ARTS O’ MAGAZINE

🎸 Gazed In Wide Wonder 🎸

Mike Kraus

There’s a break in the cornfields off highway 57 that is filled with prefab apartments, car dealerships, and run down strip malls. Five lanes of traffic chaotically battle in a race with no finish line. Potholed streets lined with weeds lead to a myriad of driveways where cars anchor in a sea of asphalt. Just shy of a half-mile from the freeway is the grandest of these driveways flowing into a vast, grey landscape in front of a low-slung cinderblock mall. There are countless flower pots scattered near the main entrance, which is a large white stucco structure with a sizable Frank Lloyd Wright inspired decoration above the doors. As you enter, there is a jewelry store and a candy shop. Continue to the right until you find the electronic store where I’m standing in the window.

I’m reorganizing the cell phone display again, per instructions from headquarters 1,000 miles away. The store is a cluttered cavern of diodes, adapters, and transistors in stark contrast to the other sleek retailers. The store manager watches porn on his tablet as he runs reports and gets his marching orders from corporate; the same faceless entity that tells me to rearrange the shelves. Rows and rows, columns and columns of cheap products with high margins. Low-quality plastic molded into every shape and color. A variety of brands all manufactured at the same sweatshop.

On the other side of the window is a young woman. Her face is pressed against the glass and she’s dressed in black. She waves at me excitedly. It’s Anabelle and she runs in to give me a hug. I feign a smile as I stand surrounded by merchandise waiting to be shelved. I’m silent as she babbles about everything at once. She always looks up and to her left, avoiding eye contact, when she talks. My hands are in the pockets of my boring uniform khakis and I glance toward the ground. I’m engulfed in plastic goods destined for the landfill.

“Whatcha doin’ werkin’ here? I’d think ya’d hate bein’ inna place like this,” Anabelle states while looking around like she’s hoping to find an answer somewhere.

“Well, I gotta pay da bills somehow, right?” Anabelle just stares at me as I lightly tap a charger with my foot.

“Yer not payin’ any bills with this job. Do ya even make eight an hour? Hmm? Didn’t think so. Yer comin’ with me ta get lunch: my treat. ‘Nd leave dat ugly shirt here.” She skips to the food court as I toss the uniform polo shirt onto the pile of junk and follow her. We grab a couple slices from a stand — a red neon bordello of grease. Spoiled fat kids gluttonously cram pizza into their sauce-covered mouths.

“Where da hell are we?” Anabelle asks. Strange question since I followed her here.

“Uh… Da mall.” I reply sounding a bit confused.

“I know dat. I mean, is there anythin’ here dat’s unique ‘nd tells ya what city we’re in? Or dat we’re even in da Midwest?” It just seems like a normal mall to me.

“Umm… Whatcha lookin’ fer?” I’m still trying to figure out the question.

“This looks like every damn mall I’ve ever been ta. It could be New York or Mississippi. Or it could be Georgia or California. If ya were blindfolded ‘nd brought only ta malls ‘cross ‘merica, I bet ya never be able ta tell where ya were. Do ya see anythin’ ya’d only find in this miserable town?” I see chain stores in beige boxes. There are elderly people slowly passing fake plants. The same teenagers you see everywhere standing around a kiosk pimping sunglasses. But, I can’t find anything to indicate my specific location on mother earth.

“Hmm…” I think for a bit, “I never noticed dat before. We really could be anywhere right now.”

“Or nowhere,” she retorts as she dumps a tray of garbage. We wander down the sterile corridors passing shops tended by bored adolescents on smartphones. Every square inch of sales floor is intensely lit. A group from a nursing home speed by on power scooters. There’s an occasional uncomfortable bench in the middle of the hallway. We are stuck behind people walking so slowly that we barely move. We are impatient to get around them even though we have no place to go.

Anabelle grabs my arm suddenly and stops. I look to see what’s wrong. Staring intently toward the atrium, she blurts out, “Oh. My. God! We gotta see what’s goin’ on over there!” In front of the boxy fountain that looks like Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, are two middle-aged men in Hawaiian shirts. The skinny guy is jamming on his acoustic as if he is Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock. The large gentleman pounds on his keyboard and emotionally serenades a Kenny Loggin’s song or something. Everyone walks by as if we are the only people who can see them.

Anabelle starts dancing when they play Elvis’ “Jailhouse Rock.” She’s probably the first person to gyrate her hips in this uptight suburb. Unsuccessfully, Anabelle invites me to dance with her. She dances as if everybody is looking at her. The song ends and Anabelle runs up to the smiling musicians. There’s some discussion, flirting, and somehow she ends up with their microphone.

“I’M DA SEXY SPIRIT OF DA CLEARANCE RACK!” Anabelle bellows followed by laughter and a bluesy beat on the synthesizer. The collar on her worn leather coat is flipped and her black jeans look like they commute regularly to hell and back. I watch the shoppers as they half-glance at the spectacle. What is she thinking? Proving she doesn’t care what anyone thinks, her raspy little voice begins to wale:

“On da day I was born Da nurses gathered ‘round ‘Nd they gazed in wide wonder At da joy they had found Da head nurse spoke up Said ‘leave this one ‘lone’ She could tell right ‘way Dat I was bad ta da bone”

Anabelle fell to her knees and was gradually working into a rage. Her voice becoming louder and more graveled. “’Nd when I walk da streets, kings ‘nd queens step aside!” The mall security’s complete attention is on Anabelle as she crashes onto her back. “B-B-B Bad! Bad ta da bone!” She winds-up motionless on the dingy white tile to a smattering of surprised applause. George Thorogood’s soul was in that mall courtyard.

Anabelle raises her hand and I walk over to pull her off the floor. She gives the mic to the keyboardist, “Thanks guys. Dat was a lotta fun. See ya!”

“Nice singin’,” I tease. “What made ya do dat?”

“Aww, thanks. Just thought one interestin’ thing had ta happen here today. Let’s get outta here.”

“Didja do whatcha came out here fer?” I never asked her why she was at the mall in the first place. Anabelle usually makes all her purchases at garage sales, consignment shops, and thrift stores.

“Nah, but I did somethin’ better.” I’ll accept that answer and head for the exit.

To read more, please visit: Intro: 🏡 History of Walnut House 🏡: https://readmedium.com/c01d241376bf 1) — 🚶‍ Ramblin’ Man 🚶‍♂️: https://readmedium.com/e7e0ea6355ff 2) — 👁Just Don’t See It 👁: https://readmedium.com/c93db0285d52 3) 🍸 Awakening 🍸: https://readmedium.com/b72e7dcbd17c 5) 💊 Tattered 💊: https://readmedium.com/a0422087f4e0 6) 🏭 Warehouse 🏭: https://readmedium.com/31bb79506dee 7) 🍹Little Taste of Grandpa’s Cough Syrup 🍹: https://readmedium.com/135499bc53d8 8) 🍳🥓☕ Breakfast With Anabelle ☕🥓🍳: https://readmedium.com/0839cce6bc47 9) 👾 What Lurks In the Basement 👾: https://readmedium.com/e8e7525f9bcc 10) 🌙 Night Time Is the Right Time 🌙: https://readmedium.com/6f6bbaef1e8e 11) 🖼 Refuge From An Indifferent World 🖼: https://readmedium.com/8ef888cb076c 12) ☠ Skull & Crossbones Memory ☠: https://readmedium.com/3f18f90ac784 13) 💚☕🚚 An Enchanting Evening At the Golden Ticket 🚚☕💚: https://readmedium.com/2f8284be509f 14) 🌭 Gotta Have Some Fun Before Ya Go 🌭: https://readmedium.com/2ca6412ca654 15) ✋ Handsy Hubert 🤚: https://readmedium.com/d7151e07870b 16) 🤵 Fake It ’Til Ya Make It 🤵: https://readmedium.com/f82ade21a44d 17) 🐴📦 Funny Little Box 📦🐴: https://readmedium.com/ea4b2fb0002d 18) 🍕 Tommy’s Pizza, Can I Help Ya? 🍕: https://readmedium.com/4ea3d996da9c 19) 🍺 Dusty’s Saloon 🍺: https://readmedium.com/09d9328ba48f 20) 💣 Does It Matter? 💣: https://readmedium.com/71218e31b858 21) 🥀 Hospice 🥀:https://readmedium.com/c7e330448393 22) 📢 ESTATE SALE! Today 10am-3pm 📢: https://readmedium.com/864c65a8c544

Mike Kraus was born on the industrial shoreline of Muskegon, Michigan. After earning his Fine Arts Degree from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, he attended Grand Valley State University for his graduate degree. From there, he gained varied experiences from the Chicago Architecture Center, Art Institute of Chicago, Hauenstein Center For Presidential Studies, Lollypop Farm Humane Society, and the Lurie Children’s Foundation. And every place he worked, he had his sketchbook with him and found ways to be actively creative. In 2014, Kraus became a full-time artist by establishing Mike Kraus Art. Since then, he has sold thousands of paintings that are displayed in nearly every state and dozens of countries. Currently, Kraus lives in Rochester, New York with his beautiful wife and goofy dog.

For more information, please visit: Store: http://MikeKrausArt.etsy.com Reddit: https://www.reddit.com/user/BrightscapesArt/ Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/MikeKrausArt Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/MikeKraus/ Instagram: https://instagram.com/mikekrausart LinkedIn: www.linkedin.com/in/mkraus