In the shopping center I feel like an exile. As I write this, sitting on a patio furniture display, I realize I am the only one without a cart full of cardboard and artless plastic. A seasoned couple quarrels in the next aisle over which shower curtain to go home with as if it really matters at all. Children yearn for the colorful things, women the shiny, men the dangerous. I want to tell them that if they want color, brilliance, and danger, they should listen to Elvis Presley or read Tom Robbins. Anyway, I buy the lawnchair I've been sitting on and walk out the door.