A Midwestern Tale

Karen parked her car in the busy lot, applying the parking brake with significant force. It was a mix of both the day’s frustrations and habit and caused the car to make a jarring crunch. It satisfied her need to inflict a jarring crunch on something. She slammed the door behind her for good measure.

She looked back quickly, and pressed the lock button as she walked away from her car. “Perfect”, she thought to herself with a sinister inner smile, as she looking at her red Pontiac Grand Prix occupying a quarter of the space beside the one with the other three quarters of her car in it. It was that type of day.

She galloped across the parking lot intently focused on her target - the Subway, where her husband Barry worked; 70 yards.

Her feet felt heavy, like she had grown hooves, and she found herself deeply resenting the fancy cars that surrounded her in the lot. She positioned her car keys in her fingers strategically and extended her right arm digging the 18 year old metal into the cold steel of Mercedes, then Toyota, then BMW then another Mercedes; 60 Yards.

She was closing in on a woman who with the aid of a walker, seemed to be making her way towards the bus stop. Karen hated public transportation and on any other day might have left her impulses at that, but today was special and she required consequences. No public-transportation-using, walker-needing, frail old bag was going to impede her progress, and so she walked – directly through the woman. The sound of scraping metal nearly drowned out the sound of the woman’s shattering hip, but not so much that Karen missed it. She was flushed with an adrenaline blend of guilt and satisfaction; 45 yards.

Karen thought she might have been frothing at the mouth, but if she was didn’t have time to address it. She was too busy marching forward, assessing the threat of the various people now approaching her with angry and confused faces. Guy with glasses at 9 o’clock, just strapped his kids into the mini-van after food shopping – anyone who does the food shopping with the kids in the middle of the day couldn’t possibly be a threat. 12 o'clock - Middle aged man wearing an expensive leather jacket, carrying a rented video – no threat; he’d be too worried about his hair. Woman, 3 o'clock, 60, hip pouch, smoking, T-shirt saying: “The only Bush I trust is my own” – This one was trouble. 30 yards.

Karen pivoted on her feet turning left and for the first time in 40 yards lifted key from car. Her new path took her on a collision course with Poindexter McGrocery-Shopper; a name she would have called the man if she had taken the time to talk to him. Instead, without the volition to verbalize her feelings, she screamed; a bestial, primal roar, uglier than the most heinous of vomit puddles. Poindexter was clearly affected and slowed his pace. He rethought his collision course, stopped in his tracks and crinkled his face as if to say “What the…?”. And had he said that out loud, would only have gotten that far, because in an instant Karen had reached him. Missing the physical reassurance of her keys causing significant damage she remedied the situation by stabbing him in the forehead with her “The Club” key – a jagged and unnecessarily pointy specimen ideal for stabbing the father of two. The wound, as per her plan, was both conspicuous and disfiguring, while not crippling. He did need to drive his children home after all. Impressing herself with this display of mercy she resolved to walk faster. Poindexter stood incredulous behind her, applying pressure to his forehead. 20 yards.

Now her pursuers were hot on her tail, but Karen was close. Close enough to smell her husband’s insolence… his extreme disregard for all that was precious to her, his uncanny and irrefutable lack of consideration for what she loved, his callous and calculated willingness to dispose of her Franklin mint commemorative plates. A collection, judged to be world class by not just one, but two of the local church collectors guilds. She seethed with rage, as she thought of him last night photographing her collection; “for insurance” he had said. All bets were off when she found the welcome message for his newly registered Ebay ID in the email inbox this morning. She knew. 10 yards.

Karen was running now; from the pursuing masses, among whom the 200 lb (clearly lesbian) democrat looked most intent on bypassing pleasantries and inflicting pain on her, and toward her lying, pathetic and technically retired but only recently re-employed husband of 37 years upon whom she intended to rain a torrent of harm.

Her laser focus zeroed in on the bar across the door and she lunged, pushing it with all her might, intent on her entrance being not only noticeable, but also, with any luck, destructive. The force with which she hit the door and the strength of the safety glass both shocked and impressed the onlookers. 0 yards.

As she regained consciousness she could feel the heat of the “Live at 6” news camera lights and the sting of the cold handcuffs behind her back. Her haggard and lethargic image made her an instant star across the state, if not simply for the damage that had preceded it, then for the red and swollen “lluP” embossed in mirror-reflection on her forehead; a result of her 7 Mph (by conservative estimates) lunge into the etched door handle.

If only the mall security cameras had been good enough to allow both zoom and slow motion, Barry was sure that he could have made more money off the video. As it was though, he’d have to settle for the $1,700 that the Fox producers had paid for his contribution to “Wife-Zillas” – just enough to supplement what he expected to make selling his wife’s collection; He quite liked the plates after all.