A Land of Custom Number Plates - LGW

26/03/24

Irving, Dallas, Texas.

A land of custom number plates and cleaned pavement, groomed.

I'm sitting under king bed sheets in apartment 3801 of Meridian gated community in Irving, Texas. The outside is made from the kind of plasticine-faux brick that makes you want to drink bottled water. The label on the bottle reads 'Cow Coliseum', then inaptly dons a black and white graphic of a jumping horse, the style is new attempting to look old, modernly yearning to be vintage, its distress and wear are meticulous.

They love stars, I skipped out on a 30% jersey cotton racer back singlet with tassels reading:

"The stars shine big and bright in Texas tonight"

The number plates all have stars. Custom, Pink:

✯ Texas✯ 

DOG4

I walk into a Neiman Marcus and linger on the perfume level, three well groomed white women in their late sixties perch behind each fragrance counter. Scrolling Facebook reels for the duration it takes me to smell 17 perfumes out of my price range. My nose is singed by floral toxicity, red raw and probably gleaming, clinically cleaned, I cannot smell anymore.

I look up from a sample and smile at the blonde woman in the hot pink power suit. Bold choice, she seems bold, her face doesn't flinch as she swipes.

Her eyes are glittering at a video of a baby goat befriending a tiny monkey. This is sweet. We both understand the popularity of such a video. I extend her the courtesy that I would when my mother watches me open a soldier reunion video link she sent me on WhatsApp.

I offer a glance in the woman's direction that I hope conveys a shared acknowledgement of faith. I pull back the godliness of the eye contact, she seems god-dy, Dallas is god-dy, I don't feel like talking about god. So I lean more into the divinity-of-nature-ness of my facial expression, such depth, I'm nailing it. She will not look up.

I exit the Neiman Marcus on Main street and meet my mother. A Subaru Forrester is parked up next to us at the traffic light and a woman with a hoarse voice is yelling Jesus' name. She holds a sign made on cardstock in Sharpie. I'm hardly 2 metres from her and the only word amongst at least 8 that I can make out is:

'SALVATION'

The meekness of the sign seems to bear no correlation to the unapologetic volume she is singing along to prayer song with. The young man in the driver's seat is wearing a midnight blue 'Missouri University' hoodie, tourists, humph. He is sufficiently entertained by his peer's performance.                                She is even louder as they turn the corner, skidding away from us.

I feel like mum isn't saying anything because she's religious, she is ashamed of the way the woman is making faith look crazed and psychotic, possessive.                                                                              She is wondering if I think her faith is crazed and psychotic, possessive.                                                   I don't know how to answer this.

It is very silent between mother and daughter.

"bit intense" "yep, sounds like she's got a sore throat too"

"mm yeah" "yep" "yes."

We hold hands as we walk toward the CVS, a homeless man sits out the front amongst the following contents;

- a banana peel

- a stick of women's deodorant

- two half empty yellow pill bottles

- a pink and grey polka dotted duffel bag

- 53 hot pink pills splayed across the pavement

Things are strangely colour coded, I feel strange and pink and nauseous.

I eat a banana on Elm street, I am overcome by the feeling that not many people eat bananas here in this city business district of Dallas. This feeling is not supported by anything other than the fact that no one near me is eating a banana at this exact second. I don't find it difficult to starve myself here, but then again I do always find it difficult to identify whether or not I am starving myself.

In a land of custom number plates and Bain Marie's for peach cobbler and trying to starve myself.