I wish I didn’t have to go to court all the time. Food court, that is. We all thought it was a great idea in the eighties. It mooted all the commercials where the family sits in the car and tries to pick a restaurant. It ruined all the preachers’ and motivational speakers’ number one illustration about how to come to an agreement as a family.

            And we thought it was cheap. That was the main thing. Everyone could get what they wanted, and four dollars here and five-fifty there sounded a whole lot better than thirty-nine. Not to mention we could save time by everyone ordering at once.

            But the choosing part became more grueling than ever. Now, instead of sitting in a car in front of the dry cleaners because your husband has pulled over and said, “I am not driving one more centimeter until someone in this vehicle decides,” we can actually hold the argument in the most public place in town. At this point, people actually try to step in and help the family decide. “Free sample?” they call. Syrupy meat pieces shaped incredibly like Paraguay dangle from toothpicks. We take them because they’re free and keep moving while the band plays, “White rice and a side for $3.99.”

            Then at the end of the circuit, I say, “You know what? I’ve eaten all this Paraguay-shaped chicken. I’m not really hungry anymore. I think I’m good.” This is precisely why I’m not a vegetarian.

            But no one else seems to feel this way—full. So we have one that wants pizza, one that wants a steak sandwich, one that wants chili-cheese chips, one for Paraguay pieces, and one that says, “Can I just get an egg roll here and cheese fries way over there and macaroni two blocks down?” This is when we realize, between the six of us, we have one debit card and sixty-two cents. So we begin an ordering marathon. “Take the debit card to the sub place; bring me the receipt. Then Abram can go to the pizza line (which currently wraps around the equator twice), and then the rest of us can order next January. Doesn’t anybody want regular American chicken nuggets? Anyone? Anyone?”

            I ask in pleading tones because we know now the established fact that the drinks at the American chicken nugget place are a full thirty cents lower than anywhere else in this phenomenally expensive mall food market. But no one goes for this, so we will now send the debit card to the ninth line to get the drinks.

            Wasn’t Watergate faster than this? Did the Thirty Years War even take this long?

            Watch out for the clean-up crew! They’re serious, circulating through the tables in matching shirts with dustpans and trying to catch you off guard. One trip to the bathroom, one sprint to the napkin dispenser, one turn to see if the equator has shortened, and it’s gone. They can wipe out six drinks and all of Paraguay in the blink of an eye. And you yell, “Don’t! That drink is two dollars and sixteen cents!” And they smile and say, “Limpie las tablas,” which must be translated, “Ha ha, you save time and money at the Cracker Barrel.”

            But there is one more ludicrous touch to this entire scenario that I would like to address. There, in the middle of this overpriced chaos, there is a seemingly serene attraction. Someone has moved a carousel inside. . . in here. . . in the mall. I must admit it’s inviting, with its white lights and ornate nineteenth-century horses. I also must admit it’s three dollars a kid. The sign says it doesn’t take debit cards, so I count the sixty-two cents again.

            I know, I know, there’s that nearby anytime machine that gives you cash for a small transaction fee. Small is a relative word that can sometimes mean big, such as “I have a small swimming pool,” “We are at war with a small country,” or “I am having a small bankruptcy problem.”

            “A horse, a horse. . . My kingdom for a horse.” Or at least my would-be new couch pillows. I wave sixty-four times at the four of them, which, of course, works up an appetite.

            Anybody sell dessert for sixty-two cents?