So I’m working on my retail book and this is the first part. I’m looking for some honest, yet open minded criticism. What works as well as what doesn’t. There is something off with the rhythm and I’m just short of deleting it and starting all over again (only 3 chapters in).
This is only a second draft.
Two hours I had pilgrimaged across the dry rolling landscapes of lucrative pump jacks and dehydrated cattle after cutting my visit back home with my mother short that week, eager to seize the opportunity to work at my all time favorite specialty gift shop. Hiring all positions, applications available in the store the ad on Craigslist had read. This was the store that I escaped to as a child for a trip through the exotic wonderment of the entire world; and then on through the college years to escape the bland white walls of my dormitory cell, seeking out a muse for my creative writing classes. With wide quick strides I dashed across the parking lot, as if I were racing the hoards of imaginary applicants that were as hopeful as me to nab this dream retail job. I eagerly leapt through the parking lot and into the mall. There was almost a dreamlike prance to my step, combined with great urgency.
But quite abruptly I found my heart drop into my gut when I was not greeted with a motivated manager seeking his new dream team, or even some crooked evil corporate level puppet master who was overworked and overtired just seeking warm bodies to fill her troublesome store. As I walked through those glass doors between Pretzelmaker and Bealls I found my haven of inspiration instead draped in garbage bags and all lights within shut off. I peeked through the gates and my eyes desperately searched for some sign of life. The shelves that remained were empty with broken product of ages past scattered about. The floor was a disaster, and at front a sign written in a toddler’s scrawl read: This location closed. ‘Abandoned their lease, no doubt.’ I grasped at my Nana’s blue glass elephant necklace I had worn for strength and luck as I found myself backing slowly into hundreds of ceramic painted tile squares along the edge of what was a once a beautiful flowing fountain. Now, during this horrid drought, it was only a retroactively decorated frame around a blue concrete hole stained with jagged white streaks from the hard West Texas waters.