The Flock of Man
 
I am sitting on a wooden bench in a crowded mall, watching people mill about as they move from store to store, their arms laden with a wide assortment of bags. My own small purchases sit in a bag on the floor between my feet, safely out of the way of errant footfalls. It is the day after Christmas, 2001 – although it could easily be any number of “December 26”s. Like most traditions, each yearly occurrence tends to bear a vague resemblance to the others. In this case, the tradition involves venturing out to the mall with some of my family on one of the biggest shopping days of the year -- to make returns, exchanges, and to find amazing bargains and discounted merchandise. It’s a day reserved for the exclusive delight of the true holiday masochist.
 
I pause to lick a few drops of coffee off of my hand, the warm liquid having spilled from the plastic lid of a cup I purchased from the mall’s “coffee boutique.” The same cup of coffee had burned the roof of my mouth roughly twenty minutes prior, but I was still seeking the caffeinated salvation that came with the misery. Around me, the crowd pulses like blood through inflexible arteries, uncaring for both my coffee and for the heaviness in my eyes.
 
Next to me on the bench is my uncle Jim, and together we’re watching one of his daughters talking to the guy working at one of the cell phone kiosks that dot the mall’s median. She’s been trying to work out a new contract for what seems like the better part of the morning – my uncle and I have been sitting here for short while now, waiting to meet up with my aunt Cathy and my other cousin, who are standing in a long return line at a nearby store.
 
I study the interplay going on at the cell phone kiosk. “You know, I think she’s flirting with that sales guy.”
 
“You think she is?” My uncle looks over to his left and observes his daughter for a moment. “Nah, I don’t think so.”
 
“No, I’m pretty sure she is…” I insist. “She’s totally flirting with that guy, whether she knows she is or not. Look at her body language -- I wonder if she’s doing it to try and get a better deal, or if she just thinks he’s cute.” I drain the last drops of now-cool, bitter coffee from my cup.
 
“Huh… maybe you’re right.” He smirks a little, and I can tell he’s already planning to tease her about it later. There’s a pause as we both return to watching the crowd push past us. He waves to someone he knows as they pass by, which I’ve noticed is a frequent occurrence on our post-Christmas excursions. My uncle apparently knows a lot of people.
 
The shopping bags drift past. “How many guys in this mall do you think are here just following their women around?” he asks me.
 
I consider this for a moment – we come here every year, and while we do make a few purchases of our own, most of our time does seem to be spent either tailing my aunt and cousins, or waiting somewhere to meet up with them. While my girlfriend’s not here, I’m part of this group by proxy, hanging out with my uncle. A quick survey of the passers-by leads me to agree with his assessment.
 
“Looks like a whole lot of guys, based on this crowd,” I respond.
 
“So why do we all do it?” he says, getting more animated. “We follow them around like we’ve got nothing else to do. I tell ya, we’re like a bunch of sheep. We’re all pretty whipped.”
 
I chuckle a bit. “We’re like a flock of sheep, huh?”
 
“Heh. No, I’ll tell you what we are… we’re the flock of man. The gals are the shepherds. We’re here just to follow our shepherds around and do what they say.”
 
I’m now laughing at this idea. “So basically, we’re really ‘flocked up?’” I ask him.
 
He grins. “Exactly,” he says. “The ‘Flock of Man’.”
 
We’re interrupted by the return of my aunt and cousin – my aunt looks a little impatient already, even though we’ve only been in the mall for an hour or so.
 
“They didn’t have the same top in the size I wanted,” she says as she shifts bags around in her hands. “So I just took the store credit instead. One of us will have to come back in a week or so and see if they’ve got it in. You want to go over and take care of the Kauffman’s stuff now?” She sifts though a pile of receipts in her hand, looking for the right one for the next stop.
 
“Yeah, let’s head over there.” My uncle stands up and takes one of the bags from my aunt. He nods toward the conversation going on 25 feet away at the kiosk. “Hey, Dustin thinks Melissa is flirting with that cell phone sales guy.”
 
Kari, the younger sister of the accused, gives me a weird exasperated look. “What? No she’s not!”
 
I shrug it off and grin with self-amusement. “I dunno… I’ve been watching her talk to that guy for like a half an hour now. She seems pretty chatty to just be trying to get a new cell phone.” Turning away from the group, I toss my coffee cup into a nearby trash can.

About forty-five minutes later, we’re standing in the housewares section of Kauffman’s, and my uncle is telling our family friend, Don, about his “Flock of Man” theory. Don loves it, especially since his wife Cindy has joined forces with my aunt Cathy as they patrol the store.
 
“I think we should all get badges,” uncle Jim says. “’Flock of Man’ badges. And we can greet each other like this…” he makes a short bleating noise. I make a bleating noise back at him, and Don laughs. Somewhere across the racks of cookware and dishes, someone makes a similar sheep noise.
 
My uncle makes an excited gesture. “You see? We’re everywhere!”
 
We all laugh at this, and the idea progresses to bigger and bigger levels, like starting a “Flock of Man” website and getting shirts. I am now getting enthusiastic about the idea, and find myself randomly making sheep-related noises every few minutes. I try to make a game of identifying other members of the flock as they stand in line, toting items around with them, or as they seem to be standing around with no apparent purpose, waiting for their “shepherd” to return. Then, with the moment slowing down, I decide drift off on my own to look at some clothes.
 
As I stare vacantly at a display of sweaters, I poke the tender roof of my mouth with my tongue, and feel the burned skin. While I’ve been subconsciously playing with it since I scalded it, it’s much more noticeable in this lull . Motion catches my eye, and I look up at a middle-aged fellow as he passes by, following his wife. He nods and smiles at me as he walks by, and I return the gesture. Across the way, I see another man checking out a young, blonde salesgirl as she bends over to get something from under the counter. The woman that’s with him, looking intently at something in her hand, doesn’t see him do it. Even though my girlfriend is miles away in a different city, I share the guy’s guilty pleasure. Either I was beginning to feel some commonality with my fellow sheep, or the holidays had become too much to deal with sanely. I had a common bond with almost every guy in that mall, right down to the sales rep that I was certain was probably cutting my cousin a good cell phone deal right at that moment, thanks to a few of her casual smiles.
 
I hear a bleat from behind me. I turn and see my uncle and the rest of our shopping crew standing near the escalator. “Hey, we’re moving on,” he calls over, “the shepherds want to get some lunch.”
 
My aunt throws him a funny look, obviously wondering why she was just called a shepherd. My uncle looks back at her and makes the sheep noise.
 
“Dustin and Don and I have decided,” he begins, “that we’re forming an official flock…”
 
I listen, grinning as I transfer my bag of goods out of my now-aching hand to the other as we walk along. It’s been a long morning, but I’m in good spirits – I have no real reason to be in a crowded mall all day, but I’m in a place where I’m surrounded by a teeming flock of my fellow sheep. The feeling of belonging masks any frustration and annoyance that the day might bring, and lets me enjoy my surroundings. As our group pushes our way out of the department store and into the heavily trafficked walkways, I let out a bleat on behalf of all my brothers.

~~~~~

footnote contributor Dustin Grovemiller now tries to be a sheep while browsing on amazon.com, but it's just not the same.