Burning Hands 2

Potty’s skin is grey. Chrissy doesn’t know why. She’s known Potty since 1987. They met at the mall downtown in the Terminal Tower. Chrissy was working at the pretzel stand---she was just a young teenager. Potty asked what they did with the pretzels at the end of the night---did they throw them out, or donate them or what. Potty was ageless. She seemed 40 then and she seemed 50 now, though more than 25 years had passed. Chrissy told her the truth: all pretzels are soaked in a saline solution overnight. No waste. Potty had said that was disgusting and walked off. She wore a grey raincoat and heels. 

She came back the next day. She said her name was Patsy, but people call her Potty. Chrissy asked why and Potty said that was a rude thing to ask: could she not smell the faint incontinence? Chrissy felt so shitty about it. But Potty said there were no hard feelings and would she like to go with her to a special place on her break?

Yes!

Potty took Chrissy to the photo machine and pulled her inside. She took out a small metal cylinder she called a cracker, and another metal thing, and a groovy balloon. They did whip-its in the photo booth. 

Chrissy's lips went numb. Before her eyes was an endless escalator, and the steps buzzed electric words that went by too quickly for her to understand. But she felt sweet and knew she'd been there before, that this was the space from which we all spring. 

She hugged Potty, whose smell was dried urine, but also clean hands and gummy hairspray. With her ears ringing, Chrissy said to Potty, "I hope you don't mind I don't get many pop culture references."

And Potty held her close, saying, "Darling, I could not care less about that Popeye shit."

And they've been friends since.

Now, just as Chrissy is getting worried, she sees Potty a tiny ways off, cruising by the river's edge, lips painted good mood red, her coat weighted on one side. Hopefully with a bottle and not hammers like last time.

To be continued...