The day I had Oysters Rockerfeller at Bloomingdales

I never read "A Million Little Pieces". I did think of buying it for a friend for a brief moment, but I opted to get her a good smelling candle instead. That's about where I rate the "Oprah Winfrey Suggestions". They're no better or worse than good smelling candles. A light snack, the kind of book you pick up in the store to feel it's heft and read the back cover before heading to real tomes of prose and poetry. It's a warm up to stuff you should actually read.

That being said I find myself trudging through the feeling of apathy as I drive to and from work listening to people express outrage to the DJ's over the supposed betrayal by one Mr. Frey.

Honestly if the book was as good as people say then it wouldn't matter if Mr. Frey turned out to be a girl who grew up in Sweden. In fact, if the book was any good, in my opinion, no one would remember whats-his-face's name.

That's how it is with me.

Last night we had dinner at Nordstrom's cafe. Of all the places in Nordstrom the one that still has that charm and unique elegance of Macy's or Bloomingdales in the 1940's is their cafeteria. Sure they have a piano player on the floor, but he sits in front of the women's fitness area and his other-wordliness is destroyed by the glaring orange spandex. Likewise, the lowcut, too-tight pants on the clerks never reminds me of those shop women with the nice french twists and gentle handling of fabric.

But stepping into their cafeteria doesn't take me just back in time, it takes me into my favorite short story.

I don't remember the name of it, I don't know who wrote it. I'm certain I read it in a text book, but I can't remember what grade I was in or which class it was for. I can't remember what the real underlying theme of it was, or what the name of the main character was. I don't even remember the basic exposition of the piece. But I remember the way it made me feel. I can remember the story like I remember a memory of my very own. I know what it felt like, I know what it smelled like. I can close my eyes and feel the electric buzz the character felt.

And I don't even know if the story is real or if I dreamt it. It's memory hits me like a ton of bricks everytime I step into this particular establishment, and it may not even exist.

Like anything that is so vague - it is the perfect story.

It's about a woman who doesn't have much money. She goes out for a day to get something cheap. Along the way, somehow, she comes in possession of five dollars. I have no idea how. I like to think she found it. I like to think that as all these people who were rich and busy and used to the excitement and charm of the city passed by without looking, she looked. I like to think of her alone on the sidewalk, glancing all around and just so happening to see a muddy, footprinted five dollar bill on the ground. I like the poetry in that. I have no idea if it's actually part of the story.

She has five dollars and she spends it on herself. With those five surprise dollars she goes to a department store. Or maybe she was already at the store? I can't tell, I don't know, the important part is that she goes to a cafeteria - the kind I walked into last night. Bustling, yet with a reserved kind of noise. Comfy, warm semi-private booths. Tables with inlay, or tables with cloths. Glowing dark lamps, enough to make you feel happy and sleepy. I pick my food in a line. Pasta and a coke, made fancy and special by a slice of lemon bobbing with the ice. I sit a little straighter when I'm in my booth, watching all the ladies with blue hair and expensive casual clothes. I can't help my cross my ankles daintly...the way you're supposed to, but never do. I hide my hands under the table, only using one to carefully pick through the pasta. Sitting alone, waiting for my husband to get back, I feel just like the woman from my story. Sitting alone at this table I remember what it was like to be her.

She sat alone, wearing wool and cotton that smelled of grimy city and fresh air - not perfume. She sat straighter, hide her hands, fixed the way her hat sat on her head. For five dollars she ordered soup, potatoes, pie with ice cream. Most of all she had oysters rockerfeller. I've never had oysters rockerfeller. I don't think she had either. But she savored every bite. Every sip and taste. Soft, warm, over-cooked, delicious food. One day, one lucky day, when she sat down in a place that she would never sit in and had oysters rockerfeller - and maybe - just maybe a slice of lemon in her water.

I don't know if the story is real, if some woman one day actually found five dollars and treated herself to lunch. I don't know if the story was written by a man or a woman. I'm not sure if the story was actually about the lunch, or about find the money. I'm not entirely sure it was five dollars. All I know is I remember sitting in a department store cafeteria in 1905 and having oysters and pie with ice cream. I was there, I know I was. And I can remember the way the seat felt under my wool skirt and the way my shoes dug into my ankles after walking. I can remember the people I saw and the voices I heard and the face of the man who brought me my plate.

Did an author write the story? Did he want me to feel like I had been there when he did? Did he care whether I knew it was his mother, or his sister, or a woman he made up?

Does it matter?

No. The fact that I can't remember anything but what happened to the characters is what makes this my favorite story. It's the perfect story because it wasn't a story.

It was an experience.