Jonathan C. Lewis
The Shopper
A fictional travelogue; three minute read.
Historically speaking, one assumes that the streets and freeways of Los Angeles were built first, then the rest of the city squeezed into whatever space was left over. Four million people live, work and shop here.
I'm here too. Just me and mountains of merchandise.
I’m shopping and, if not shopping, window shopping. Los Angeles is a place for making money and a pleasure palace for spending it.
The Rose Bowl Flea Market—2,500 vendors hawking antiques, vintage clothing, local art and junk—is a scavenger hunt where I trudge the aisles searching for I-don’t-know-what. I guess I’ll know it when I see it.
From there, I head to the Depression-era Farmers Market and its younger neighbor The Grove. Working in tandem, they offer abundant possibilities. Clothes, candy, shoes, jewelry, tote bags. Kitchen appliances, gadgets, condiments. Food and flowers.
In a sports store when a clerk asks “May I help you?” I answer, “No thanks. I don’t fish. Don’t camp either.” Suddenly, I’m invisible.
Next, I poke into Sephora. I’m stumped by the large selection and very skeptical of the staff who look no older than my high school history students. I head for the exit.
When I stop for a mac ‘n’ cheese lunch, I’m the solitary man inside Hopper's Nighthawks.
Full of comfort food, the pricey store selling fine crystal—something I don’t like or want—draws me in. It doesn’t take me but a minute to realize the store’s air conditioning is its main attraction. I move on.
In a tourist shop, I pick up an ugly I Love Hollywood mug. I don’t buy it because I don’t agree with it.
The modernistic, chic design of a furniture store shouts, “Look at me, I’m so cool.” The only reason I’d need more furniture is for kindling during the next power outage. But I can’t stop myself from at least looking. While I walk around, the sound system playlist gets in my head. The Beatles song Eleanor Rigby is singing about lonely people.
I check my watch. It’s not even an hour since I ate lunch.
Roaming around The Last Bookstore, I find lots of titles that belong in my wife’s library. Literature. Cookbooks. Biographies. Instead, I grab copies of Life of Pi and Fahrenheit 451 for the kids.
In a women’s boutique, a revolving rack of colorful scarves catches my eye. I paw through them. I buy the teal one with fringe, gift-wrapped.
Focusing on my wife takes the focus off me. My heart rate slows.
To escape the tinnitus thrum of the city’s auto traffic, I head for my hotel’s rooftop sundeck. After a thirsty day of shuttling in and out of retail stores, I order an icy margarita.
The day is putting out a Closed sign. The thin shadows from palm trees are lengthening. Sunlight filtering through the hazy smog glows golden.
A swimming pool of Caribbean blue water is encircled by cabanas, a bar and sun umbrellas. Two women on chaise lounges soak up the day’s last rays. Both wear microbikinis exposing their butt cheeks. The waiters, under pretense of refilling their drinks, hover for a closer look.
From behind my sunglasses, I peek too. Their ample rear ends remind me to buy a duffel bag.
