Mike Wilson’s sharp wit and keen eye for seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary provide a perfect canvas for characters who run the gamut from beautiful to grotesque into a collision course with each other. Full of suspense, humor, romance and a police detectives’ insight into the underbelly of Kentucky, Wilson holds a mirror up to a deeply troubled Nation. ~Erin Chandler, Bluegrass Sons: A True Crime Memoir, June Bug Versus Hurricane
Every once in a while a lucky reader finds a book that is smart, relevant and thought provoking. Mike Wilson’s Food Court is one of those books. Wilson methodically reveals society’s layers of sediment, sludge and even the possibility of beauty that lies buried within. Cleverly told through multiple points of view, the plot lines integrate smoothly into a world that is frighteningly pertinent in today’s time. ~Wendy Jett, author of the Girl Trilogy
Mike Wilson observes our ongoing national crisis with a worried brow and satiric side-eye. Food Court slices deep into who we are as Americans at a time when every individual is terrified. And potentially terrifying. Think Doctorow and Swift, with a pinch of Pynchon or maybe Tom Clancy. It’s Mike Wilson. Gently merciless. ~Kevin Lane Dearinger author of Bad Sex in Kentucky and On Stage with Bette Davis
CHAPTER ONE
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(Denise)
Denise Etherington pinches the clear plastic straw between her thumb and forefinger and swirls it in her unsweetened iced tea. She sucks till she hears a loud gurgle, then glances around for disapproving faces. There are none. Suburban mallgoers at tables beside her are immersed in conversation, in consuming their own fast food. The ambient noise of the Food Court – a multitude of tiny sounds echoing, all mixed together – spins a cocoon of privacy insulating each table in its own world.
“Excuse me.”
Denise looks over her shoulder, then up. A man she’s never seen before holds his tray high enough to clear her head. He has thick brown hair and a strong jaw, thirtyish, wears khaki pants, a pink button-down shirt, and a navy-and-aqua-striped tie. Strong arms, full chest, flat belly. Damn.
“Pardon me. I need to squeeze through.”
Denise cringes. She’s checking him out like he’s dancing in the strip club of her imagination. She scoots her chair in. His tie brushes the back of her hair as he passes. Her head tingles. He stops for a moment, says, “Thanks.” His eyes are cerulean and sparkle like prisms bending light. She struggles to find her voice.
“Uh, no problem.”
But he’s already out of earshot. She was only an obstacle. Men never really see Denise. She’s just a speed bump. The guy she’s been dating has ghosted her for two weeks now. He slept with her but never really saw her. What do I have to do to hold a man? She laughs at a man’s jokes, defers to the man’s view on everything. She can’t figure out what she’s doing wrong. It’s not me. Denise tilts her plastic drink cup back. A couple of ice cubes tumble into her mouth. As she chews, she mentally reviews her good qualities: she’s kind, funny, intelligent, not fat, looks a little bit like Emma Watson. I’m worthy and valuable. I’m enough.
Her allotted lunch hour is almost up. She wads the empty food wrappers on her tray. They’re big as tumbleweeds. Oink. Fortunately, Denise doesn’t put on weight the way her mother does. Not yet. She notices a piece of purple onion on her leg and picks it off.
She stands, picks up her tray, and looks for the nearest trash disposal. That man in the pink shirt and navy-and-aqua-striped tie is eating by himself at a table in front of the taco place. He lifts his gaze to hers. When their eyes meet, he looks away. Denise processes this as rejection, then marvels at how messed up she is, sucking strangers into her inner drama to validate her low self-esteem.
She walks by the taco stand on her way to the trash receptacle and sneaks one more peak at him, hoping to find a flaw. Something’s off, out of place, like he’s a farm boy dressed up for a first date with the city girl visiting Dingleberry Falls. (She watches too many Hallmark movies). No ring on the left hand, but what looks like a college graduation ring on the right ring finger. Who buys those anymore, much less wears them? There’s a small spiral notebook beside his hand, and a ballpoint pen. What’s this guy’s deal? She notices a scar under his jaw that makes her shiver. Now she’s glad he’s not interested in her. She dumps her trash, leaves the tray on top of the receptacle. She mentally rejects this weirdo, as if there was an offer on the table.
The jewelry store where Denise works is just beyond the entrance to the Food Court, but it’s already one o’clock, so she picks up the pace of her walk. Bitch boss Gayle is probably lurking behind a display case with a stopwatch. Regardless, it’s Candy’s turn to take a lunch hour. Denise won’t cheat Candy out of a single minute of it.
Candy must have seen Denise returning, because she’s already at the door with her purse when Denise enters. Candy is a dirty blonde with a Lady Gaga nose and a heart of gold. She’s wearing a big smile.
“Gayle left for the day. She’s taking her mother to a colonoscopy.” Candy makes it sound like a prom date.
“Maybe the doctor will let Gayle administer the procedure herself,” Denise quips, but she can tell Candy is focused on something else, something easy to guess. Candy is seeing a nice guy in the men’s department at Macy’s. Retail dating retail.
“I bet you’re going to hang out with Orville.”
Candy nods. “He’s waiting at the front door. We’ll probably go to Olive Garden.”
Yeah, right. Candy and Orville are headed for Candy’s apartment for sex. Candy hands Denise her time clock swipe card.
“I just clocked out for lunch.”
“I’ll clock you back in in 57 minutes. Are you coming back?” Tuesdays are notoriously slow. Denise can handle whatever ambles in. Candy shrugs. Denise arches her eyebrow. Candy grins. Candy and Orville make a cute couple. More power to them.
“He’s not scheduled to work this afternoon.”
“Good. So, when you go to Olive Garden, tell Orville to order the fish taco.”
“I don’t think Olive Garden has fish tacos — “
Candy stops midsentence, notices Denise’s smirk. Denise puts two fingers over her mouth and undulates her tongue. Candy blushes, laughs. Then Denise notices in peripheral vision a man at the at the necklace display case wearing shorts and Birkenstocks with socks. His sandy hair is combed over a bald spot and he’s eyeing Denise and Candy with disapproval, as if their frivolity is at his expense. Denise gestures with her head. Candy sees the customer, deflates her giggle to a smile.
“Thanks, Denise. You’re the best.”
“I got you, girl. You’d do it for me.” If I had someone to do it with. Denise turns, puts on her customer service face, and circles around behind the necklace display case.
“Can I help you?”
The man with the comb-over recovers his mood.
“I’m looking for a necklace.”
He seems like a nice man, but he’s perched at the least expensive end of the display case.
Denise wants to move Comb-over to the expensive end of the display case. Her pay is mostly commission.
“Is it for a birthday or some other occasion?”
“It’s our twentieth anniversary.”
“Oh, that’s a big one! Congratulations! You’re so lucky. You must be very happy.”
This isn’t just an empty compliment, a throw-away line. Denise will measure the state of Comb-over’s relationship with his wife in the tone and body language of his response. The truth will come out, no matter what words he utters. Happy can be a reason to spend. And if they’ve been having problems, he may be trying to fix the problem with a gift.
“Thank you.”
The marriage is fine. Maybe room temperature instead of hot, but comfortable, like an old shoe. Comb-over is looking to do the right thing. Based on his nerdy shorts and sandals with socks, being here in the middle of a weekday, and the way he carries himself, Comb-over is likely some sort of professional who works from home. Upper-middle income level. Probably lives in one of the higher-end neighborhoods south of the mall.
“So, did you have something particular in mind?”
“Not exactly. I’m not good at shopping for this kind of thing.”
Denise nods understandingly. Husbands usually aren’t.
“No problem. Is she fond of necklaces?”
Comb-over shrugs ambiguously, revealing to Denise’s practiced eye that he’s never noticed what jewelry his wife wears. It’s simply not on his radar. This is typical. Denise skips asking if she prefers gold or silver and cuts straight to hair color and skin tone. Comb-over is awed by the question – it implies a variable that never would have occurred to him, that it’s how the jewelry looks on the woman, rather than an item of jewelry as a thing by itself, that matters. She interrogates Comb-over the way a sketch artist at the police station might elicit information from a crime victim. She even uses herself as a measuring stick – is she lighter or darker than me? Satisfied that she has a visual, it’s time to seize the rudder and steer this boat to shore.
“Okay. I have some ideas.”
Comb-over’s eyes light up. Denise is assuming responsibility for making sure he picks something his wife will like. He won’t screw it up. Denise doesn’t want to screw it up either. If Comb-over’s wife is happy, she’ll ask where he bought this wonderful anniversary present and likely shop from Denise for her own future purchases. More commissions for Denise. While men may purchase a big-ticket item every so many years, over time women buy far more jewelry than men because they’re more likely to treat jewelry as part of daily dressing.
“Come over to the other counter and I’ll show you a few pieces.”
Comb-over follows Denise to the expensive end of the counter. She unlocks the cabinet, reaches in, and pulls out a necklace with emeralds, along with a couple of other pieces for comparison. Denise studies Comb-over’s expression as he examines each piece and the price tag affixed to it. She’s assembling data to calculate what she can get him to spend and feel happy doing so, when movement near the entrance of the store draws her eye.
It’s the guy in the pink shirt from the Food Court. He’s standing outside the entrance as mall-shoppers stream around him. His eyes rove across ceiling and upper walls inside the jewelry store like a housemaid looking for cobwebs. He notices Denise seeing him and is startled. His face becomes impassive, an iron curtain. He turns and saunters down the hallway of the mall, spiral notebook in hand, moving with the powerful ease of a lion disappearing into the forest. Like a Jungle Cat.
“Excuse me, miss. Did you hear me?”
Denise snaps out of her trance.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
Comb-over repeats his question but Denise only hears noise. Her mind is on Jungle Cat.
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Mike Wilson is a retired attorney whose short stories have appeared in The Saturday Evening Post, Fiction Southeast, and many other magazines. He’s author of Arranging Deck Chairs on the Titanic, political poetry for a post-truth world. His awards and prizes include the Chaffin/Kash Prize of the Kentucky State Poetry Society, League of Minnesota Poets Award, Maine Poets Society Award, and the Harriet A. Rose Legacy Contest Award. He lives in Lexington, Kentucky. This is his first novel.