Phantom of the Mall

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He awoke too early on a Saturday in August with a feeling he had never felt before. He sat up in bed and tried to classify the emotion, but the mood eluded him. He yawned and stretched, looked at the clock and yes, it was eight o'clock, too early. He could not go back to sleep. He sat up in the bed, and looked around the room. The orange-glowing digital clock rested on a dresser top beside the bed, next to an imitation bronze bed lamp. The walls were white, and there was nothing on them, except over by the door a poster of the General looking calm, austere, and confident. The sheets on the bed were white, the blanket lime neon green. The desk, chair and dresser were all painted chocolate brown to match the telephone.

There was nothing on the desk. The chair was neatly tucked beneath it and the closet door was closed. Thin carpeting covered the floor, a sort of yellow not quite brown. Everything was immaculately clean. Francis yawned again and blinked. He was vaguely troubled by a dream, but it was gone, no memory remained of it, and he was up again too early, on a Saturday at that.

Now that he was awake he might as well get up. He wouldn't get anything accomplished by sitting there in bed. He climbed out and made the bed, smoothed the sheets, and neatly tucked the blanket in, carefully arranging the pillow in the middle. He inspected his work, then padded off into the bathroom in his flannel blue pajamas. Francis felt the cold tile on his feet and disapproved. "I forgot the slippers," he thought. The bathroom light was bright, the room was sparkling clean, white tiles and silver mirrors gleamed. One hair was lying in the sink, not too far from the drain. He picked it up and dropped it in the basket on the floor. His feet were cold. "I'd better get the slippers," Francis told himself, so he turned off the light, and padded back into the bedroom, opened up the closet door, bent down, and picked them up. He took them over to the bed, sat down, and put them on. Standing once again, he smoothed the bed where he had sat. Returning to the bathroom, he turned the light back on, and observed the image in the mirror. The short blond hair was cut just so, suggesting slanted bangs. The mustache was thin and starkly outlined. The eyes were a light blue, the face was thin and pale between a small mouth and a high forehead. He appeared to be quite calm, and he was pleased. "I'm still in good shape," Francis thought, "The years haven't ruined me yet."

It was time to comb the hair. He did this cautiously. The fine-tooth comb slid gently through the strands, rearranging to perfection. "My Goodness," he thought, "I forgot to clean the teeth! Something is definitely wrong!" He remedied that problem by quickly cleaning them. "No harm done," Francis told himself, "it's all right after all, I'm just not totally awake. What else?" he asked himself. "That's it," he thought, "it's time to put the clothes on."

He gathered the pajamas, and took them to the bedroom, where he put them in their drawer. From another drawer he removed a pair of underpants and another pair of socks and put them on. He opened up the closet, and examined the apparel there. "It's Saturday," he told himself, "what shall I wear today? Well, it all depends on what I'm going to do. What am I going to do?" He was puzzled for a moment then walked over to the dresser, but there wasn't any note. "Perhaps it's in the kitchen," Francis thought, so in his underpants and socks he walked into the kitchen, through the hall and living room, but there was no note in there. He returned to the bedroom, puzzled.

"This isn't normal," he thought, "There has to be a note." He thought back to the night before, but could not recall a thing. He tried to think of what it was that had been planned for him to do that day, but he couldn't remember anything at all. "It's so strange," he thought, "to have no plan. Definitely there is something wrong." He looked into the walk-in closet again, and saw the clothes. There were a lot of them. Slacks and shirts and jackets all lined up on hangers, folded neatly, all carefully arranged. He didn't know which ones to wear.

Francis was disturbed. He stood there, very puzzled. Moments passed, but the situation failed to improve. He was at a stalemate. He tried to think, but though he puzzled long and hard, no answer came to him. "It's Saturday," he thought, "and I've woken up too early. I forgot to clean the teeth first thing as always. I do not have a note, so I don't know what I'm going to do today, and, not knowing what I'm going to do, I don't know what would be appropriate to wear." The situation was intolerable. He would have to make a decision soon. It wouldn't do to stand there worrying all day in underpants and socks. He was wasting time. "Am I supposed to work today?" But no, it was definitely Saturday, of this he was completely sure, and so it had to be a shopping day. "I must get dressed," he told himself, so he confronted the dilemma once again. "There must be a way out of this," he thought, and considered the alternatives.

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