Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

You tread carefully over the sticky black surface. Sweat trickles down your neck, your bra is already soaked. You pause to take off your sweater but then are confronted with the problem of what to do with it. You hang it carefully on the antenna of a small blue car parked nearby and keep walking. There is some urgency to move, some sense that there are conspiracies afoot, that lightning will strike multiple times if you stand in one spot.

You are in a lot filled with cars of all makes, models, and colors. Which one is yours. Have you been here before. Where is James, he has the keys. And your purse? You must have left it at the hospital. Your phone. It should be embedded in your flesh so critical is it to your ability to function.

Fiona once threw your pager down the toilet and flushed. Mark, not nearly as competent, merely buried it in the back garden, and you heard it chirp at dinner. You didn’t punish either of them, understood that they were merely playing out their Darwinian destinies. Who will inherent the earth? Not any scion of your flesh.

You are nearly at the street. Placards everywhere, violators will be towed. A gate, a gatekeeper adjusting a waist-high sign, lot full. He nods to you.

The sidewalks are crowded with people, mostly the young, dressed in as little as possible. Girls in short summer dresses with spaghetti straps holding insubstantial fabrics against small breasts. Young men in oversize shorts that reach below the knee, falling from their slight hips. Sidewalk cafés, umbrellaed tables encroaching upon the sidewalks, forcing people out into the street. Cars honking. Planters that trail flowers too bright and perfect to be real. Yet you see a woman pick off a blossom and put it in her hair. Waiters hefting trays over their heads. Colorful red and pink and blue cocktails in large v-shaped glasses. People sipping from small white cups. Enormous salads.

Everything as it should be. Everything in its place. Where is your place. Where do you belong.

You realize that you are impeding the flow of traffic. People are politely navigating around you, but you are inconveniencing them. One man bumps your elbow as he passes and stops briefly to apologize. You nod and say, not at all, and begin moving again.

Summer in the city. How exciting when your mother and father allowed you to begin coming here by yourself, away from the row houses of Germantown, the concrete schoolyards and industrial storefronts, the glazier shops and printing presses. Away from the grime-colored house with the trains running through the backyard. Your mother and her gypsy charm. Black Irish, full of magic.

In your teens you turned yourself to stone to withstand her. You vowed to never rely on trickery to bind others to you. Not a difficult vow to keep, as you had no such tricks at your disposal. Your charm nonexistent. Your beauty minimal.

Whatever power you had to attract was of a colder variety. Touching nerve-terminals / to thermal icicles . Who told you that? No matter. As it turned out there were some who appreciated it. Enough of them, yes.

You have been walking for miles. Hours and hours. South, judging from the sun, which is setting to your right. This endless street of endless festivities. You cannot see beyond it, an eternal pleasure fair. And nowhere to sit.

You realize you are hungry. It is long past dinnertime, your mother will be worried. You are suddenly tired of the gaiety, and you would settle for the quiet kitchen, the dried-out pot roast and soft brown potatoes, the boiled carrots. You realize you are beyond hunger, indeed famished. But why are you hesitating? You are surrounded by bounty!

With some trepidation you approach the nearest restaurant. Italian, its name unpronounceable, written in fancy neon script over a flowery bower. Outside, perhaps a dozen tables covered with white tablecloths, full of diners.

The din is tremendous. You can’t see inside the restaurant, it is dark and the entrance is overflowing with people laughing and talking, at least a dozen men and women holding glasses filled with red and white wine lounging against the railings of the outdoor seating area, toasting one another. You try to get closer to see inside.

Just one, ma’am? This is a man in jeans and a white shirt. Is he talking to you? You look around, but no one else is there.

My husband is parking the car, you say. This must be true. You do not eat alone in restaurants.

The wait is at least fifty minutes. Would you like me to put you on the list? Unless you’d like a seat at the bar.

He seems to be waiting for an answer, so you nod. It seems expedient. He beckons and you follow him through the path he clears in the crowd. He leads you to a high stool, places a menu in front of you, and a menu in front of the empty bar stool to your right.

I’ll show your husband here when he arrives, he says. You nod yet again. Gestures seem to take you a long way. You are relieved, as words seem evasive, unreliable. It seems like months since you have had congress with anyone. You have been a wraith weaving through the streets of revelers, unseen and unheard.

You open the menu, but cannot make sense of it. Penne all’Arrabbiata, Linguine alle Vongole, Farfalle con Salmone. But the words are evocative, make your mouth water. How long has it been since you’ve eaten? Days and days.

People sit elbow to elbow, some with plates of food in front of them, others with glasses of different shapes and sizes filled with colorful liquids. Some are watching a television mounted on the wall, surrounded by shelves and shelves of bottles that reach to the ceiling.

On the screen, beautiful girls in evening gowns are pointing to appliances—refrigerators, microwave ovens. It is a pretty, even spellbinding sight: the girls in their bright dresses flashing across the screen, the light flickering over the bottles.

The noise is high but not unpleasant. You feel as though you are in the belly of a live organism. The camaraderie of productive bacteria, the kind that sustain life.

The bartender approaches. He is a heavyset man with thick black glasses. Young, but he will need to monitor his cardiovascular health, his ruddy complexion is not due to sun or overexercise. A stained white apron tied around his ample waist.

And how-a can-a I-a help-a you, my-a beauteous one-a? he asks in a mock accent that you assume is meant to be Italian. You point to one of the menu items, the one with the shortest name.

Ah, the Pasta Pomidoro. A specialty of the house-a! And to drink? You are thirsty but cannot think of the right word. Something in a liquid state. You point to the bottle he is carrying. You test out your voice.

That, you say, and are grateful that it comes out only slightly rusty.

Jack Daniel’s? He drops his accent and gives a spontaneous-sounding laugh. This day has been full of surprises! Straight? You nod. He laughs again. Very well, a straight whiskey it is. I don’t suppose you want to follow that up with a beer chaser?

You try to judge from his expression what the right answer is. You nod again. What’ll it be? he asks. We got Coors, Miller Lite, Sierra Nevada on tap.

Yes, you say. Something changes in his face. He gives you a look that worries you. Watchful. You have seen that look before. You never could fool anyone. You always got caught. That is what keeps you on the straight and narrow. Not a conscience. No. But the knowledge that you are no good at cheating, that no bad deed goes unpunished.

He shrugs and turns away, busies himself at some machinery with complicated handles, and then places a tall frosted glass filled with something frothy and yellow in front of you. What is this. Where am I. You suddenly have a revelation. You are Jennifer White. You live at 544 Walnut