was that you couldn’t get a direct answer out of her, ever—it was either caustic sarcasm or happy-peppy self-deprecation. Everything she said was either designed to suppress or to charm. She was intelligent, which was the problem—quick-witted even—she prized competence, prided herself on being everything everywhere all at once (with self-pity), once complained to me in the break room that she was an ex-spelling-bee champion. Appearance-wise, what once made me jolt awake at night was that she tries, she actually tries. Not doing anything to set Brenda off had become something of an obsession of mine by her third month there. I applied to other jobs, but only in non-retail.

Trying to go non-retail—my life in a nutshell.

Brenda took over at a precarious time. Inflation was rising. Covid was either over or about to be over, but either way, brick-and-mortar seemed to be one of its death tolls. Brenda had mousy blond hair, wore black trousers to work, and used to tramp around the store carrying an inventory clipboard whenever she was upset about something. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to take fashion-merchandising so seriously. Her first day at Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda compared our fitting rooms favorably to the fitting rooms at her old Kohl’s in Florida, now shuttered (“So coming back up here was kind of like coming home for me, y’know?”). Brenda grew up in a trailer park in New Jersey and you can tell.

You can guess what her politics are.

I think what appealed to me most about the Cape Cod trip, if I were to be honest, was the right to tell Brenda that I’d have to take a few days off in mid-September because my boyfriend had invited me on a trip to “the Cape.”

Here was a woman in her late forties or early fifties who had located the profundity of her self-esteem in “competence”—and yet it never finally occurred to her that the only way to be “competent” in your everyday life is to command the trust of those around you. Trust is earned, Brenda, and it’s lost with unreliability. I could never really trust that woman not to not trap me inside a rule without being able to explain to me the reasons—not to not be imperious and self-certain and in self-protection mode at all times—and not to not explode all of her emotional wreckage on me, drenching me in the black mist of her self-absorption. Brenda was always right. Brenda is never to be questioned. (Brenda’s real name is “Karen,” which is why I didn’t want to say it at the time.)

It felt so good to able to tell Brenda that—all of her anxieties about the back-to-school rush aside—I’m going to have to take three days off in mid-September because my boyfriend has invited me on a trip with his three friends to the Cape. (I met my boyfriend a year ago on Opal.) It pained me to be so petty—no, not the reference to Cape Cod, which was just a kiss on the lips, but the reference to having a boyfriend, which was my primary poison. I wore more eyeliner to work, not less, the longer the weeks went by trying to circumnavigate Brenda’s imperialism. I enjoyed looking like a magazine cover while supplicating to her at the makeup counter.

We worked at a department store.

(“—so that’s my life, okay?”)

I could see it already. I love how Brenda, with her master’s degree in Global Business Studies or whatever the fuck she majored in, has to flinch every time who I really was blinked in front of her. I bet you flinched every time you saw me shrug into your office, Brenda, no matter what you called me into your office for, because I know about the Us Weeklies you stole from the front stands—I told Accounting about them!—I know how responsive you are to young women with movie-star looks who had won the genetic lottery. I smile at you, Brenda, precisely because I know how my angelic dimples make you feel. It makes you feel like you want to protect me.

It makes you feel you need to defend your true queen.

Beauty was my one and only power over Brenda, but I can assure you I only used it sparingly (all it took was sparingly with a woman so obsessed with appearances). We don’t talk about being pretty enough, which is another way of saying we don’t talk about seeing only the appearances enough. Seeing only the appearances was how I, prior to this weekend, once saw Cape Cod. What do you know about Cape Cod anyway? What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you mentally google it? I want to leave you now with an image of seagulls.

I matched with my boyfriend last September on Opal.

Now I know what you might be thinking—this whole story basically amounts to one long humblebrag about how I have an account on Opal, lol. No. First of all, I deleted that account six months ago. My boyfriend and I both did, on the same day—that was how we agreed to be serious.

Opal’s cornered the market on young attractive people who like to paraglide to remote destinations—the one and only trick it has up its sleeves is “exclusivity,” which in America is a royal flush. I’ll tell you real quick how I landed an account on Opal. A hedge-fund apparatchik I had gone on two dates with wrote me a recommendation letter after I told him I didn’t think it was going to work out between us, but did he still want to be friends? (And what do friends do?) It was his fault. He was the one who’d bragged to me about having an account on Opal in the first place. He even helped me pick out my profile pictures.

I left the Alma Mater field blank.

Opal’s about what you’d expect—videos of narcissist after narcissist who summer in Thailand. I swiped past all of the alpha males, which took days. Men who were earnest or men who were silly were the only men I could take seriously.

My boyfriend’s in that five percent of men just below the top ten percent that most women don’t know to circle the ocean for. You know the type. He’d be unstoppable if just one or two more things had gone right for him, but as it were, the wrong job, the wrong company, the wrong alma mater, had kept a handsome face trapped beneath a monthly gym membership. You’ll recognize these five-percenters from their personality—pure souls who’d lucked out facially, two sevens on the slot machine, but whose unambiguous victory had been stunted by some existential lemon. Some of them have eating disorders. Some google “male plastic surgery” in the dead of night. In my boyfriend’s case, he’s pansexual. Open-minded women have rejected him, which gives him a chip on his shoulder, and now he thinks he understands what it’s like being a minority. My boyfriend’s the type to care a lot about social issues. I’m not sure he even knows we’re interracial.

His parents have a house in Cape Cod.

His dad’s a federal judge and his mom’s an immigration attorney. Until we met and he started showing me pictures on his phone of his childhood vacation home, I had never really thought a lot about Cape Cod. I only knew it as the brand of a potato chip one step up the class ladder from Lay’s, and as a cultural metonym for white-sand beaches, old stone lighthouses, and the Kennedys. Brenda grew up in a trailer park in New Jersey, but I’m sure she must have learned at her master’s program what Cape Cod was.

Cape Cod was where she wanted to be.

And as it so happens, Brenda?

Cape Cod is me.

I wanted so desperately to tell her but I couldn’t.

I wanted so badly to inform Brenda that I had more important things to worry about than making sure the lipsticks were alphabetized, or that the powders were arranged in alternating shades of rouge and beige: namely, that a splitting image of one of the stars you read about in Us Weekly had a life to live, and she was going to enjoy the fruits of her beauty—fruits that Brenda could only live vicariously through (I tallied six missing issues of Us Weekly over the course of a year; no other magazine had gone unaccounted for during the same period except for a single issue of Better Homes & Gardens, which I found one night crumpled on top of Brenda’s desk).

The way Brenda’s eyes lit up whenever she talked about Mackenzie Davis—I just needed Brenda to recognize my own beauty in the same way! It flipped around, you see, like a head trip—sometimes Brenda bowed to her true queen, and sometimes she said mean things to me. I wasn’t thought of as “intelligent” by Brenda, and I could never tell if it was because of my race or my beauty—the two possibilities flickered around in my head like a dueling candlelight until one night I decided, “It’s both,” and just let it die.

Resentment was brewing between me and Brenda.

Ever since I realized I would have to lie to her about my Cape Cod trip, because September would be the back-to-school rush, and there was no way Brenda was okaying me those vacation days. At Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda’s first rule was: “Just be honest. I want to know everything.”

But do you, Brenda?

Do you want to know how I plan to get out of work during the back-to-school rush, because I’ll be with my boyfriend and his three Yale Law classmates traipsing across Cape Cod? Do you really want to read about a beautiful woman’s life in Us Weekly? (Just steal my diary.) I’ll call in sick. I’ll lie and cough right to your face over the phone, Brenda, and I’m telling you it’s corona. I don’t have to be honest with you about anything because you rule by fear, not trust, and in a world of fear without trust anything goes.

Fear without trust is the animal kingdom.

And Not-Quite Sephora is the animal world.

The night before my last day at Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda humiliated Ashley in the stock room. (Ashley had made the mistake of asking her for paid time off for a wedding in December.) I didn’t overhear it, but I heard about it, which was enough. I have always had a way with words, and I gave Brenda some direct evidence of it by way of a resignation letter I wrote to the district manager—only it wasn’t really a resignation letter, it was more like a record of how Karen McHiggins was a terrible supervisor, sent to Corporate and cc-ed to the entire floor. (What mattered wasn’t that I had cc-ed the entire floor, but that the next morning, every single person on the floor congratulated me.) The group chat I’m in with Ashley and Gabby pops off more than ever now ever since I quit, only I didn’t mean to quit.

I only wanted to take a truthful temperature.

Brenda showed all of her cards when I showed up to my shift the next day. “Nina? My office. Now.”

I made eye contact with Ashley, who was already in her uniform, and we both smiled.

She kind of gave me an eye hug.

I wore nude lipstick that day.

The email I had sent Corporate was subject-lined “Management’s Mismanagement,” and it listed six bullet points about Brenda’s bad behavior (one involved throwing a purse at a mannequin; the last five were instances of emotional abuse). It ended with a paragraph about Brenda’s encounter with Ashley in the stock room (Brenda had called Ashley “unlikable,” “self-absorbed,” “a fucking dipshit”).

I laid out the case like the lawyer I couldn’t afford to be (I had other interests, hobbies, and pursuits in middle school, like not killing myself). Brenda was probably shocked I could write. She was probably shocked I could read, but I wield words as weapons—that’s the only thing you ever have to know about me. (In third grade, I won the spelling bee too.)

How did I dress for work the day after I wrote “Management’s Mismanagement” (and really I should say the morning after, because I sent the email at 4 a.m. and had to wake up three hours to let an exterminator in)?

I looked like a star.

I had even spent the last six months of my life casually coaxing Brenda toward the mixed-race celebrities I wanted her to subliminally see me as. Cape Cod would smile. I’d fit in well there, because in my late forties or early fifties I’d have the sort of personality that everybody at Beach Road would know to be impressed by—I could lift my life up to heights that the bourgeois rabble couldn’t even see. Not a single one of my applications to a white-collar job had ended in a palatable offer. Not-Quite Sephora, founded in Vermont, has a labor-friendly CEO. My benefits were good—I even had vision and dental. “One way or another, I’m bringing up my Cape Cod trip,” was the last clear thought I had before knocking on Brenda’s door.

“Come in,” a harsh voice gruffed.

I opened the door.

“Close that please,” was the first thing I heard Brenda say before she and I even made eye contact.

I closed the door dutifully.

Karen McHiggins was standing next to her desk in red pants and a black blazer. She had tied her hair into pigtails that day for some reason, although her hair was so short that they ended up looking more like ringlets, and her eyes behind her glasses were blue and pixel-like. Brenda made a quick gesture at the floor with her hands, almost like she was trying to say “Enough!”, and then said: “What is going on, Nina—what is going on, because I do not understand you.”

Her voice was hoarse.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her red pants—but your blazer is black?—so I just said, “I—” while panning my gaze to her desk, waiting for her to continue.

Brenda’s desk was a mess.

Just like her thought processes.

“If you have ever had a problem with me, you could have come to me directly. What have I always told you, Nina—” Brenda was now screaming.

Brenda thinks screaming has an effect on me.

She’s right—loud noises do have an effect on me. Elevated decibels have an effect on every animal that evolves through nature. How much do I hate Brenda right now? My eyes are staring into hers—but I don’t see a human.

I see an animal.

The power of volume is that it throbs the ear—and ears desire music. Ears desire harmony. Wild animals make me forget poetry as I bolt into the jungle—how much do I hate the woman screaming into my ears right now? Well, there’s a simple formula for that, and all of us are making it, even if we don’t know that we’re making it. We take how much anxiety we experience from being around a person, and then we multiply it by a factor.

My factor is 1 when that person is equal to me.

My factor is a fraction of 1 when that person is homeless.

My factor is greater than 1 when that person is greater than me.

And for Brenda my factor was 42,137—that’s 1 for every dollar that the winds of Brenda’s turbulence lorded over me, granting me vision and dental.

The ensuing number is a hatred.

How much anxiety was Brenda creating in me? Well, for starters—how much did I distrust Brenda? (And how much did I secretly want Brenda to like me?) All the eyeliner I wore to work every day—it wasn’t for mall patrol, it wasn’t for Ashley, and Lord knows it wasn’t for Gabby.

It was for me.

But maybe a little bit of it was for Brenda.

And how much taller does Brenda tower over me right now?

And how much taller does Brenda tower over me right now? Well, let’s see—I submitted 42 job applications, all non-retail. Interviewed at 11. Final-rounded at 7. Received an offer at two—both in New York, which I couldn’t afford. A young white boy at a social media marketing firm told me during the interview that I was “obviously brilliant” before offering me an internship. By July, Brenda towered over me like a god. I fell asleep at night fantasizing about her supervillain origin story. Brenda complained so much about Americans who weren’t vaccinated that I once asked her if she was a childhood polio survivor. “Where in the world did you get that idea?” Brenda laughed, and I laughed too. “Oh, I was just curious.”“How many times have I told you, Nina…”

My expenses have been going up, thanks to my new boyfriend. (As a matter of fact, I am the type of girl to go Dutch!) Taking over Brenda’s position would mean a four-percent raise. To my surprise, Brenda took off her glasses, put them on top of a crinkled magazine on her desk, and started crying. Like, actually crying.

Two actual teardrops leaked out of her eyes.

Self-pity makes me uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable when the powerless do it, because now I have to do something, and it makes me uncomfortable when the powerful do it, because now I have to eat them. When somebody more powerful than me expresses self-pity, I can’t help it: I want to guillotine them. I want to take away their right to exist, but I want to watch them suffer first. If I were God, I’d invent Hell just for Brenda. It satisfied me that Brenda would most likely die without children or a partner. I want all capitalists in the First World to die without children or a partner, but to have afterlives that go on forever.

It still doesn’t seem enough though.

Brenda’s office has a desk, no windows, and a door that leads to the loading dock. A poster on the wall behind her desk, and I was just noticing this about her office now for the first time, was of a lighthouse in Cape Cod. “—the back-to-school rush—” Brenda was saying, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

The ceiling light was fluorescent, and the walls were built of the same beige bricks that made up my elementary school. I once applied to a master’s program in sociology at Johns Hopkins University.

I got in, too.

I hate it here in America—doesn’t anybody else? Is this really that much better than the Soviet Union?

Sympathy for Brenda?

Brenda who lorded over my vision and dental like a bureaucratic algorithm—my boss Brenda?

I did good work.

I was Brenda’s star employee! (I left that part out because I’m not the bragging type.) The only work I couldn’t charge for was the work I didn’t want to do—navigating around the runes and mysteries of Brenda’s uncharted sensitivities like Leif Erikson. The truth was, I hated Brenda for not being able to see me as a beautiful woman just because I wasn’t a beautiful white woman like the pin-up girls she’d gone to school with in New Jersey. Brenda bleeds white guilt, but she rarely ever let me massage any of it toward my favor, except superficially (and you can guess by now how I feel about superficiality). Brenda’s insincerity dehumanized her to me. We humanize each other first as leaps of faith, and then through trust—and nothing about Brenda’s way of existing suggested she could be trusted by me. Not her white guilt. Not her New Jersey liberalism.

Not even her tears.

In fact the longer Brenda cried, the more intensely I wanted to punish her—the phrase “white bitch tears” comes to mind. I wondered if Brenda sincerely didn’t understand that if I could push a button to keep her trapped inside a hole for the rest of her life, I would, and her tears only made me want to push harder. Still, it gave me a start to see—this woman who could take away my ability to not go into debt like checking “Buy Now” on Amazon—reduced before me into a person now trying to trick me into believing she has a soul.

Don’t the workers of the world understand?

Powerful people don’t have souls.

Brenda having a soul would have meant taking my ideas about the BOPUS orders seriously, and not dismissing them out of hand because how could any good ideas come from Nina, the pretty one, if Brenda’s even not-racist enough to see me as pretty (BOPUS is industry slang for “buy online, pick up in store,” and it’s basically brought Not-Quite Sephora to its knees—that and Brenda’s mismanagement). I could divide my hatred of Brenda by a factor to account for the fact that she was fat and unmarried—but whose fault was that, Krispy Kreme? Do you think I actually like exercising?

Are you ready for some real talk now?

I can tell you about the runner’s high until I’m blue in the face, but I’m not built inside like a runner—I’m built inside like a girl who understands that nothing tastes as good as being pretty feels. I don’t know how American society decayed to this point—my Ph.D. dissertation in sociology at Johns Hopkins would have been about the link between an artificial society and the importance placed on appearances, but I couldn’t afford to go, I had actual work to do in middle school (like not killing myself) so I never bothered thinking very long and hard about anything. “Quitting would mean losing my gym membership,” I suddenly remembered.

A new recognition suddenly dawned over me—no gym membership would mean no Cape Cod. It takes a couple hundred months and a couple thousands steps to get there, but trust me, I’ve worked out the odds.

(I make my brain work for me.)

I looked at the lighthouse poster behind Brenda’s desk and said: “Brenda, it’s just—how you treated Ashley last night in the stock room…”

“You weren’t even there!” was what a clear-headed Brenda would’ve said, but Brenda the Tender said nothing.

“I heard about it from Gabby,” I continued. “You know, we’ve talked about this so many times.”

“I know, I know,” Brenda whispered.

“You don’t know how to create a functional work environment sometimes. Groups are held together by trust, not fear.”

I wasn’t quitting.

I was saving everyone at Not-Quite Sephora from Brenda’s bad temper. Brenda’s boss Charles would understand—he’d say, Nina made some good points in this email, but it sounds like you guys have everything worked out, so get back to work—and everyone would move on.

Only Brenda would now be moving into the light.

She would see how her anxieties about Not-Quite Sephora’s declining sales figures were spilling into her paranoias about job security (“And what will I do with all of my competence now that I can’t find a job because I’m old, fat, and ugly?”) and have been spilling into us as sarcasm and curt dismissals ever since her second day on the job. (Her first day was lovely—I was obsessed with Brenda! I even nicknamed her “cool Mom” to Gabby and Ashley.)

How Brenda appeared to me that first day was how Cape Cod once appeared to me too, before this weekend—white-sand beaches, old stone lighthouses, the Kennedys.

Cape Cod had told me a story—and so had Brenda when she first took over Kristi’s post at Not-Quite Sephora (Kristi got pregnant and never came back). Cape Cod’s story was Yale Law, benevolence, intellectualism. Brenda’s story was that she was loud and earthy and understood how to make an entrance—if she’d been honest, she would’ve just said: “I can use my power to make you feel however I want you to feel about yourself. I’m an emotional abuser.”

But the story I heard, because I’m a gullible sweetheart, was “Fun Mom.”

I laughed along amiably to “stressed-out Mom,” bopped along bewilderedly to “not everything is functional upstairs Mom,” and—how do I put this?

I didn’t like the mother who had a master’s degree.

Self-protection was Brenda’s middle name, and nothing I said using the tools of reason or logic could penetrate the fortress of Brenda’s first impressions—that’s the definition of “closed-minded,” by the way (Brenda has a lot to say about closed-minded people—that’s the crazy part).

How we look is the first story we tell each other about who we are. It’s our audiovisual accompaniment to the words that make up the second half of our story—the “spoken half”—and everyone understands that this isn’t fair, everyone understands and then does nothing. Brenda isn’t the only person who learned how to survive in America by going to an American middle school. She’s only lost her temper at me a couple of times, but I’ve been tracking all of them.

I’ve been watching you like a falcon, Brenda.

I’ve been watching you like a true A student.

True A students are out of favor in America for a reason. We’re only mortal, but we’re a little bit supermortal too. Because what I really didn’t like about Brenda was her insincerity—“When have I ever said no to you, Nina?” Brenda was now drying her eyes with a tissue and screaming.

It was a change in the air—a subtle bit of misdirection that she probably thought I was too stupid to catch (I’m not).

I was the powerful one now.

And Brenda McHiggins was now “the victim.”

“You threatened to fire me right after Easter for being late on a BOPUS order,” I treaded carefully.

“Nina, ninety-nine percent of our Google ratings come down to the BOPUS orders—”

“Which is why I said you needed a better system for assigning roles for when people aren’t .”

“Which is why I said you needed a better system for assigning roles for when people aren’t here.”

“But I never threatened to fire you.”

“You told me you’d have my name forwarded to Charles!"

“Exactly!”

“Which is the same as getting fired!”

“That isn’t true, Nina—I would have protected you.”

This statement was so stupid that it almost broke my brain. “Wha—protected me: do you not understand how Charles operates?” Brenda turned her back to me, waved her hand in the air, and said: “I’m not going to go into this with you again” as she looked for her glasses.

“It’s right there,” I said. “On top of Better Homes & Gardens.”

“Oh,” Brenda said without acknowledging me.

Brenda put on her glasses and then sat down into the chair, which made a sound like it was about to snap in half.

This was how she always liked to berate us—from her chair. I had seen that painting of the lighthouse behind Brenda’s desk so many times—it just never occurred to me that it was Cape Cod. Sometimes, I’d overhear Brenda berating Gabby on my way to the restroom and I’d think, “Well, she isn’t wrong—Gabby is kind of stupid—but that’s still not the way you talk to her. You have to incentivize her to trust you first.” (Gabby was the one who first changed Brenda’s nickname from “Fun Mom” to that cunt with a stick up her ass.) Ashley and I burst out laughing. (What else is there to do inside a dying country?)

“Everyone here is so short-tempered with each other because you set the tone. I’ve been too afraid to ask you for three days off in September to go on a trip with my boyfriend for our one-year anniversary because I knew you weren’t going to say yes, so I was just going to take them off as sick days—and that’s not a functional work environment if people are constantly doing things like that all the time, because what you really need to do is go to Charles and ask for more staff.”

“This September—oh, Nina, you got to be kidding me!”

It was the first honest thing I ever heard Brenda say.

I thought about my naïve dream from earlier—how I thought I was going to turn Brenda around.

How I thought I was going to save the store. “The problem is we’re under_staffed_” was what I should’ve said—I get that now, I do, and I don’t know why I couldn’t wear it in my mouth even as it was trying to form in my subconscious. Because other forms were rising in me now too, forms like: “Brenda is a world-class manipulator. She butters you up just to brine you.” (I couldn’t even trust her tears, and if you can’t trust someone’s tears, you can’t trust them to ever find help.) I don’t know how I’d fare if it were just me and Brenda on a deserted island—I could see her killing a cougar for us with her own bare hands, but I could also see her killing me. “I never said that, I just told you I’d have to forward your name to Charles”—Brenda the liar. Brenda who could probably play dead about as well as she could play stupid—any falcon worth its weight in bird could see through it.

“I’ve been having issues with my boyfriend,” I suddenly blurted out.

Where had I learned this from?

Middle school.

“The anniversary trip means a lot to him, and I can’t even say yes or say no—it just hangs there over us, because he knows about the back-to-school rush. And he’s not even someone I—even feel fully comfortable with in some ways. But I’m also scared to lose him, I’m scared every time I come into work on Tuesday because I don’t know how you’re going to change my hours. Everything we do revolves around my not having enough time—I’d have issues building a perfect relationship with him if we had the rest of our lives to ourselves on a deserted island, but every weekend until closing? He works a normal job! He’s tired all the time too, but he makes time to see me and I can’t—I can’t come to you about anything.”

I didn’t cry.

But I did smile in my head:

“Wanna play victim, bitch?”

I could see Cape Cod now—I could see its lighthouse drawing my boyfriend and I closer and closer, I could see us dancing now to The Strokes at midnight like we were back in middle school because I didn’t want this to be the rest of my life, I don’t want retail, I don’t want resumes and cover letters and I don’t want to meet any more Brendas—what I want is for the Brendas of the world to collapse at my feet, but all I can see are the Brendas of the world closing in on me until death and so I need a release, I need to go back to middle school (I was popular in middle school, I can admit that now, I had bee-stung lips, and a bee-stinger too)—I need The Strokes (haven’t you ever made out with a boy in a hot tub while stroking your nails across his abs, parting the hair where his lower back begins?)—“Is this it? … Is this it?”—(my boyfriend and I swimming in the stars of our liberation, and I’ll give him all the vision and dental that he likes)—prey: always just a one-click order away (and we’ll eat lobster, because lobsters hold harms forever)—I the warm body and he the warm arms, holding me in his lanky-panky forever (and if Connor ever got a gym membership I would die—I don’t need a perfect 10, I can settle for an 8.9)—my captors: do they know? Do they understanding I’m not living my one true life? Wearing Ray-Bans while gazing out at the Atlantic from a yacht, because Comfort is my one true God—I’m ready, Mr. DeMille, for my one true closeup to begin. How am I still in Brenda’s office? I’m twenty-seven years old—how am I twenty-seven years old and still smoldering in Brenda’s office? In middle school I listened to The Strokes while everyone else listened to pop hip-hop—another Universe has been calling to me all my life. And all it would take was just a few more thousand steps to get there.

I’ve been running every day since I was thirteen. I don’t even eat my desserts correctly—I just spit and chew.

Ashley and Gabby remind me of who I was back in middle school. I had power over everyone back then except Abercrombie Couture (not her real name). Abercrombie was the class favorite—it’s hard to explain, but among the very-outgoing girls, Abercrombie was Frivolity Personified. And when only the people who needed to see it could see it, Abercrombie was the cruelest human you’ve ever met—she’d ignore you so subtly you’d drive yourself crazy for days asking the other girls if she was mad at you. Back then I had already begun telling myself I was too cool to care—but I still have nightmares about Abercrombie sometimes, about the way she’d say hi to everybody else at the party except me. “I just can’t deal with your emotional up and downs anymore, Brenda! Like I’m sorry—I’ve defended you to Ashley and Gabby so many times! I’m sick of having these conversations with them.”

Abercrombie, I later realized during college, must have been unsettled by how candidly I could talk about her behind her back. That was my little power over her, and I’d like to think I wielded it gracefully. (Abercrombie was dethroned by a lurid sex scandal involving a used condom in eighth grade, and I’d like to believe I led our class to a more open and inclusive place after her dismissal.)

“Three days—where you trying to go, Wuhan?”

“No. The Cod.”

“The what?”

“The Cod.”

“Where’s that?”

“In Massachusetts.”

“You mean Cape Cod?”

That was how quickly I realized I had fumbled the ball—that was the speed at which I realized I had fumbled the fuck-you—the one thing I needed to do correctly and I had fumbled the ball trying to cross the finish line. “It’s the Cape, not the Cod sweetie,” Brenda was already huffing to me by the time I realized my mistake, with a smile on her face. She’ll deny it to this day, and in absolute candor I can’t really say it was a “physical” smile—I don’t remember what it looked like, I don’t remember if Brenda actually huffed or if she even moved her mouth all that much at all, it was more in the eyes, but that bitch smiled.

I grew up in Nevada.

My boyfriend graduated from Yale Law and with him I can see a way out of my life—and I really don’t understand why that’s such a terrible thing to say. And I’m about to lose him—it’s in between the lines, but I can just feel it, I have him wrapped around my little finger because that’s the only way I’d ever have any man who loomed so tall over me, with him it’d be Cape Cod until the end of my days and nobody would ever laugh at me for calling it the Cod again—I’ll just rename it.

My hatred of Brenda in that moment was rivaled only by my childhood hatred of Abercrombie Couture.

But I knew I had to proceed gingerly.

I began to feel like Leif Erikson again—what other uncharted sensitivities do you have, Brenda?

Do white people really have white guilt?

Verbalizing the subconscious is like navigating by stars—Pequod knows where it’s trying to go, it just needs the conscious mind to plot out the steps to get there first—only I couldn’t verbalize any of this, all I could do was feel the mind for throbs like the twitches of a rat’s tail inside the forest below—and I was throbbing for a release, I was throbbing all my middle-school embarrassments, I was throbbing Cape Cod. A woman who understood nothing but appearances stood in front of me, utterly preoccupied with her own self-preservation—neither wise, open-minded, nor beautiful—but who could mean the difference between me and my income, between me and my livelihood, between me and my boyfriend breaking up (which would mean the difference between me and Cape Cod)—and I couldn’t even get anyone on the second floor to take her magazine theft seriously. How do I even begin to tabulate all her subtle knife-wounds to the psyche?

My favorite song by The Strokes?

“Hard to Explain.”

“You can correct the way I say things all you’d like, but it doesn’t change the fact that I live in fear of you—okay? I go home every night and cry. You bully Ashley and Gabby every day but I’m not Ashley or Gabby—okay? You have not created an emotionally safe environment in the workplace and it’s affecting my life—okay? I’m sorry you take yourself so seriously, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with your fear that all the girls who thought you’d never amount to anything in middle school might be right, but if you have to terrorize other people just to feel better about yourself, that’s not how I roll—okay? That’s not me. The way you talk to Ashley, Gabby, Mike, Chris—it’s un-ac-cep-ta-ble, Brenda.”

And this is where my ship was trying to go:

“I don’t think you belong in your position. So that’s what I told Charles.”

I’d set fire to Cape Cod if I could.

I’d set fire to my boyfriend’s lake house, I’d set fire to Brenda’s Us Weeklies, and I’d certainly set fire to the poster of the lighthouse with seagulls behind Brenda’s desk.

“I don’t work here anymore. Not until you apologize to Ashley,” I added quickly.

My speech was now outpacing my life decisions.

“And I’m not going to be manipulated by you anymore, okay? Because you know how hard I work, you know how much I give to this store every day but Wannabe-Nordstrom isn’t my life, okay? I am not living the life I want to live every single day—so that’s my life, okay?”

Were ordinary people in the Soviet Union this unhappy? Has anyone ever bothered to ask them?

The only thing I ever knew how to do around Brenda was say whatever I needed to say to make her feel comfortable.

Like seagulls exploding out of a cove, that was the only thing Brenda ever seemed to value: her personal comfort. I don’t remember how Brenda looked in that moment. She kept darting her eyes between Better Homes & Gardens and the floor, and her glasses were foggy. I gazed at Brenda with a falcon’s stare and said:

“Think of last night as my last straw.”

It’d be worth it, you know.

It’d be worth it to suspend my gym membership for a few months to see Brenda have to swallow the fruits of her own disorder. I hadn’t coaxed Brenda into reacting the way she did to Ashley’s request—I had only coaxed Ashley into talking to her, and that was a sincere act of friendship: “You have to stand up for yourself with people like that, Ashley.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Brenda and you are like best friends.”

“We are not.”

“You have her wrapped around your little finger, Nina.”

“No I don’t,” I said, and then I hit Ashley’s face with a big fat pillow until feathers fell out, which of course never happened because Ashley and I don’t have open and honest conversations about anything. All Ashley said was “You’re probably right,” and I could sense in Ashley’s eyes that she was perceptive enough to understand I was probably wrong—but even I couldn’t pick that up, at least not consciously, so in a way, Ashley doomed herself by failing to correct me.

I was Brenda’s star employee and everybody knew it.

I’ve been an A student all my life.

I’m the picture of good anger management.

Management hates it when you quit. That’s the one thing you can still lord over them, even during a recession (and July 2022 in America was anything but)—replacing an employee costs time, and time is money. Every store manager knows that—even Brenda (her management woes don’t source back to her inability to optimize).

And then Brenda said something so stupid that for a second I almost thought she was parodying Gabby.

“I thought you and I could speak openly to each other.”

Brenda.

Girl.

Just because you tell me about the medications you take for your back problems doesn’t mean we’re friends.

Was this really happening right now?

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” I told Brenda. “I did speak openly in the email.”

Was Brenda really buying into Ashley’s delusion that management and workers can be just friends?

Or was she just calculating that I—because I’m pretty—was stupid enough to buy into it too?

“Actually, no—the way you engage with others doesn’t seem intended to provide a pathway for sincere and open conversations. You have a ‘No Assholes’ policy that seems intended to make other people suppress their true feelings around you at all times, because anybody who contradicts you is automatically an asshole.”

I didn’t say that.

I just said: “It can be intimidating to speak to you sometimes.”

Even when you try to laugh with me about your muscle relaxants, I laugh back, but what I really want to say is “Brenda, a certain percentage of the population is going to have back problems, and you have given me no particular reason to care about yours.” I think again now about if Brenda and I were stuck on a deserted island. I’d probably have to save her life from the elements from time to time, and that’d build trust between us. “What we’d need to do is charter a plane somewhere, and have the plane crash. That’s the only way to resuscitate this relationship.”

“How many times have I told you, Nina, you can come to me about anything…” and before I could even respond, Brenda began comparing our dynamics to a mother-daughter relationship and I was one second away from saying, “Bitch, that’s your problem,” but I caught myself and said calmly:

“Brenda, that’s the problem.”

Brenda looked at me earnestly.

“Just, that right there—the word you used. I don’t think you really understand other people’s boundaries? I tell you obligatory anecdotes from my personal life because you specifically ask to hear them, not because I want to volunteer them—again, that’s how afraid I am of you, Brenda, because I don��t even feel like I have the right to tell you that my dating history is, actually, now that I think about it, none of your business. And then you lecture me about how I talk to my boyfriend? Again, because you asked to hear the details, and you actually make it so that now I’m thinking about my boyfriend at work instead of focusing on my job, which you then get mad at me for? I don’t think you really understand, Brenda, how your friendliness comes off when it’s mixed with so much—neediness, I don’t know, this need to control everything all the time—to make everything perfect.”

The first time I ever met Brenda, we got along so well that after our shift we went to a Red Lobster on the other side of the strip mall, where she bought me three milkshakes. I told her about growing up with my mom in a trailer park in Nevada and she told me about growing up with her mom in a trailer park in New Jersey—we laughed a lot that night. I don’t even remember what we laughed about, but we were both talkers, Brenda and I, we were both tellers, and we were both showers. I could tell after my first milkshake that Brenda must have floated in the margins of the sub-popular crowd in middle school, and she all but confirmed it on the second (she just had one of those I’ve seen it all energies).

“So how does it feel being back in the Northeast?”

“Honestly?” Brenda said, grabbing a French fry. “I’m ready.”

You couldn’t hear the ocean from where we were sitting, but you could hear a highway.

I understand Brenda.

I really do.

Sometimes at night, while I fantasized about quitting a company whose Corporate was famous for giving their employees vision and dental (and anyway, what else would I do besides marketing or retail? In what other way might I be called upon to serve the good people of America?), I’d climax with an image of Brenda sitting alone at home on a Thursday night (that was Brenda’s day off), crocheting to Fleetwood Mac, with a cat rubbing up against her ankle. The only mystery was how many paintings of beaches dotted her apartment.

I know Brenda doesn’t talk to her mother anymore (“Neither do I!” was probably one of our first laughs), and I’d fantasize about how much she probably secretly admired me—because I was pretty—because I could always talk my way into classes and parties she could only stare through the curtains of (I once helped Brenda create an account on Plenty of Fish), and now it was too late for her because she was already in her late forties or early fifties—and I?

I was bound for Cape Cod.

“What are the locals there like,” all summer long I used to wonder. I work at a Nordstrom now.

And I no longer wonder.

“Oh, sweetie—it’s called the Cape, not the Cod.”

Wasn’t that how she had said it?

Even in her most helpless moment, she was still so condescending—she was still just so frivolously condescending—I mean think about the stakes here, girl, you’re about to lose your star employee right before the back-to-school rush—was the poison dart worth it?

Was the poison tip worth it, Brenda?

“I don’t think it’s healthy for me to work here anymore,” I suddenly blurted out. “You’re not a good influence on me.”

“What can I say to make you stay just through September?”

It was so quick and direct that it snapped me instantly out of my sympathy spell.

Brenda.

There’s the Brenda I knew—Brenda, you’re back!

And you’re still holding onto threads in the air.

This store will dissipate, Brenda. Your job will dissipate, and then you’ll have to go right back out there again and sell your competence at another round on the roulette wheel. (Just don’t end up at another store that sells beauty supplies, Brenda—I don’t think you quite understand what they’re really telling the world.) “I don’t think there’s anything you can say, Brenda. I know how hard the last few months have been for you, and I thought very long and hard about doing this to you. But I have to prioritize my own mental health.”

“You know Charles is only giving me a year.”

Brenda said this with a vulnerability I had never heard from her before.

Her voice was like a child’s.

Guilt—it’s impossible to summon it for a person you’ve already dehumanized. Cockroaches die every day.

My subconscious was churning again—I would have a child with my boyfriend someday, and I would protect her from people like you, Karen McHiggins. “Brenda, you have the mental age of a child,” was what I really wanted to say to her. “When I fuck up at work, who do you think I go to? Nobody—do you understand that, Brenda, because adults take responsibility for their shit.”

But I would have to sugarcoat it, because someone with the mental age of an Abercrombie would be unable to understand that the powerful can’t be friends with the powerless, no matter how hard they tried—and someone with the mental age of an Abercrombie would also need everything sugarcoated for them.

“Brenda, I don’t know how to break this to you but there isn’t going to be any back-to-school rush! It’s not 2019 anymore—Covid killed retail. We don’t know whether we want to be bargain basement or high-end and the middle class is dead, everyone wants either a bargain or an experience! What did they teach you in that master’s program?”

Only I couldn’t say that either, because Brenda would somehow spin it into me losing my cool, which is the one thing I never do—I’ve been one thing and one thing only all my life, and that’s an A student.

“You’ve given your life to a dinosaur, Brenda—move on. Department stores are dead—this isn’t the ’80s anymore. Your image of America—it’s a façade, and I can prove it. It’s that picture of the lighthouse you keep behind your desk that you pilfered from returned merchandise, and I can prove that too. We’re like explorers in an uncharted land. Things are going to fall apart for us in ways we have no templates for, just like they did for all of the generations before us—only they weren’t as trapped inside the façade of returned merchandise as we are! Settled mores are changing. This century could still look like anything—it’s all up for grabs, and more and more people are just beginning to wake up to this new dawn. Maybe what you really need to do is start a YouTube channel. You have the voice for it, you have the charisma, and you have the storytelling abilities—we could all profit from hearing from your perspective, only nobody will because you’re not young, thin, or beautiful, but hey—it’s worth a shot! You’ll have a better chance there at the lighthouse than you do in retail.”

Only I didn’t say any of this either, because I knew Brenda couldn’t hear a word I was saying. Brenda was dead between the eyes—her soul died in middle school, and she’s been dragging the corpses of would-be lives ever since.

“You’re not a particularly smart or competent person, Brenda, and what’s happening right now speaks for itself. You didn’t just get unlucky, Brenda.”

Brenda once whistled to me when she saw me change into a sundress as I was leaving my afternoon shift—“Whose heart are you breaking tonight, Nina?”

“None of your business!” was what I wanted to tell her, but I wanted to let Brenda live vicariously through me—it was the only gentleness I could ever offer her.

“You know Charles is only giving me the year,” Brenda had said, and she was staring into the void now. I could feel her back pain. She had given her whole entire life to Not-Quite-Sephora, six days a week, and on most nights on my way to the restroom I could hear “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac playing from a small Bluetooth speaker. I looked at Brenda and said: “I have no idea what you want from me. It’s not my job to make you look any better than you are at your job. And I don’t know what your agreement with Charlie has to do with anything—in fact, I had lunch with him the other day.”

Brenda lifted her eyes.

“What?” she said stupidly.

“Oh, I’m sorry—I was trying to get a vacation approved. No, Brenda. I needed to talk to him about a few things.”

“What things?”

And then, before I could offer an answer, “What are you trying to say, Nina? Just spit it out!”

“You have a problem, okay? I’ve seen the way you’ve unraveled in the last few months—Gabby and Ashley are afraid of you, Chris is about to quit, literally nobody can handle your emotional volatility anymore. Everybody’s so short-tempered with each other all the time and coming to me for help, and it’s not my job to help them—that’s your job! You’ve created a situation where nobody can even talk to you. We just smile at you out of fear. You don’t command anybody’s respect—you know that, right? So we basically have to operate without a supervisor—you understand that, don’t you?”

It feels good to eat.

I no longer have a gym membership anymore. Instead, I jog every Tuesday and Friday at the public park.

“So yeah—so I guess I just thought it was about time Charlie heard all of this. He’s actually very reasonable if you talk to him in a reasonable way. He said he’d look into opening one or two more positions for us to cover the weekends. But you probably won’t be there to oversee it.”

Not-Quite Sephora was founded as a regional competitor to J.C. Penney in 1991. It never expanded beyond the Northeast, Minnesota, and California, and it’s about to die—it’s only a matter of time. Unless if maybe Corporate in Burlington saw the light and hired someone like me and actually listened to her ideas for turning all of their stores into “experiences,” which is what I’ve been trying to tell Brenda every time she questioned one of my lipstick arrangements. A lot of what I miss about middle school is the taste-test of freedoms I enjoy every day now as an adult: you build a friendship with the highest person who’ll take you in.

That’s how you climb a hierarchy.

Brenda looked at me like a wounded animal.

There really isn’t ambiguity, is there, about which one of us would survive if it were just you and me on a deserted island. A new recognition was forming inside of Brenda, and I didn’t want to be there to watch it settle in—you can’t treat people like you treated Ashley the other night in the stock room, this isn’t the ’80s anymore. Of course, Brenda was too obtuse to work out that I was only bluffing. The truth was, I had talked to Charlie briefly on the second floor, but he just told me to “put it all in an email,” and I knew he was never going to speak to Brenda long enough to ever contradict anything I had just said—Charlie’s not exactly the open type. Besides, Charlie did agree to look into hiring more part-timers, the way Charlie ever agrees to anything—by pretending it was his idea all along. “It’s the unreliability of when customers come in, that’s the problem,” Charlie had explained to me. (“Yes, that’s true. Unreliability is always the problem,” I told Charlie.)

You can’t rely on other people’s testimony when you ask them about Abercrombie Couture.

You have to come to me.

I’ve seen sides of Abercrombie that nobody else has.

“So what’s the dating scene like out here?” Brenda had asked me that first night at Red Lobster, while popping a French fry. I remember trying not to look at Brenda like she was serious. “It’s just men!” I remember laughing to Brenda in front of two tall glasses of milkshake. “It’s just a bunch of men—that’s the only way I know how to put it!”

And then Brenda in her black blazer and black pants laughed too.

Like we were girlfriends.

“I would’ve given you those vacation days, Nina,” Brenda finally said in a whisper. “If I had just understood that you knew what you were doing when you took them—what you were doing to the store—I would’ve given them to you.”

A new sincerity is trying to grow in the air all around us—I can hear its infant-screams, can’t you? (Couldn’t Brenda?) “Oh my God, Brenda. This is about so much more than whether or not I can go on one trip to Cape Cod.”

“That is all this is about to you, Nina, and don’t you pretend otherwise—”

“No, it isn’t.”

“—because you have a fancy boyfriend now.”

“Leave Connor out of this.”

I don’t really know where my life’s going to go after Cape Cod. Colson’s mental health—it causes collateral damage to people (Colson was one of Connor’s three friends that had stayed with us at the lake house). I don’t really think he understands that his actions have consequences on other people. He thinks I’m one of the popular kids who terrorized him in middle school, but the truth is—I’m just a little bit higher or lower on the pecking order than he is. All of us are—all of us down here. I can’t really bring myself to fully hate him for what he did, but then I remember what his life is and I do—I hate him by several orders of magnitude more than I ever hated Brenda. And what Colson and Brenda both have in common, of course, is their dripping self-pity: they’re both absolutely lacquered in it (what is it about competitive social environments that produces so much self-pity anyway, dripping like honey?). I didn’t have too much compassion for Colson when he asked me to feed some of his honey back to him with my fingers. “Money,” I wanted to tell him.

“How much money you have is an easy way to tabulate what your self-pity is worth to me.”

But to be honest, I couldn’t even lift a finger to care.

Cape Cod was only four days ago, but it’s already just another memory now—that’s how all of our weekends are bound to end. Several hundred more of these and then it’s lights out. Connor and I listened to the first season of Serial on the way up, and as we walked through Martha’s Vineyard later that afternoon, we saw fifty migrants from South America file onto a bus bound for a military installation.

There were cameras and cake everywhere.

We’re all participants in this gladiatorial contest to see who ends up in Cape Cod as the sun sets over our lives.

Colson recently wrote a book called A Stick of Dynamite in the American Elite.

I wish him luck.

I have plans for him, you know.

No matter what his next chess move is—I have a plan to stop him. I left Brenda alone in her office that day. I never learned where she went after she was dismissed from Not-Quite Sephora, all I remember is Ashley and Gabby coming over to hug me as I grabbed my purse from the break room, and they both quit two days later. It was because there’s something in my soul that doesn’t like to see other people are in pain—even people without souls like Brenda (Colson doesn’t count because he’s not really a human in my eyes, he’s more like a bad anecdote you shake off)—that I found myself hugging Brenda right before I said goodbye, holding her as she kept saying to me that I’d been like a daughter to her: “Brenda—Brenda, listen to me. My boyfriend has an ex-boyfriend whose stepmom also has a drinking problem, okay? Brenda—are you listening to me? They live in Westport…”

Cape Cod will die.

It’s only a matter of time before it collapses under the weight of its own contradictions. I sail America’s values like Leif Erikson now—other people have built their homes and comforts here, but I don’t mind. I wonder sometimes what Abercrombie Couture anesthetizes her listlessness to these days—HBO? Unsubtle affairs with younger men? “How long before mundane dehumanization bears fruit?” I smile to myself every day at Nordstrom, as I walk around the counter to deliver my customer’s parcels to them personally.

I see Abercrombie sometimes in the eyes of the women I help at Nordstrom. They’re all moms, and if that’s the final meaning of our lives—then yes, I agree.

Let’s all be moms.

You don’t know the Hell I’ll reign over America’s guilty class in the twenty-first century, but you will soon: I will mother the destruction of America’s guilded gilts into existence. I broke up with Connor this morning. Something about his reaction to Colson’s breakdown in Cape Cod just didn’t sit well with me—he couldn’t see through Colson’s insincerity, and that makes me think he might not have what it takes in this life to go where I’m trying to go. At my new job at the mall, I nibble on old memories like a woman who hasn’t eaten now in years. The last person I ate was my narcissistic mother in Nevada—she ruined my childhood—she was the Leif Erikson of my formative years—but then again?

So was my middle school.

College feels like a million years ago. My sorority sisters are all married with kids now. Mothers will do anything to protect their young.

#MeToo.

2022

[keanureevesisbae]

But professor… - c.7

Summary: Penny discovers something

Professor!Walter Marshall x Penny Townsend (Asian ofc)

Wordcount: 3.3k

Warnings: Mentions of sex

Masterlist // But professor… masterlist // Previous chapter // Next chapter

It’s February now and I officially quit school. Never in a million years did I think that I would be good enough for it anyway and when I went back after Christmas break, I realized I wasn’t in the right place at all. Ever since I dropped out, I have been looking into cosmetology school and how to tell my parents about this sudden change.

Walter is getting ready to teach for today and is going to drop me off at the mall, because I need to buy a few things. Since I have yet to move out of the dorm, I need at least some boxes and just some other items.

‘Princess, you look absolutely gorgeous,’ Walter says, patting my butt through my jeans.

I squeal, before turning around, slapping him across his chest. ‘Don’t do that,’ I laugh.

‘Why not?’ He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me up. ‘You’ve got a cute butt.’

After I triple checked if I have everything, the two of us leave his loft and walk downstairs towards the garage, his hand securely wrapped around mine. Like usual, he opens the door for me and kisses me the second he got in his truck as well. It’s becoming a thing now and it’s weird if he doesn’t do it.

Walter holds my hand as he drives towards the mall. ‘Princess, how about you and I get you moved in the middle of the night? So I can help you carry some boxes.’

‘I can ask someone to help me,’ I say. ‘Maybe just call someone from one of those services. Please, I don’t want to risk running into someone I might possibly know.’ When I notice he isn’t liking it, I say: ‘Please, Walter, don’t sweat it. I can move out myself.’

‘I know, I know,’ he grumbles. ‘It’s just that I want to help you out.’ He presses a kiss on my hand and leans back in his seat. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘Do you need to tell me that every opportunity you get?’

‘Yes,’ he simply says. ‘Come on, princess, scoot a little closer.’

It’s been a few weeks since he got the truck fixed, so I could sit closer to him. I unbuckle myself, before sliding over to his side. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and I close my eyes after I strapped myself into the seatbelt. ‘You’re so needy,’ I chuckle.

‘I’m not needy, I just love you. Need you as close as possible, darling.’

His arm feels heavy on my shoulders and when we’re close to the mall, I say: ‘Do you need anything?’

‘Maybe some snacks, but I’ll leave that up to you.’ He gives me a long kiss, before I get out of the truck.

‘I love you,’ I say.

‘I love you too, princess. Text me when you’re back at the loft, okay?’

‘Will do.’

✎ ✎ ✎

Shopping was nice, until I had to throw up. That never happened to me before. I think in my entire life I have vomited only once, until today. I stare at the stomach contents that are floating in the toilet. I can’t think of eating anything that has made this nauseous I need to puke.

Why would anyone vomit? The only reasons I can imagine is food poisoning, a stomach bug or being pregna—

Oh.

Could it be?

I flush the toilet and with the moving boxes that I have yet to fold into boxes, I walk through the shopping mall to the drugstore. I ask the woman behind the registry if I can have a pregnancy test and she simply nods. I don’t know what I was expecting (maybe the woman first completing a three hour interview before handing me a test, I don’t know), but after I paid for it and hid it in my purse, I walk out of the mall.

What if I’m pregnant? I mean, yes, I did skip a period, but that is not new to me. I mean, I’ve been pretty regular all my life, minus a few times. Normally me skipping a period didn’t make me suspect anything, since I wasn’t having sex, nor was I the next virgin Mary, but now…

Walter and I have been having sex quite a lot. I mean, it’s always with a condom of course, but even those are not one hundred percent effective.

I might be naive from time to time, but I’m not that stupid to unrealistic about the effectiveness of condoms.

The bus ride back to the loft couldn’t be any longer and when I finally arrive at Walter’s place (soon to be ours), I quickly text him I’m home, before hiding into the bathroom. Buying one was weird, peeing on a stick is weirder.

As I wait for the two minutes to pass by, I think about what to do. Would I have a baby at this age? I mean, I’ve always wanted kids and maybe now is a good time? Okay, no, it’s not absolutely ideal (the timing couldn’t have been more off), but… I’m not in school right now and—

Oh no, that’s just me being selfish and only thinking about my situation. I haven’t even thought about Walter yet. We never spoke about having kids, because I don’t think you are supposed to do that this early on in your relationship.

Right?

Oh my goodness, this is too much for me to think about. Let’s just wait until I see what the test says. I mean, there is a possibility I’m not pregnant and just a little bit late with my period and caught a stomach bug. Why think about all sorts of scenarios when there is a chance that it’s not applicable to me.

I grab the test and discover it has two strips. After a quick examination of the box I discover that…

I’m pregnant.

✎ ✎ ✎

Six hours. Six hours have passed by since I took the first test. In that time, I went back to the drugstore, to buy another one and peed on that one as well. They say there is no such thing as a false positive, but I’d rather be too sure.

And that one was also positive.

So naturally I spend my time wisely until Walter came home. I’ve been pacing through the loft, looked online how to tell your partner that you are pregnant and I ate some watermelon.

Walter walks in with a deep frown between his brows, but that disappears when he sees me. ‘Princess,’ he says, ‘you have no idea how much I missed you.’ He sits next to me on the couch and gives me a kiss. The frown appears again when he takes in my expressions. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

He nods. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, it’s just that… I don’t know. It’s kinda huge.’

He places his arm on the backrest, while his other hand takes mine. ‘Tell me, princess.’

Don’t beat around the bush, just tell him. ‘I’m pregnant, Walter.’

If it were possible, I’d suspect someone pressed on pause, because Walter completely froze. He tries to find some words for it, however nothing seems to leave his lips. I mean, what am I expecting from him? I’m trying to figure out whether or not I should be happy or scared.

‘Oh,’ he finally says. ‘And you’re planning to keep the baby or not?’

I nod. ‘I do and I understand that it’s too soon for us and that you won’t want to stay. I really understand that, Walter. I’m so sorry.’

Walter scoffs and actually looks super offended. ‘I do not understand why you think I wouldn’t stay, because I’m going to be right by your side, every step of the way.’ He squeezes in my hand and says: ‘You will never get rid of me that easily, princess.’

I let out a nervous chuckle, realizing how stupid it was of me to actually think he wouldn’t stay. I mean, we’re talking about Walter here. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘for just assuming. It’s just that my brain is working overtime. I might be a little scared.’

He nods. ‘I understand. It’s quite a lot, but let’s think about one thing first, okay?’ His lips curl up into a smile and says: ‘We’re going to be parents.’

When someone else says it, it’s even more meaningful. My eyes fill with tears as realization hit that I am indeed gonna be a mom and that Walter is staying, thus becoming a dad.

Walter pulls me closer and gives me a kiss on my forehead. ‘Princess, it’s okay.’

‘I know, but it’s so scary. So much is gonna change.’

He nods. ‘Nothing we can’t handle though.’ He pulls me on his lap and gives me another peck, this time on my lips. ‘Now we really need to get you out of that dorm. This weekend I’ll make sure someone is gonna help you with moving and you’re gonna stay right here with me.’

I smile. ‘I can’t wait.’

‘And,’ he says, ‘do you really want to go to cosmetology school now? We can always arrange something when the baby is here.’

‘I kinda want to focus on the pregnancy first, since I have no idea what to expect.’

‘Alright,’ he says, ‘then we’ll wait with that.’ He places his hand on my flat stomach and says: ‘Oh shit, Penny, I’m gonna be a dad.’

I can’t help but squeal when I think about it a while longer. ‘And I’m gonna be a mom.’

✎ ✎ ✎

It’s only obvious that we have to tell my parents. After I had my first scan, I realize that I really shouldn’t push the matter and just tell them, especially because the baby is healthy and I’m out of my first trimester at fifteen weeks of pregnancy. Besides, I also officially live with Walter and those nerves are slowly becoming less and less prevalent.

My bump is minuscule, but that doesn’t stop Walter from continuously placing his hands on it when he can. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing, his hands are always on my stomach, but that’s okay. It’s sweet to see the demeanor of the detective change from someone who always has a figurative thunderstorm hanging above his head, to someone with childlike happiness.

We’re driving to Maryland now and we’ve been on the road for a mere forty-five minutes, when I say: ‘I have to pee.’

Walter starts to laugh loudly. ‘Again? Princess, you went three times back at home.’

Home. That shouldn’t make me giggly, but sure does. ‘I know, but I have to go again.’

‘Lucky you there’s a gas station right here.’ He gets off the road and parks his car. ‘Want something to eat, princess?’

‘Some orange juice, chips and chocolate.’

He simply nods and tells me to stay put. As usual, he opens the door for me. He was already very chivalrous when we just started dating, but pregnancy has multiplied it by a hundred. He securely places his hand on the small of my back and like the true detective he is, he checks everything and everyone in the gas station, before he says: ‘I’ll be right here, princess.’

I squeeze his hand, a silent thank you, before walking off to the restrooms to pee. After I washed and dried my hands, I exit the restrooms, to see Walter is already waiting for me, with all the snacks I wanted and even some more.

It’s nice to know that he still loves me a lot, even after we spend so many weeks together.

Once we’re back in the car, I let out a deep sigh.

‘Princess, you okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m good. Just tired.’

‘Why don’t you sleep?’ he suggests. ‘I’ll let you know once we’re close.’

I groan. ‘No, because that is so boring and I’ve been boring for so many weeks now.’

He scoffs. ‘You’re not boring, you’re pregnant. You’re allowed to be tired, princess and please just catch up on some sleep now.’

I hold his hand in mine, as I close my eyes and drift off to a light sleep. Walter doesn’t need to wake me up, because after an hour or so my eyes flutter open and I smile. ‘We’re almost there?’

‘Maybe an hour?’

I grab some of the snacks and feed Walter, as he continues to watch the road. I once saw how he drove, because we were video calling then. It was fast, hasty and in my opinion not very safe. When he drives with me, he doesn’t ignore the speed limits and is very very safe.

Imagine if there’s a child in the back, I bet he’ll drive just as safe, if not safer.

He places his hand on my stomach and says: ‘I’m not gonna lie, but I’m kinda nervous to meet your parents.’

‘You are?’ I ask. I thought nervous wasn’t in his dictionary. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, it’s just nerve wracking. Not only have I never met them, but I also got you pregnant. That usually doesn’t do well.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry,’ I say. ‘My parents are very open minded. Besides, my mom and I used to watch Sixteen and Pregnant and she always said that despite not having to worry about that since I lived like a nun back then, she’d love a grandchild. So, I think we’re good. Also, my dad is probably a little scared of you. He is not that tall.’

Walter chuckles. ‘Well, maybe this’ll go well.’

‘It’ll go splendid, Walter,’ I say, ‘really. If my parents see how well you take care of me, then there is nothing to worry about.’ I place my hand on his and whisper: ‘They’ll love you.’

He smiles. ‘Good. Alright, let me get this straight one last time: we met at a coffee place, right?’

‘Correct,’ I chuckle.

The last part of the drive goes by fast and before we get out of the truck, I put on a sweater to hide the little bump. Walter unbuckles himself and his hand slips underneath the thick fabric, placing it on my tiny bump. He leans forward to press a kiss on it and says: ‘I can do this forever. I might have to quit my job, so I can do this whenever I want.’

I roll my eyes. He has been taking this dad thing so serious and while sometimes it’s very cheesy, I love him for it. Really, I couldn’t have asked for a better man to start having a family with. Is it pretty short notice, being only together a little over four months? Yes, of course, but that’s okay. I feel like the two of us can actually handle it. ‘We should go.’

We get out of the car and when we walk up to the door (Walter holding our luggage, since my mom insisted we stayed in the house I grew up in) my parents open the it and mom runs up to me.

‘Oh, honey, there you are!’ She gives me a hug and I hold back a little, so she won’t feel my bump against her body. I give my dad a hug as well and they look both hopeful and a little nervous when they see Walter.

‘Mom, dad, this is my boyfriend Walter. Walter, these are my parents, Lance and CC.’

Walter is polite, a role that fits him so well, yet I barely see it. He is always so sweet and kind to me, so grumpy and annoyed when it comes to my classmates and so neutral when it’s others. Now it changes a bit. He smiles, he shakes my parents’ hands and from the look of their faces, he isn’t over squeezing it (I actually had to tell him that). ‘Nice to meet you,’ Walter says. ‘You have a lovely looking home.’

‘Oh, aren’t you a dear.’ Mom ushers us to come inside and Walter places his hand on my back, as we follow them inside. I give him a little nod, a sign that it is all going well.

And, it actually goes really well. My parents are in love with Walter and he is slowly warming up to them, eventually even cracking some jokes. We talked about how the two of us “met”, what Walter does for a living (currently he is working at the police department in New York and not as professor at NYU) and a little bit about my parents’ work. Of course, the subject school came up once or twice, but I kinda chickened out telling them I actually quit.

I clear my throat and say: ‘I actually have some news.’

Walter finds my hand underneath the table and gives me a reassuring squeeze.

‘What is it, honey?’ mom asks.

I look at Walter, whose eyes say it all: I’m ready when you are. ‘Well,’ I whisper, ‘I… I’m pregnant.’

Oh no, they’re silent. Oh my gosh, how are they going to react? I bet they’re mad. Oh, shit, my dad is clenching his jaw. They are totally mad.

‘Are you serious?’ my mom asks, blinking a few times.

I nod. ‘Fifteen weeks.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ mom says. ‘Honey, that is amazing. I am so happy for you.’ She stands up from the table and walks over to me. I give her a hug and she whispers: ‘You’ll be a fantastic mom.’ She pulls back and squeals something about becoming a grandmother. She places her hand on my stomach. ‘Oh my, a little bump. Honey, this’ll go fantastic. I am sure you and Walter will become magnificent parents. That reminds me, Walter, give me a hug. You’re officially part of the family, now. Congratulations, sweetheart.’

Walter stands up and gives my mom a tight hug. Dad walks up to me and holds my face in his hands. ‘You’re gonna be an amazing mother,’ he says.

‘You think so?’

‘I don’t think so, I know so.’ He gives me a kiss on my forehead and says: ‘Is this also a right moment to tell me you quit school?’

My eyes enlarge. ‘How did you know?’

‘You can maybe fool your mom, but you can never fool me, sweetheart. You know, you focus on your pregnancy now. You can always go back to school.’

I let out a sigh of relief. Thankfully he is pretty cool about me just quitting. We’ll talk about eventually going to cosmetology school a little bit later on. ‘I love you, dad.’

‘I love you too.’

✎ ✎ ✎

That night, Walter and I are in my old room, squeezed in my two person bed (that is a little slimmer than the one back in the loft) and we reminisce about the evening. It went more than splendid, even when my mom forced me to take off my sweater so she could see the bump. She called at least ten friends to tell them she is gonna be a grandmother and that the child will be gorgeous and lovely, though they have yet to be born.

Walter turns to his side so he can look at me and says: ‘Okay, I have a proposition,’ he says, ‘and I want your honest opinion.’

‘Okay.’

‘How about, you and I move to Maryland?’

Is he serious? ‘Really?’

‘Really. I could see how happy your parents were with the pregnancy and maybe… Maybe they’d like it if you would be closer to them. Besides, I can arrange something and work in Maryland. It’s not like I’m bounded to New York. For that matter, I actually really want to leave that place, because if I see that slimy ass Fitzgerald one more time…’

While I start to laugh because of his personal vendetta against Fitzgerald, my hormones are also all over the place, because I bawl my eyes out only a second later.

‘Princess, don’t cry. This is good news.’ He presses kisses on my temple and cheek, kissing my tears away. ‘But I’ll take that as a yes?’

I nod. ‘I would love that, Walter. Thank you.’

[vintagelasvegas]

Historic Commercial Center District, c. 1964

Northwest view over Karen Ave & S Maryland Pkwy. Vegas Village is the large building in the foreground. Towers of Sahara Hotel in the distance.

Billed as “the downtown of tomorrow,” Commercial Center opened with 120,000 ft. of retail space, more than all of downtown Las Vegas. This and other super-sized strip malls opening around the valley in the early 60s marked the beginning of the end of Fremont Street as the city’s central retail district.

Much of this property came from old Las Vegas’ biggest landowner, the estate of Leigh S.J. Hunt, into the hands of new Las Vegas’ biggest developers, Jerome Mack and Merv Adelson. When the issue of this shopping center came before County Commissioners, “hundreds of residents” turned out in opposition, saying it would ruin the neighborhood. The Commissioners ignored the controversy and overrode the recommendations of the Planning Commission in allowing the development to move forward.

Vegas Village, "Nevada's largest department store," opened first Aug. ‘63. The first few stores in Commercial Center – Cue Club, GiGi's shoes, Sahara Shoe Shop, and Al Tate Beauty Academy – opened in Oct & Nov. ‘63. A Grand Opening for Commercial Center was held in Apr. 1964.

Ice Palace, added in the late 60s, doubled as a concert venue, hosting Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Grateful Dead, James Brown, among others. It’s not called Sahara Event Center. In the mid 70s, New Orleans-themed Carriage Trade Center was opened on the Karen Ave-side of Commercial Center, adding an additional 56,000 feet of commercial space to the complex. It is now called New Orleans Square.

Photo: Undated, Series V. Glass slides, Culinary Workers Union Local 226 Photographs, UNLV Special Collections & Archives.

Sources: Zone Change Talks Delayed. Review-Journal, 7/27/61; Commerce Zone Plan Approved. Review-Journal, 9/16/61; Commission Considers Lot Plan. Review-Journal, 5/25/62; Commercial Center Now Prepared for Operation. Review-Journal, 11/11/62; Commercial Center Grand Opening. Review-Journal, 4/24/64; Tenants finding a home at new Vegas Carriage Trade Center. Review-Journal, 2/16/75; The History of the Weirdest, Queerest Strip Mall in Vegas. Vice, 2016.

Karen Ave was named after Jerome Mack’s daughter Karen Mack. Part of the road was renamed Liberace Ave in 2022.

[queenlua]

if you ebird enough, it becomes such a weird-yet-charming timeline of random life events...

i just dug up my Maryland checklists because “wtf when did i go birding in Maryland, i don’t remember that”

the answer is “oh yeah, this is the time i saw 1 northern cardinal and 20 american crows while standing outside a strip-mall liquor store, just before magfest.  that one crow was messin’ with his buddy on a telephone wire.  damn that was cute”

[idroveatank]

high quality, strip mall cafe discovery? Welcome to Rockville Maryland

[deadmotelsusa]

In the late 1940′s, Waldorf, Maryland became known as “Little Vegas” after gambling was legalized in Charles County. During this time, southern Maryland experienced an economic boom, resulting in an influx of visitors and of course, motels. The Stardust Motel was one of many lodging sites to become popular and was well known for its night club, which attracted celebrities like Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash. After roughly 20 years, lawmakers outlawed slot machines, resulting in the Stardust to fall into disrepair and eventually close.

As I researched this place, it was surprisingly difficult to find photos of it in it’s heyday. The black & white photos pictured above are from 1999, when the nightclub was about to be razed. Although an application to the National Register of Historic Places was completed, it clearly did not matter as the remaining Stardust structures were demolished in the mid-2000's. An empty lot now remains across from a strip mall.

More information here.

[bauzeitgeist]

Abandoned TJ Maxx, Maryland. Photo ©December 2016 Chris Arnade, via Twitter.

[two-wheeled-therapy]

2021 - Let the miles begin!

8,774.  That’s how many miles I need to roll between now and July to meet my goal of 100,000 miles on my Voyager when she turns 10.  As I said in my last post; I have a plan.  And that plan is rather simple - Just Ride.  Any chance I get, I am going to ride, and ride as far as I can.  That is how on January 2, 2021, I have more miles racked up on my bike this year than I did until sometime in April of 2020. 

The weather was forecast to get up in the mid 50′s.  I called Mark and we planned a ride north to visit one of my favorite Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives places, Chaps Pit Beef; not the original, but the Franchise in Frederick, MD.  It rained all day here on the New Year’s Day, and in Maryland that rain fell as sleet, snow, freezing rain, so Mark suggested we ride south.  Mark was thinking we would ride to the Mongolian Barbecue place we like in Williamsburg, but I had other cravings, and set our sights a little further away.

I first experienced MidTown Eats in Newport News, VA several years ago when I was down there for a Task Force Meeting.  At the time it was a small hole in the wall in a strip mall.  I remembered I ordered the Chorizo Chop, which I thought was a burger made with chorizo sausage mixed in.  When it came out it was a full burger with a full sized sausage pattie on top.  Every plate that went past me bound for other tables looked heavenly, and I realized that no matter what you ordered, you were getting a great home made meal.  When I paid at the counter, I grabbed one of the business cards that were next to the register so I didn’t forget the place. Before putting it in the console of my car, I read it.  It had the name of the place on it with the owner’s name and the the titles beneath, “Owner, CEO, Head Chef, Cashier, Janitor”. My kind of place, serving my kind of food, and run by my kind of guy.

A couple of years ago I went to stop in at the strip mall and was saddened that it was closed.  At the time I didn’t realize that they were moving, but happily found that out a few months later.  Thanks to Covid, I haven’t been going down that way, so when Mark suggested we ride south, this place full of deliciousness immediately came to mind.  It’s nearly a 400 mile round trip for me to get there and back . . . While I don;t think this place has been featured on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives, the next time Guy Fieri is in the area, he should check it out!  Definitely “off the Hook” and well worth it!

I called Bob and, never being one to turn down a good ride and good food, he decided to join us.  I mapped out the ride down to Mark’s and from there the ride to Mid-Town Eats.  It was 39 degrees when I got the bike out of the shed and headed towards Wawa to meet Bob.  The roads were still wet, and slick, and it was really foggy.  As I waited for Bob to get there I just happened to look up at the right time, as I saw the shadows approaching from above through the fog. As they approached they materialized; one was a seagull, but the one behind it was much bigger and much more majestic. As it passed directly over my head about 50 feet up I could see the full majesty of it’s white head and tail as it’s dark body cut through the fog.  We truly have a beautiful national symbol in the American Bald Eagle. We are lucky to have a nest nearby at the Manassas Airport and this one was out doing the morning rounds.

Once Bob showed up we realized that our proposed route to Mark’s over the back roads was a bit to risky with the fog, and the temperatures.  We knew that the twists and curves of the hills would be ripe with hidden surprises in the way of ice and other slick spots, so we went the most direct route from there (while avoiding I-95) and took Route 28S to Route 17S.  As we came to the light at 28 & 17 I knew we made the right decision as I put my left foot down and it nearly slid out from under me.  As we got closer to Mark’s, the fog burned off, and we dipped onto some back roads before getting to his place. 

Heading out, Mark led the way to get us back on 17S which we would take the whole way down.  17 Is a great road to ride this time of year.  Nice scenery, a few towns, and an easy road to ride in early January.  We pulled in just before 1:00PM, and I saw the familiar yellow Jeep of my nephew Erik.  You all may know him as “Disco” from some of my rides.  Erik had recently returned from a deployment with the Navy. Knowing he was in the general area, and knowing he was a foodie like me, I had invited him to meet us there.  It really was good seeing him again - I’m glad he is safely home.

There only was one table filled out of the 6-8 tables inside.  Our waitress brought out the menus, which were a little different than the last time I was there, paired down a bit, possibly because of Covid.  But there were more than enough choices.  I opted for the N’awlins Burger: Two blacked beef patties topped with gouda, caramelized onions and gulf shrimp, adding hush puppies as my side.  In short, I was blown away.  Mark also had the N’awlins Burger, Erik had the Smoked London Broil Rueben, and Bob went with the Philly.  We all agreed MidTown Eats was  - WELL WORTH THE TRIP!

After finishing it all off, we chatted a bit and caught up before departing.  Mark led us out and we continued down 17 to Route 60 where we headed west into Williamsburg and on up through West Point.  As we headed back towards Fredericksburg, the sun started setting.  It was a brilliant red sky to the west.  We stopped for our last gas and to put on another layer as the temperatures were dropping as darkness took over.  After Mark turned off, Bob and I pointed our bikes home, briefly jumping on I-95 to make up some time and avoid the deer on the back roads.  I pulled off to fuel up at the Wawa as Bob continued towards his home.  I didn’t see the Eagle again, but I did look up and smile as I checked. 

When I tucked the bike away I had rolled 379 miles off of that 8,774 that I need.  With a low of 39 the temps hit a high of 61 along the way,not bad for the 2nd day of January.  Only 8,395 to go!

RIDE ON!