The Confessional
Part I
                                                                
In the dressing room at Sears, I heard them. In an acoustically ideal setting with high ceilings, thin walls and louvered doors, I heard the voices in the next stall. All I really wanted to do was find a couple of outfits suitable for teaching job interviews, and get the hell out of there. I hate shopping for clothes. I hate being forced to look into mirrors. Hate having to admit that the future comes too quickly, and that the present hardly exists. My memory of the past makes me unrecognizable every time I look into the wicked device. There is always a stranger looking back at me. But this time was different.   Instead of looking, the time I listened. I listened to everything that was said in the next stall in Central-Virginia, little, old, lady voices.

        "I'm going to have to stop for lunch soon, Melva. Breakfast is on its way out."

        "Didn't you go this morning before we left?" asks a voice almost identical in accent and antiquity.

That must be Melva, I thought as I sat on the bench and untied my Reeboks, little knowing that her question would prompt a more in depth response on the gastrointestinal regularity of her dressing stall mate, and not only that but that their conversation would have such a profound effect on me.

        "No! Breakfast would be gone and I'd be eatin' lunch now if I had.
Hmmmph! My stomach pokes out so, I look like I'm pregnant."

        "Well, maybe you are, Alice." Melva responded rather blandly.

        I didn't mean to listen, tried to ignore them as long as I could. I mean who would willingly listen to a Milk of Magnesia commercial in the making. But that pregnant bit, I mean these women had to be in their late 60's at least. I started really attending then. There was something about the dead-pan of their voices that held me in thrall.

        "Well, I don't know whose it could be."

        I was stunned. There was no joke in their voices. I simply couldn't comprehend southern women of this age behaving this way.   I mean they could have been my mother and my Aunt Dot. I began to suspect that these women were performing this little scenario in order to shock whoever might be listening in.   I flushed red and contemplated moving to a stall farther away, but I was already half undressed and to tell the truth I was fascinated. Unfortunately, their banter was punctuated by construction noises, as Sears ladies department was getting a face lift, so I really had to struggle to hear them.