Forever Lost

You can't get there from here

You can't return here from there

Retrace your steps and you'll fear

You can't be anywhere, ne'er

What could these words mean? Who slipped this hand-scrawled paper under my door. Was it a joke? What the hell? Where would I even want to get to from here, as far as this writer knew? Who was it, anyway?

That's when I remembered.

I was at a stoplight when the woman approached me. I refused to roll down my window; it was obvious she was homeless. Even from my peripheral vision I could tell she was wearing rags. I could also tell she was surprisingly plump and well-fed. For a homeless woman. I was tempted to look directly at her, but I held my tunnelvision gaze away, steadfast. It's the only way to deal with the panhandlers. The homeless. The helpless. The clueless.

What did I owe her? Nothing! And where does simple courtesy, owed, cross the line into obnoxious begging? She knocked on my window. I still refused to open it. She shouted to me, but it wasn't an angry shout. It was more of a desperate cry.

"I'm looking for my dozen friends," she shouted through the glass. "Can you help me?" I noted the catercorner light had turned yellow, signaling the pending change to green on my own signal. It was a long five seconds.

"Where is the Odd Fellow Sisters cemetery, if you would be so kind? I'm looking for my sisters. Please!" I didn't even know if I had heard her correctly through the glass. My light turned green.

I knew now I would be off, never to deal with her again, so I finally satisfied my curiosity and turned away from my tunnelvision to look at her.

In the eyes.

Oh, what eyes. It was only a split second, as my foot was already depressing the gas pedal and I began rolling forward.

I've never had someone look so directly at me before. Her eyes pierced mine. And her face was...beautiful. No, beautiful is the wrong word. It was beguiling. Seductive, even. I was almost sorry to drive off. Almost.

But the light was green and a car behind me let me know with an impatient horn. I drove off with something burned into my retinas, as if I had stared at the sun.

You can't get there from here, You can't return here from there, Retrace your steps and you'll fear — You can't be anywhere, ne'er.

I turned the paper over and read how it had been addressed.

To the man too busy going to where he was going.

It had to be from her. She had asked me for directions. I had spurned her desperation. The edges of the paper were singed, creating irregular, burned corners. That was, what, spooky?

God, she must have followed me home! How was that possible? I was in a car; she was on foot. I wondered whether she had found her friends — her sisters. And then I wondered not another iota about her again.

I had a life. Things to do. People to see. Places to go.

One of those places was the mall. It was a large mall, and I had a fitting at one of the anchor department stores there. Clothes make the man, and I had to be made that morning. I had started my morning late, so I started with this task, lest the rest of my appointments would fall irretrievably behind. That would never do. I had other places to go and people to meet. Other things to do.

I considered my next appointment on my day's schedule. I walked out of the tailor's area and retraced my steps: to the down escalator, past the mannequins of summer fashions, past the children's shoes.

Where were the large automatic doors that spilled out into the main mall thoroughfare? I stopped at a makeup kiosk counter and asked the young girl there.

"You look so busy," she said to me. "Y'know, going to where your going."

I looked into her eyes and they pierced me, like the homeless woman's had. Or maybe I just imagined it. Was I just horny? Was I just beguiled by any female? I remembered it had been over a year since I had been intimate with a woman. But I was too busy for that. Doing things. Meeting people. Going places.

"I beg your pardon," I asked the woman, dressed in — not black — but as close as you can get to black without it being black. "The exit. I need to find the exit. Can you please tell me?" Her piercing stare continued.

"You can't get there from here," she said, matter-of-factly.

"Excuse me?" But she turned away, engaging her tunnelvision on something else besides me. "Miss?" She spun back around, now sporting a sort of vengeful grin.

"You're an odd fellow," she said to me. Odd Fellow Sisters cemetery — I remembered. "But I'm busy, too," she addeed. "I have somewhere I have to go. I'd like to help you, but I just don't have the time. Who has the time anymore, nowadays?"

"You could have pointed me the way in the time it took just to say that!" I barked at her angrily.

"It's all relative — time, that is, idn't it? My time, your time. They're two different things, quite, aren't they?" And with that she was gone. And quickly.

I spotted a security guard — a woman in uniform. "Excuse me, ma'am, but where's the exit?"

"You need to be somewhere?" she asked. Another piercing stare.

OK, I got it: fate was beating on me. But this had to be a dream, because this type of scenario just didn't happen for real. But it wasn't a dream. You may not know when you're dreaming, but you sure as hell know when you're not dreaming! This was no dream.

Those words slid under my door: You can't get there from here, You can't return here from there, Retrace your steps and you'll fear, addressed to the man too busy going to where he was going. Her dozen sisters. A cemetery, for God's sake!

I asked person after person. Woman after woman. Man after man. Even shopper after shopper. Until the lights went out.

I was alone.

I bumbled my way from Notions to Housewares to Men's Ties to Boys' Shoes to Ladies Apparel. It was a long night.

The next morning, the shoppers returned. I began my requests anew, but again I was rebuffed by one-sentence karma vehicles. Until another long night returned for me. My clothes were greasy, so I shopped.

I became the best-dressed lost man in the mall. In the world. I may have been desperate, but I looked good.

The next day, the same. The next night, the same. Would I die here? The food court was just a tantalizing one-exit away. The exit? That was funny! I would certainly die here. I would be sunk into the first floor terrazzo. There would be a plaque:

"The tomb of the unknown shopper."

Then I began having conversations with the mannequins, so I knew I was going mad. They were lost, too. Stationary in one spot, unable to leave. But like me, they were lookin' good!

I was so hungry. So thirsty. How long had it been? How long would I survive? These questions haunted me every evening at closing time when the lights, again, went off, leaving me alone in just the ambient lighting. They haunted me as I mounted my knee-high pedestal and assumed my place, looking good in Men's Suits. I made a great dummy — a great model. I was no longer busy.

I no longer had things to do. Places to go. Or people to meet. I would never get there from here. Ne'er.