Let It Go by Michael Dell He read about it in the newspaper. Sherwood Mall was closing. He hadn't been there in years. Seeing the announcement of its impending doom in print had a somewhat curious effect on him. Despite it being a dreary Wednesday afternoon, and the fact he had plenty of other more pressing business to attend, he soon found himself inside the confines of the once proud shopping center. It wasn't all that long ago that Sherwood Mall was the crown jewel of the city. It was, without doubt, the center for commerce and culture among the common citizens of Clifton. That was before competition sliced its throat. A larger, more colorful mall appeared across town and stole the younger set. Soon shopping plazas of varying degree sprung up where trees once stood. Sherwood Mall was no longer alone. It was one of the crowd, one of many. Stores began to leave. They either skipped to the more popular mall in pursuit of fortune or closed outright due to a lack of business. The two-story edifice was now nothing more than an indoor graveyard of entrepreneurial dreams. The once majestic fountain at the bottom floor entrance was dry. Large rectangular planters were without greenery. The lights seemed dim. Storefronts were black yet still protected by locked metal gates. Only a few remained open, hoping to sell their wares at discount prices before settling on a loss. The red and white signs proclaiming sales of up to seventy percent did little to sway his attention. He was moving with a purpose. The only other traffic, aside from the occasional bargain hunter, belonged to the elderly. Apparently walking the floors of the mall, in its controlled temperature and under its protective roof, had become part of the exercise regiment for a portion of Clifton's retired community. Two old ladies dressed in pastel sweat suits passed on his left. At first he attempted to keep up but the aching pain in his hip forced him to concede. He purposefully slowed more in order to allow greater distance and avoid any further embarrassment. After some strain, he finally reached his destination. He stood before it transfixed; eyes wide, hands buried in pockets. It was a Waves Music. Its gate was drawn and locked, the windows empty. Even the prominent, glowing pink sign had vanished, leaving behind a clean shadow upon the wall that could still be read. This was where he first saw her. It had been a long time. Maybe five years. Maybe six. Who was he kidding? It was five years and seven months. But standing there, on the exact spot, brought her image before him as if it was still that very afternoon all those many years ago. He was at the mall for one reason or another. He couldn't remember. No, wait. It was for the business cards. There used to be a machine in the middle of the mall that would print business cards. You could choose from like twenty different designs. Four for a dollar. But you got fifteen for two dollars. Yeah, he was printing business cards. He was on his way out when he saw her in the store window. She was behind the counter, leaning forward on her elbows trying to think of something to do with herself. The mall was never busy then, either. He didn't mean to stop. It just happened. He had never seen anyone, or anything, so beautiful. The entire store itself was bathed in white. Literally. The CD containers, the racks, the counters; everything was white. This quirk in design added to her unearthly glow. She was blonde to the shoulders. Her face, still searching the store for a waiting task, was as innocent as sun on a rainy day. He could still remember her eyes when she first looked at him. It was always those eyes, those wonderful, tormenting eyes. It was only when she smiled that he realized he had been staring at her the whole time. He couldn't walk away now. It was too late. He was never someone that could just go up and talk to a pretty girl. He still wasn't. Only alcohol and the continued practice of risk-reward had eased the hardship. But back then there was no chance. None whatsoever. That's why he was so shocked when he heard his voice asking her name. Those first few moments were a mystery. He somehow managed to introduce himself without succumbing to the nervous fear rendering his limbs useless. Only the strength of her presence supported him. Luckily, she found his struggles, as she would later describe them, adorable. They talked for several minutes, about what he still had no idea. He could only remember they agreed to meet for lunch the next day at the mall food court. That's how it started. They became fast friends. He was in love with her from the start. She liked the attention. And there was no questioning his devotion during those first few months. He would stop in once or twice during the week to see her at work. Then on the weekends they'd go to a movie or he'd just help her with homework. She was going to the community college. Studying computers. She wanted a better job. She had let high school get away from her. Now she was paying the price. He didn't care. He was in love from the start. Things gradually progressed. They were officially a couple within three months. By month four they were living together. Month five had them talking marriage. They didn't last the year. "I think they're closed." The world receded. Peter looked around and saw a jovial old fellow marching along in rhythm. "I said I think they're closed," laughed the old man. Peter smiled. "Yeah, you might be right." The old man, still grinning, continued with his aerobic workout. Peter cursed him under his breath. It was no use anymore. He saw what he came to see. It was time to go home. The walk out of the mall had all the enthusiasm of a funeral procession. When Peter cornered into the foyer that led to the outside exits, he once again encountered the old guy that cracked wise. He was about to begin another lap. He had ventured from the main body of the mall to trace the outer edge of the foyer with tiny, energetic steps, as if not wanting to miss out on even the slightest square footage of cardiovascular benefit. The two men exchanged nods, the old man's accompanied by a smile. Peter cursed silently. The outside air was damp. It had been drizzling when he arrived. The gloomy, overcast sky remained. Another old man sat on a bench to his right. This one looked older than the walker. He was sporting a tan coat, an old 40's style hat complete with feather, and an enormous pair of glasses. Both withered hands rested on a cane in front of him as if he was ready for action at a moment's notice. Or at least as close to action as he could get. Peter made a point of not making eye contact. The parking lot was deserted. Only a handful of cars filled the hundreds of available slots. It didn't matter. Peter had still chosen a spot in the far aisle, a good fifty yards from the entrance. That was where he used to park. It was all part of the process. Occupied with thoughts of the past, he didn't even notice his lights were on when he got to the car. It wasn't until he tried the ignition that the sputtering noise of a dying battery lifted his eyes to the knob in the top left of the dash. This time he cursed out loud. Repeatedly. He should know better than to use his headlights during the day, rain or no rain. He always forgot to turn them off. He waited a few minutes and tried again. There was a sharp buzzing sound. The third try resulted in nothing at all. There was more cursing. An auto garage was located in the plaza on the other side of the mall. It would be quite the walk. He got out of the car and made sure not to slam the door. There was no reason for theatrics. Oddly enough, about two steps into his journey he caught himself looking over his shoulder to check and make sure the lights weren't on. He decided it would be shorter to cut through the mall than having to go around it. As he stepped back onto the curb, a large silver passenger bus came rambling down the grade of the parking lot and circled in front of the mall entrance. It never came to a stop, only slowed briefly and then began its climb up the other side, cutting through empty white lines. Peter heard a cry of distress. It was the old man with the cane. He was slowly shuffling after the bus, calling "Wait! Wait!" in a volume that couldn't compete with the roar of an engine. A quick appraisal of the situation was needed. The bus was shifting gears and beginning to move up the parking lot, showing no signs of stopping. If not for the dead battery Peter could have offered to give the man a lift. He considered the option of giving him money to call someone. Then again, if someone could come get him, why was he riding the bus in the first place? There was only one thing to do. "I'll get it for you," said Peter, extending a hand to convey there was no longer a need for pointless exertion. It had been a long time since Peter actually had to run. And now he was chasing a bus that had a generous head start. Oh well. Nothing to it but to do it. Searing pain shot through his ankles and hips upon the first few strides. There was no choice. He had to catch the bus. Faster. He lowered his head and drove his legs into the ground. Faster. He envisioned them as pistons, not made of ailing flesh and brittle bone but of forged steel. His chest heaved. His lungs burned. He had to run faster. Consumed by the chase, the amount of distance covered was of little consequence. Peter's sole focus was on the blur of pavement disappearing beneath his feet, a sheet of grays and blacks streaming into memory. By the time he did look up, almost the entire expanse of the parking lot had been conquered, but his massive metallic prey was a good distance ahead, turning towards the maze of exit roads leading to the highway. Peter wasn't discouraged. As he ran, he began to frantically wave his arms over his head in hopes of catching the driver's attention. He didn't yell. No sense making a spectacle of himself. The bus turned the corner and was headed back in Peter's direction, although it was now elevated by a grassy hillside and threatening to find freedom. Peter gave his arms one final wave before returning to his sprinter's form. It must have done some good. The bus began to slow and came to a halt as Peter's shoes touched grass. He scurried up the slope and hopped over the protective guardrail in one final, magnificent burst of momentum. The bus doors hissed open to greet him. "You're lucky someone saw you or I would have left ya," snarled the driver. "It's not for me," panted Peter, scuffling to control his breath and the mounting anger in his gut. "You left an old man back there." Peter turned and was amazed at how far his legs had carried him. In the distance, there was a little hunched shape inching its way up the parking lot, no more than ten or twenty feet from the curb. "I'm not turning this thing around. If he can make it up here I'll take him." "Look at him!" demanded Peter. "It'll take him forever to get up here." The driver didn't say anything. "What if he were your grandfather?" asked Peter. He followed the question by grasping the inside handrail and placing his left foot on the first step. His eyes and body language fought through fatigue to take the shape of a threat. Whether it was the fear of an imminent beating or if he suddenly found humanity, the driver cleared his throat and announced, "Okay, I'll swing around." Peter stepped back from the bus. "Thank you." He didn't think it was necessary to keep staring down the driver. He had won. The bus doors closed. Peter climbed over the guardrail and edged his way sideways down the grassy hill. He could feel the pulse of his body throbbing. His legs were composed of warm jelly, knees waiting to give out at the slightest urge. He was limping and wheezing his way back when he heard the bus returning. His whole body was tingling. He waved at the driver in an act of goodwill. He was too woozy to tell if the gesture was returned. The bus looped wide and pulled alongside the old man who was still attempting to traverse the parking lot on foot. Peter was a good ways off but he could see the man lift a heavy arm and offer a wave of thanks. Peter waved with an exaggerated movement, attempting to compensate for elderly eyes. The old man, convinced his gratitude had been expressed, set about trying to manage the bus steps. "You're lucky your buddy caught us," said the driver, not even offering to help the old man up the stairs. "I've never seen that boy before in my life," said the man as he reached the top of the steps. The doors clamped shut. The man dropped himself into the first seat behind the driver. "That was the damndest thing I ever saw. He just took off like a shot." He thought for a moment. "Yes, sir. Damndest thing I ever saw. That boy's a might powerful runner." Peter gave the bus one final wave as it drove away. It was another minute or so before he reached the mall. He was feeling lightheaded. He bent at the waist, exhausted, hands on knees, in one final attempt to catch his breath. He should have run faster. He should have done more. His hands felt numb. When he stood up, a wash of color swept across his face. He stumbled forward. His heart, ravaged by years of sorrow and regret, burst within his now convulsing chest. If only he had done more.