Yesterday, with the kids happily playing under the sprinkler with Grandma and Papa, Nate and I decided a little jaunt to the suburban mall was in order. In NYC terms, this is a big adventure. For we do not have large indoor shopping centers with attached parking, central air, multiple cosmetic counters, and PF Changs lettuce wraps all right in the same building. The closest we have is the Time-Warner Center, in which case you’re not getting out for less than five figures. And that’s just for parking.
Suburban mall trip adventure it is!
We pulled into the parking lot, found a dandy spot near the elevator (this is an important aspect of an enjoyable mall experience, as we have learned, thank you Mr. Seinfeld) and started to head towards the Nordstrom sign–but not before Nate plucked a small green baggie off the ground next to our car.
“Crack,” he said. “Look, it’s crack.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “How do you know?”
I have never seen live crack before. I did get through two episodes of Breaking Bad, although that was meth, and it stressed me out so much, I immediately switched to Downton Abbey. I am officially a predictably boring yuppie, I know. Nate reminds me daily. And as such, I have limited experience with illegal drugs that become popular after 1989.
“Wait…what are you doing?” I yelled, as I caught him rolling down our car windows. “Were you going to save it for later? I don’t want CRACK IN OUR CAR.”
“So…what do we do with it?”
“What were YOU going to do with it?”
“I don’t know…” he said.
“Fine. We’re throwing it out,” I said in that voice that makes it clear that he has no choice in the matter.
“But we could sell it,” he laughed. “Or just give it away. Make someone’s day.”
Of course we agreed there were several problems with this scenario:
1. Who the hell are we going to sell it to? We don’t run in a heavy crackhead circle, that I know of.
2. We can’t give it away. “Hi we found this on the floor of a parking lot. Who knows what’s in it or where it came from. Enjoy!”
3. I enjoy a life free from incarceration. I’m weird that way.
4. I couldn’t stop thinking of that episode of Six Feet Under, the one where Michael C. Hall was kidnapped and forced to smoke crack and I sat and cried for an hour after it was over.
So we tossed it into a garbage can, buried under some other debris and that was the end of the crack.
After doing some serious damage at Neiman-Marcus and the bra department of Nordstrom (Nate was bummed that I “went down’ 2 inches” until I assured him it was back fat I lost, and not boobage.) I had second thoughts. That crack could have helped make a dent in our purchases. Then again, I have no idea what the going rate is for crack that you find on a parking lot floor of a mall.
I assume it’s not enough for the leather jacket at Vince I was drooling over.
Maybe next time we’ll find some proper rock cocaine. Or maybe, if we’re really lucky, a bag of rhino horns.
It could happen. Anything can happen at a suburban mall.