Ever since I was 15, I’ve wanted to be a mall cop.
Standing tall and wide with an impenetrable armor
of suburban ambivalence and Swanson family dinners,
Starched collar and pressed creases.
Does my mother do my laundry, you ask?
Yes—thank you for noticing—except for the month of July (when she takes her trips),
Then her neighbor Tamara does it.
When I wake up in the morning,
I shuffle through a snowfall of old socks to my kitchen
Where I bask in the cleansing, near-holy glow of the refrigerator light.
I eat a hotdog straight out of the package—
Too carefree and familiar with my digestion to heed
expiration dates or cooking instructions.
Aware of the sanctity of a uniform,
I wipe my fingers on my underwear
Before slithering into my work clothes.
I look out of my windshield into the obsidian and unknowably vast parking lot,
And squint through opalescent glare and grains of pollen
At the untold joys, excitement, and challenges ahead of me.
In the first hours of my shift,
I stand, an immovable monument to consumerism and
irresistible masculinity, outside of
Torrid
And watch the creases in women’s pants fold
And unfold
And fold
And unfold.
I christen a bathroom stall my lunch-break-office and
Find Shannon, from junior high, on Facebook.
And I stare into the sparkling eyes of
Her profile picture,
Sensing the discontentment that only I can alleviate.
“Hi, long time, Shannon. Randy, from Mrs. Woods’ class.
You’ve really grown into a marvelous woman.”
I flush and stare at myself in the mirror,
Straightening my collar and puffing out my chest.
I feel the pride and microwave-warm feeling of accomplishment that can only come from
Complete
And perfect
Alignment of your goals,
Morals,
Capabilities,
And occupation.
I follow a child with a backpack around World Market.

You need to remind them that you see them,
From time to time.
Remind them that when they get away with sliding a
A tin, cricket-shaped clicker into the water bottle holder of their Jansport,
It’s because you let them.
“I have always had a soft spot for you, Shannon.
Maybe we can keep that between us.”
When I get off my shift, it’s dark.
If not for the fluorescent white parking lines and my absolutely natural sense of direction,
The blacktop and the sky would merge
And I might feel like a pilot lost in the fog out over the Atlantic.
I do not look around me, or behind me, or where I am going
Because I have complete
And total
Confidence in my ability to handle any motherfucker that
Tries to cross me in this parking lot.
When I get home,
I send Shannon a poorly lit and angled picture
Of my flaccid penis, which I caption,
“Thinking about all those good times we had
In Spanish class.”
I hang my uniform back up and settle into the divot in my couch,
Which cradles me with the care and familiarity of a grandmother.
I eat a bag of Fritos and
Suck clumps of unknowable, un-mimicable, trade-secret dust off my fingers.
A cow at a salt lick.
I close my eyes and bathe in a halo
Of satisfaction, safety, and oneness with the world
And all its inhabitants.