week.
I drove into the center’s parking lot, a
sea of expensive vans and SUVs, perfect protective coloration for Wanda’s van.
With luck it would remain unnoticed here among the other oversized gas hogs
until the lot emptied late that afternoon. Meanwhile, I needed to borrow
another car.
Borrow sounds so much more polite than steal.
Ransacking the
litter on the floor of the van, I dredged up a pair of cheap sunglasses, two
plastic barrettes, three Band-Aids, a lipstick—not in my shade, but
soothing on my gnawed-to-shreds lips—and a packet of Easy-pleasy condoms
in glow-in-the-dark colors. Why, Wanda Kronenwetter, you vixen! I jammed
everything into my pants pockets, promising Atticus that I was keeping track
and would someday repay Wanda for everything I’d stolen.
Leaving the keys
in the ignition, I eased out of my French fry–smelling cave of safety. I
left the doors unlocked, debating whether to lipstick a Please Steal Me note on the window to attract the attention of car thieves, thus sending
Marshal Katz on a wild goose chase while I tootled off in a . . .
In
a what ? Slinking around the parking lot, trying to appear to be a rich
ditz who couldn’t remember whether she’d driven the Porsche or the Lexus today,
I wrenched at door after door. No go—every vehicle was locked up tight
and nobody had left their keys in the ignition. People ought to be more
trusting.
A
silver BMW with Illinois plates zipped into a nearby parking space. Two women
and a boy emerged. The women looked like sisters—both tall, thin, and
blond, wearing designer jeans. The boy, about nine, was in his own world,
earbuds clamped to ears, jiving to music the rest of us couldn’t hear.
Leave the keys
in the ignition, I silently willed the driver. She didn’t. She took them
out and chirped the doors locked with her remote. Maybe I could pull another
Wanda—filch the keys from the woman’s purse. I followed the trio into the
building, keeping a few lengths behind, hoping the tourists would be too
engrossed in toilet fixings to recognize the escaped felon in their midst.
The Vonnerjohn
Design Center is a cross between a plumbing fixtures store and Potty World:
The Adventure. Hundreds of mock-up bathrooms are displayed on the wide
balconies surrounding the ground floor. These are bathrooms that have taken a
header off the Architectural Digest diving board of reality. These are
bathrooms that don’t have panty hose hanging over towel racks, scummy shower
doors, nostril clippings in the sinks, toothpaste-spattered mirrors; nappies
soaking in diaper pails, plug-in room deodorizers, or dog-eared copies of Jokes
for the John sitting on the tank tops.
These are
bathrooms from a planet where humans do not dwell. On this planet, sofas,
lamps, and bookcases all coexist happily in the bathroom, which is the size of
a two-car garage.
On this planet
there is a geisha house bathroom with a gushing waterfall for a shower,
polished pebble floors, and a grove of live bamboo trees.
There is an Aztec
temple bathroom with a tub like an altar perched atop a marble platform and
where, instead of a priest slicing your heart out of your chest, vibrating
water jets massage your vertebrae.
There is a men’s
gym bathroom with a weight bag suspended from the ceiling and boxing gloves
strung up on the wall.
There is a
Jetsons-style bathroom with a television in the ceiling and a shower cubicle
with nozzles in places that would come in handy if you ever had to bathe a
giant squid.
Today being a Saturday, the design center
was swarming with sightseers. I spied my prey near a display of whirlpool baths
that arced jets of spray like dueling water pistols. The woman’s expensive
handbag was carelessly slung over her shoulder, with her cellphone nearly
falling out of a side pocket. This dame wouldn’t last a day in prison.
Feeling
like a stalker, I prowled closer
I drove into the center’s parking lot, a
sea of expensive vans and SUVs, perfect protective coloration for Wanda’s van.
With luck it would remain unnoticed here among the other oversized gas hogs
until the lot emptied late that afternoon. Meanwhile, I needed to borrow
another car.
Borrow sounds so much more polite than steal.
Ransacking the
litter on the floor of the van, I dredged up a pair of cheap sunglasses, two
plastic barrettes, three Band-Aids, a lipstick—not in my shade, but
soothing on my gnawed-to-shreds lips—and a packet of Easy-pleasy condoms
in glow-in-the-dark colors. Why, Wanda Kronenwetter, you vixen! I jammed
everything into my pants pockets, promising Atticus that I was keeping track
and would someday repay Wanda for everything I’d stolen.
Leaving the keys
in the ignition, I eased out of my French fry–smelling cave of safety. I
left the doors unlocked, debating whether to lipstick a Please Steal Me note on the window to attract the attention of car thieves, thus sending
Marshal Katz on a wild goose chase while I tootled off in a . . .
In
a what ? Slinking around the parking lot, trying to appear to be a rich
ditz who couldn’t remember whether she’d driven the Porsche or the Lexus today,
I wrenched at door after door. No go—every vehicle was locked up tight
and nobody had left their keys in the ignition. People ought to be more
trusting.
A
silver BMW with Illinois plates zipped into a nearby parking space. Two women
and a boy emerged. The women looked like sisters—both tall, thin, and
blond, wearing designer jeans. The boy, about nine, was in his own world,
earbuds clamped to ears, jiving to music the rest of us couldn’t hear.
Leave the keys
in the ignition, I silently willed the driver. She didn’t. She took them
out and chirped the doors locked with her remote. Maybe I could pull another
Wanda—filch the keys from the woman’s purse. I followed the trio into the
building, keeping a few lengths behind, hoping the tourists would be too
engrossed in toilet fixings to recognize the escaped felon in their midst.
The Vonnerjohn
Design Center is a cross between a plumbing fixtures store and Potty World:
The Adventure. Hundreds of mock-up bathrooms are displayed on the wide
balconies surrounding the ground floor. These are bathrooms that have taken a
header off the Architectural Digest diving board of reality. These are
bathrooms that don’t have panty hose hanging over towel racks, scummy shower
doors, nostril clippings in the sinks, toothpaste-spattered mirrors; nappies
soaking in diaper pails, plug-in room deodorizers, or dog-eared copies of Jokes
for the John sitting on the tank tops.
These are
bathrooms from a planet where humans do not dwell. On this planet, sofas,
lamps, and bookcases all coexist happily in the bathroom, which is the size of
a two-car garage.
On this planet
there is a geisha house bathroom with a gushing waterfall for a shower,
polished pebble floors, and a grove of live bamboo trees.
There is an Aztec
temple bathroom with a tub like an altar perched atop a marble platform and
where, instead of a priest slicing your heart out of your chest, vibrating
water jets massage your vertebrae.
There is a men’s
gym bathroom with a weight bag suspended from the ceiling and boxing gloves
strung up on the wall.
There is a
Jetsons-style bathroom with a television in the ceiling and a shower cubicle
with nozzles in places that would come in handy if you ever had to bathe a
giant squid.
Today being a Saturday, the design center
was swarming with sightseers. I spied my prey near a display of whirlpool baths
that arced jets of spray like dueling water pistols. The woman’s expensive
handbag was carelessly slung over her shoulder, with her cellphone nearly
falling out of a side pocket. This dame wouldn’t last a day in prison.
Feeling
like a stalker, I prowled closer
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