Mempsis

Mempsis (memp’-sis): Expressing complaint and seeking help.

I can’t believe how lost I am. I never should’ve gone to the Magnificent Mega-Mega Mall. I need a map, but the Mall’s map racks are empty. The personnel wear uniforms like movie theatre ushers wore back in the day—blue military-looking uniforms with brass buttons and epaulets that look like hairbrushes with gold bristles. The uniformed mall workers are no where to be seen. I’ve tried to ask my fellow shoppers where the hell I am, but they just keep walking by me like so many shopping zombies.

I’m hauling heavy loot on my mall scooter which, by the way has a broken GPS. It keeps saying I’m in Lima, Ohio when I’m actually in Short Hills, New Jersey. What a piece of crap. I’m carrying a portable window air conditioner on my lap. My mall scooter’s battery light is flashing red. I probably have a mile left with power. Then iI’ll be stranded in the biggest mall in the world. From entrance to exit, it extends for 5 miles. The architecture is like a funnel that makes you traverse the entire mall before you could exit. They had jitneys, but they were nowhere to be seen..

The Mall covers over land where I went rabbit hunting with by Beagle Buddy when I was a kid. I also went bow hunting for deer in the woods surrounding the fields. There were apple trees left from long-gone orchards. But, the trees still gave delicious juicy Cortland apples. I would go there with my Radio Flyer wagon and pick apples and haul them home where Ma and I would make applesauce and a couple of apple pies every fall.

I passed a sign: Exit: 2 miles. There had to be emergency exits nearby, but they were unmarked and I couldn’t see them. The red light on the mall scooter was flashing faster and showing a message that said “Charge me Now!” I thought that was pretty demanding. I looked around for a charging port, but didn’t see one. I didn’t need the damn scooter anyway. I admit it: I faked an infirmity whenever I went to the mall. I was actually in pretty good shape. So, I got off the scooter and stored my air conditioner in a nearby janitor’s closest, and covered it with rags. I looked for a jitney. Nothing, so I started walking, pushing past whole families walking slowly and looking straight ahead. Suddenly, I heard a humming sound behind me!

It was the mall scooter driving itself. It was going slowly and the red light had stopped blinking. It was following me! Then, it talked in the robot kind of voice that’s used in science fiction movies. “You we’re not authorized to ride me. You must come with me to mall security for your trial.” I ran. The scooter chased me and butted me from behind, making me fall backwards into the scooter’s seat, where a seatbelt shot across my lap and cinched me in. I was trapped. I asked the scooter if I would be supplied a lawyer. He laughed a creepy robot laugh and increased our speed.

We arrived at Mall Security. There was a mall cop sitting behind a messy dest wearing a white wig, like a British barrister. He said, “You are charged with the unauthorized use of a mall scooter. How do you plead: guilty or not guilty?” I said “not guilty” even though I was lying and everybody knew it. The cop said: “The court finds you guilty. You will be sentenced after I take a quick smoke break.” I was furious. “This is total bullshit. Who the hell do you think you are?” He looked me like he wanted spray mace in my face: “Look wise guy, the Mayor of Short Hills has given us control over the mall and meting out mall justice. That scooter you’re sitting on doubles as an electric chair. Do you want to fry, Mr. Scooter Stealer? Or, are you going to wait for your sentence.” I just shut up and waited for my sentence.

I’m serving my sentence as an H&M sales associate. For six weeks, I’m selling dumb-ass clothes to tasteless teenagers. “My” scooter visits me every once-in-while. All it says is, “Did you learn your lesson yet?”

For some reason, I’ve used my H&M employee discount to buy myself a full-length black pleather trench-coat that smells a little bit like motor oil. I wear it as a bathrobe at home, and also to mow the lawn, and go grocery shopping.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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