Mr. Big by Ty N. Batson

Author:Ty N. Batson [Batson, Ty N.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7414-9291-3
Publisher: Infinity Publishing
Published: 2010-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

Early October in Trinidad was the height of the rainy season. But the parched grass along the Crystal Stream Highway was brown, starved for watering from Mother Nature. Since El Niño, the weather had been temperamental, adolescent—that reminded him. He needed to get Sharona’s iPod, an olive branch from father to daughter and a tactical move, all part of his parenting strategy. Bamboozle with bling! Big smiled Sun Tzu could have learned a thing or two from me.

He zipped by the samaan tree that commanded the fork at Crystal Stream Highway and Diego Martin Main Road, then gunned towards The Falls at West Mall along the Western Main Road. The wheels hummed on the asphalt or made a loud grrr when they hit a rough patch.

At the mall entrance, he sat in a line of cars that was backed up almost to KFC waiting for the security guard to hand out parking tokens. Malls in Trinidad were generic, strictly turnkey operations, Big mused—imported, implanted, imperfect. And culturally insensitive. When he’d taken Sharona to The Falls last Christmas, the foyer was decorated with white Christmas trees, plump reindeer and even three snowmen. Geez, this was the tropics, for crying out loud. Big figured that once a successful mall design was achieved, it was boilerplated around the world. The Falls at Westmall could have been located in New York, Toronto, Singapore, Dubai, London, anywhere, and no one would know the difference—same design, same sounds, same food. Crap.

He swung into the mall parking lot. Geez, what a moron. The droopy-eyed guard was so alert and adept at his job that Big calculated he could have grown a full beard, added six inches to his fingernails and gained five pounds waiting for the token. No doubt the guard was eminently qualified for a job in government—at the highest level.

Big checked his Casio and shook his head. He needed to hurry. Children, it seemed, were always disrupting their parents’ schedules. Maybe that was their job. If so, Sharona was due for a promotion.

The Falls at Westmall smelled of microwaved popcorn, Lysol spray and scented candles. Chilly a/c from store doorways competed with humidity from the cracks in the exit doors. Standard mall sounds echoed everywhere: high heels pock-pocking on tiles, bing-bings from elevators and squeak-squeaks from shopping carts.

However, it was The Fall’s low murmur, its white noise, that intrigued Big. White noise gave the mall its life, its spirit, like a clever heartbeat, the way airplane cabins had that distinct hum—even inanimate objects had character.

Big raced past the food court dodging mothers, daughters, fathers and sons waylaying him along the way. The Falls was busy as always. Twenty-first century family recreation, mall-ball. No one seemed in a hurry except Big.

Here we are, SoundWorks. Big walked inside. Slamming! The techno music almost ripped his hair off. A snotty-nosed, pimply white teenager sat behind the counter, feet up, hands behind his head. He didn’t get up, smile or greet Big. He just sat and wiped his nose.

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