Department Store

Department Store
by Shane Jesse Christmass
Department Store. Marius Causley noticed the Vietnamese woman bending over, crouching down on her haunches in the department store. She flicked through the underwear. It was cheap, on special, bargain basement. $3.99 for off-tanned panties. She was wearing intense suede boots that had little tassels with pom-poms on the end of the tassels. Black Lee Rider jeans. Straight leg. All stacked up. $59.95 per pair. Massive pallets of black seedless olives in 500 gram-sized tins for five bucks. “If you grab a drink from this fridge you MUST pay for it at the register straight away,” the cardboard sign stated. Marius watched a tubby woman trying to take her top off. She had a black singlet underneath. She couldn’t get the top up past her shoulders, so her boyfriend had to help her. She saw Marius watching, she got embarrassed, but displayed her embarrassment by becoming angry with her boyfriend. Instead of telling him to keep trying to get the top over her shoulders, she told him to stop, to get her top back down straight away.
The Vietnamese woman was standing with several plastic coat hangers, she had a few pairs of bras and panties; she walked toward the changing rooms. Marius Causley stamped purgation into her sense. Most morons don’t have an intense sense of the divine turn. They made themselves first and last and then perhaps a magical and genius bird. To Marius Causley those people were as affected as the glass. If they were the milk they’d give over to a depraved mind, if Marius Causley was really Marius Causley, he’d do it later, more facetiously, while licking the sweet of a sentinel bugaboo, making the bugaboo a huge influence on himself – and hence his happy character. Marius Causley was getting seriously hungry. He wouldn’t mind a big lard-driven tub of soup. Marius Causley needed a drink, a Pepsi perhaps, something with fizz. Suddenly the Carmina Elegiaca played through the store. Marius stooped in his unpolished best and he had no flower, no lover, nothing that sought returns from an all-talk about nothing, from old and maggoty texts. Marius tried on a tweed cap. It didn’t fit; the label stated that it was 58 centimetres. The hat looked like it wouldn’t fit over the top of a closed fist. Marius stooped in his fertility and harvesting best. He awoke to dreaming – how many high and noble roses breathed out forward, around Marius’ life? Marius Causley was obsessed, the department store, was a depressing scene, a place where people and product came to die. The nightmare, the perforated appendix, which was an understanding of their will to be inside, slicing up the understanding in tin cups north of the world. This sunshine, this illusion was heartless, the fertility story! Marius took a slug of Pepsi. What a hell of a bugaboo! Horribleness! The Department Store.