I often read or write while working at the cart. Aforementioned, I occasionally rip and burn mixed CDs and construct for them detailed cases with cardboard and tape. I have a lot of time on my hands for which I get paid to have the opportunity to do almost anything I want to do. Hourly, at least three customers will interrupt my activities by interjecting a faux-heartfelt, "excuse me, sir. I hate to bother you, but..." and then they ask in what direction they should be walking to in order to get to one of the half-dozen cellphone stores, Express or CVS. I often wonder why these people so abhor bothering me, and if their loathing of casual interruption is sincere, why, daily, at least thirty-five people are insistent on bothering me regardless.

The same way liberals ought spend more time practicing a liberal lifestyle then preaching it, consumers ought spend less time acting polite and more time practicing a polite means of existence.

This afternoon, one of the direction-seekers, an older woman who pushed around several department store bags in a Sports Authority shopping cart stared at me through the pink tinted aviator style sunglasses she wore and asked "Excuse me-- Is there a food court on this level?"

Indulgently immersed in reading, I often don't pay attention to my surroundings for hours. I find the only way for me to gauge how much time has elapsed is to look at the page I am on, try to remember on which page I began reading and, based on my progress, make an educated guess. When the woman inquired if there was a food court on this level, I looked around, particularly upward, to make sure that the Maine Mall still featured only one level. While I realized it was unlikely an additional level to the mall hadn't been constructed without my noticing, a realist, I realize events more fantastic have been known to occur.

I believe the woman took my upward observance as a sarcastic response to her question. Throughout the remainder of our rather difficult conversation, I came under the suspicion she felt as though I was going out of my way to be difficult. The truth remains, I was thoroughly confused.

When I finally realized, no, a surprise level has not been constructed but yes, this woman wants to get to the food court, I pointed her down the hall. "Right down here," I mumbled pleasantly. I often give the impression I am standing on my last leg while explaining anything to a passersby.

"What's the name of it?" she asked me.

I was again thrown for a loop. I imagined all of the malls I have been through. I pictured the Meadow Glenn, Bangor, Windam, Assembly Square and Square One malls. I imagined walking through each of them and standing before each of their food courts, racking my brain for any hint as to whether or not any of them are named. Food courts have names, I thought? Where the hell have I been? I asked, "The food court? A name?"

"It's called the food court?" she asked, confirming the answer she believed I offered.

I asked, "are we talking about the same thing? Are we talking about an area," I outlined an imaginary square in the air, "where there are a lot of different places to eat all lumped together?"

"Yes."

"It's right down there."

"Down there?" she asked, pointing toward the direction I pointed her toward before.

"Yes, down there."

Finally, she thanked me and pushed her cart in the direction of the first level "food court."

***

I really hate being stared at, herein, I am happy I am not a large-breasted girl. Without trying to be rude and without even being attracted to those at whom I stare, I eye girls with women who have large breasts like they are the last of that particular specimen with whom I will ever again come into contact.

***

"Basically the only reason you want to come down here is to go into the stores you want to go into and to hell with any of the stores I want to stop at." My father used to tell me this all of the time. Now I listen to parents explain this to their children.

***

Mall employee #1: "I've seen so many sexy older women today."

Mall employee #2: "It's a day full of mom's my friend; a Friday full of moms. I don't know what it is, either. They should be at their therapists, or doing coke, or whatever it is mom's do on Fridays."