"Which George Elliott?," by C.B.

I am walking. I am stuck in between rows and rows of suburbia. The houses are arranged in a square. The world is dark, grey, and colorless. I notice that one of the houses looks just like a house that I lived in on an army base. I know that I loved the house and I miss it. The back door is open a little way, and it looks like no one is home, so I decide to go in. I figure that I will be able to see the house and then I will be able to walk out the front door and exit the maze of houses that I am imprisoned in. I walk into the house through the back door and find myself standing in a kitchen. There is spaghetti sauce boiling on the stove and a wine bottle on the table and I realize that someone must be home. I walk through the kitchen to the doorway that leads to the living room and see someone sitting on the couch. The lady's pretty, however unformed, her face is one of any face. I know that she is no one.
"You know you could have used the gate. It's right next to the side of all of the houses." She just flips the page of the book that she is reading.
"Sorry," I say and walk out the front door onto the hot, overcast street.
I walk down the dark street and end up at an ancient wooden market row. There are rows and rows of booths set up in a line made out of old, dark, weathered wooden crates. There are a few people walking around and the vendors are distorted, freakish, and frightening. I want to look at all of their booths. The first booth is run by the oldest man that I think that I've ever seen. It's filled with Asian antiques stored in tiny worn leather trunks. I decide that I would like to look for some Asian things for my son. The man is staring at me and his form is fading in and out of shadow. I can't find one thing that I don't think is an Asian version of some cultural cruelty such as the African- American mammy salt and pepper shakers. I am disgusted and walk to the next booth. My fingers can't help but feel dust etched, and stained glass carvings. I think that it is strange however that the pictures are not formed. They are ugly, lined, jagged, pieces of haphazard color. I turn to walk away, still searching for something that I want to see or keep for later. In the center of the rows is a table made out of wooden crates. There are books that are not in English. Three old, wrinkled, grey women are running this booth. They are all dressed in long, calico, dingy-colored, floor-length dresses, white aprons, and scarves. One of the ladies tries to talk to me. I can't understand the language that she is speaking. She is trying to tell me where she is from. I think that she says Serbia. I ask her if I am right.
"No! It is by *********ina," She looks agitated.
I say that I am sorry and turn to walk away. I walk a few steps and feel a heavy tap on my shoulder. I turn and she is standing there with a tea colored antique paper in front of my face. It has three strange circles drawn in a row. She taps the paper forcibly and points at me.
"I don't understand what you mean. Is that a drawing of where you are from?" I am backing away because she looks very agitated.
"No! You need to know this," she says in broken English. She points at the paper again and then points at me.
"I'm sorry," I say, I can't understand. I turn and run away from her. I am walking toward the end of the strange mall. There is a dark corner filled with very old things. A table lies covered with antique jewelry and trinkets. I reach to touch one of the necklaces and a wooden fence slams down between the table and me. An old deformed man and shadowy-vague, ancient woman are sitting by the table. The man stands and walks to the gate and grabs it with both hands.
"This table's only for the locals. Ma's got enough problems without your freakish kind comin here. You don't want to make the locals angry. It's enough that we have to deal with all of the foreigners," suddenly 'Ma' begins to cackle and he starts to scream and shake the gate. I turn and begin to run. I have to get the hell out of this insane place. I am running toward the street when Joan Jett grabs me.
"Hey man, I was looking for ya. I kept trying to sleep in your car like you told me to, but your cell- phone keeps ringin. It really started to piss me off because my head's poundin like crazy, and I need a drink. So anyway, I finally answer the fucking phone, and it's your aunt. She says that you need to come home quick because George Eliot died," she roughly shoves the phone into my hand. "You better call her."
"No way, I'm busy. Besides, I didn't even know any George Eliot. The only George Eliot that I know of is the writer of "The Spanish Gypsy," is that who she's talking about?" "Yeah that's the one. She said that it's important that you go to the funeral. Everyone'll be expecting you. Oh yeah, she also said that you needed this," she pulled a wrinkled copy of, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, out of her pocket, "she said that you need to make sure that you never forget it."