Wonders In Dementialand: Dementialand

by Suzka Collins

  The airport was just a few miles away. Time was moving quickly. Its big hand was pushing the fog aside, making room for clear skies to take over the morning. All the airplanes waited patiently for the skies to tell them they were cleared for takeoff.

  Ok. Ok. Ok. I surrendered to the circumstances. An urgency pushed me from behind, shoving me closer to the inevitable. My mouth struggled to lift my face with intentions on creating a cordial smile. I walked to the other side of street and stopped in front of the junk man's property and spoke.

  "I'm in a bit of a jam. I need to get to the airport quick but my taxi is...” My eyes left the junk man and ran up and down the street looking for some reason to stop what I was about to ask. “…well I don't know where in the hell that damn taxi is but it sure isn't here and I need to catch a flight. Do you think, I mean... do you think it is possible, since it doesn't look like you're going anywhere… at the moment, not that I'm assuming you don't have places to go... I mean...”

  The junk man pulled the cigar out of his mouth and spoke.

  "Spit it out girl. You're making my cigar nervous." "Do you think you can you drive me to the airport? I'll buy you a case of Budweiser for your trouble.” He swaggered out of his front yard toward the gate and rested his steaming coffee on the ledge of the short picket fence and dug into his pockets fishing out a set of keys and walked to his car. He didn’t say yes, he didn’t say no. I reluctantly followed hoping I was not going to be that night’s local news story: Gifted Artist’s Body Parts Found Stuffed in Budweiser Garbage bags.

  "Get in. I like cans not the bottles. Remember that. Don’t like bottles."

  The junk man opened the passenger door. Papers and plastic bottles fell out. He shoved the loose pile of remaining rubble to one side and made just enough room for me to sit. I slid in and balanced my feet on a floor where there were more plastic bottles, pipe tubing, metal scraps, candy wrappers and old receipts. The junk man squished my duffel and carry-on in the back and off we went.

  Nothing was said at first. Normal chitchat lost its hospitality somewhere in the garbage.

  "So what do you do in that warehouse all by yourself. I can't help but notice there's not a lot of activity goin' on over there. Not a lot of people goin' in and out. Are you one of those recluse types?"

  I never heard him speak before. His quick edgy tone matched the swagger, the cigar, the junk and the bulging bags of Budweiser cans in his yard.

  "Whadaya' mean? People go in and out all the time." I repeated those defensive words with a more spunky tone of assurance, "People visit me all the time, mostly late at night… you know, the middle of the night… probably when you’re asleep." I felt that sassy response smack me in the head. Why did I say that?

  "Middle of the night, huh?" He rested his arm out the window and twirled his cigar around his grin. He grinned as if I just served him a plate of barbecued ribs. Mine.

  I tightened my parameters and avoided resting into the Chrysler. Casually I turned my head and looked out the filmed windows. Wipers dragged themselves across the windshield. My nose was uncomfortable and cautious. I took tiny breaths in an attempt to strip the air from its full flavor. Thank God the airport was only eight miles away.

  When we got close to the terminals curb, I opened the door before the car stopped moving and extended my hand. "Thank you."

  The junk man's hand for shaking twisted his cigar out of his mouth.

  "Remember, cans not bottles."

  "Yea… I won't forget."

  Slam.

  < UNITED AIRLINES > FLIGHT: #6346 Fri Dec 2 DEPART: California at 5:45 AM ARRIVE: Chicago at 6:15 PM RETURN: Jan 17

  2.

  CALIFORNIA TO CHICAGO There are places in the world where no one lives, no one belongs and no one is welcome to stay for any extended length of time. They are located in-between countries, between primarily used as traveling migrants. The migrants fly around in pod-like spacecrafts. When their craft lands at one of these places worlds and time zones and are transfer centers for millions of formally identified as airports, an accordion striped of its song expands out to meet the pod. As the pod opens its doors, the accordion then sucks out the traveling migrants from the pod and spits them out into a terminal. I was one of the airport’s migrants with a RedEye classification.

  * I navigated my way through the crowd of wrinkled travelers. The slow shuffle reserved for citizens of the Americas at the Tijuana border. It was late and cold. The terminal sign outside the accordion walkway read C31, the furthest gate from the airport’s exit. The terminal’s clock winked the next minute at 4:12am. I lusted for coffee but the terminal at four twelve was an iridescent ghost town lined with a string of stores covered by corsets of stretched metal. Their neon faces were done. The last call for alcohol, the last ‘coffee dripping’ was hours ago. Everything was closed.

  I followed a large man, carrying a sleeping child just a few bodies in front of me. The child's fist was tightly wound in string. The string knotted itself securely and then went high in the air to a yellow balloon with a wide smile - the same balloon I saw rows in front of where I was sitting earlier on the plane. I remember thinking that the balloon was irritatingly alert and happy for a Redeye flight. With his free hand, the man dragged a carry-on luggage behind him. I followed behind the luggage.

  At the end of the corseted stores, past the moving floors, through the neon’ed tunnel was a large baggageclaim area. On one side was a long line of glass doors. The doors worked for the airport. They wore alphabet hats and opened themselves to any travelers passing by. No one could live in the airport world. The doors' job was to entice passing bodies and push them out of the building, throwing them back into the real world. No one had a choice and there were no exceptions. The terminal already had a number of ghosts – previous travelers who refused to leave. They were eventually captured and stuffed in unclaimed baggage. Their families were never notified.

  On the opposite side, carousals carried the Samonsites, the Duffels, Briggs & Riley, Tumi and the Louie Vuittons. My bag fell into the carrousel first. Luck. I trudged out of the terminal. The doors behind me turned their backs and folded themselves tightly, sealing the airport world shut.

  It was snowing hard. It should have been dark but the snow's white with the moon's help lightened the night. The cold slapped my face and made my eyelids jump and twitch. I was careful to take in just enough of the arctic air that a body required. My nose pushed out the unused and steamed a tiny vapor cloud into the thin air.

  [ 31 inches of snow fell in Chicago that winter ] I walked to the curb where the limos, taxies and hotel vans picked up their fared travelers. My boots left an impression behind that I had arrived. Layers of clothing protected my skin from freezer burn. My arms pushed up into my jacket, my hands squished together the bottom of the sleeves. I forgot my gloves. I remembered to bring several pairs of sunglasses but not a single pair of gloves.

  On a small sheet of paper, tucked in my UGGs, numbers were written - license plate numbers given to me by the limo-cab service. The man driving these numbers would take me to my mother's house.

  I squeezed two fingers out from my coat’s sleeve and retrieved the paper from my warm UGGs. I hoped the numbers would match Jaidee's limo. He had picked me up from the airport several times. There was an odd bond between us - an enchanting connection that was warm and mysteriously safe in the limo containment. His words were large and never cluttered with worldly drama.

  I bounced up and down and swayed back and forth to prevent freezing while keeping my eyes focused in squinting on the unfocused. The snow glazed the limos, cabs and buses. The yellows and blacks were wet and shiny. Round, wiggly lines of color followed the cars from behind. Goose downed people standing around me waved randomly at any car that passed them in hope of being recognized.

  The paper stuck loosely between my numb fingers. The numbers 311LVY4 bled, the snow made everything on the paper ooze except for the parts with dried paint. Those smudges of color stood stron
g. God I love paint. Before I finished my thought about the resilience of paint to the snow, a long black wet limo stopped a few feet away from me at the curb.

  Jaidee jumped out quickly and ran around the limo toward me.

  "Miz Suzka, I am sorry to be late for your arrival. Are you ok?" I hardly recognized Jaidee. In the past he would pick me up in a simple black sedan but this time, he was driving the real thing – a long and shiny slick Lincoln with tinted windows.

  "Jaidee, is that you? Jesus-Louise, this is pretty fancy. Did you get promoted? And you’re wearing a fancy suit jacket, my God, you are lookin' good man."

  "It is wicked out here. Let me take your bags. Hurry. Geet in dee car. I put dee heat on very high, to dee max, when I got dee call that your plane is land."

  He took my dampened duffel and wheeled my carryon to the back of the limo.

  “You are such a sweetheart.” I jumped in quickly and cold-slammed the door. It was exceptionally warm inside and smelled of Jasmine. Not the real Jasmine of course, but I was just as pleased with the processed scent. A soft black couch extended the full length of the limo, which could have easily sat five people. On the other side, was a movie screen and a mini-bar with cut crystal glasses. The ceiling had blue neon lights that wiggled in wavy lines on each side and tiny white stars in the middle that looked as if they were miles away on an exotic island looking up at a summer’s sky.

  The limo bounced when Jaidee slammed shut the trunk’s lid. He moved quickly in the snow’s slush and jumped into the driver’s side of the car. His hair was covered with white. In seconds the white went away leaving wet cornrow-braided patterns of curves and swirls that gave his head a distinctive shape.

  Jaidee blew warm air into his cupped hands. The warmth pushed the chills down his body. He shook.

  “Soon you will be toasty warm.” He told me.

  It was snowing hard. Jaidee moved into the traffic and drove straight into the white air. It was the first snow of the season; the top inches fresh and clean, giving Chicagoans a good impression of winter before the streets stir it up like dirty flour. The white filled the highway wall-to-wall. The road changed and glazed itself as big trucks of salt flavoring the streets. squeaked and swayed back and forth, sassy-like, pushing the winter to the side.

  I started at the farthest back of the limo, sitting on the soft leather couch for the full-expanded experience but soon moved to the front, closer to Jaidee.

  "Jaidee, where’s your coat? That frickin' little jacket you're wearing is useless in this freezing cold. Handsome but useless."

  "I just dropped off dee mayor's daw’ter. Dat is why tonight I'm driving dee long limo. I wanted to look most professional. I will pick her up in dee ceetee after I take you to your maw’ter's home. Do you like dee auto?"

  "I'm not sure - too glitzy for me. I’m expecting a game show host to pop out from somewhere."

  I bent over and looked at the line of floor lights under the seat. When I sat back up I met Jaidee's smile in the were grinding the crystals and The windshield's rubber wipers windshield’s mirror. His perfectly lined white teeth filled the reflecting glass.

  "I is surprised to see you back so soon."

  "I know." My response lost itself in continuing.

  Jaidee had picked me up from the airport a number of times. During my last visit he told me that his mother was very ill. A stroke.

  "How is your mother, Jaidee?"

  "She tiz doing much betta."

  "That’s good. That’s real good.” She lived in New Guinea.

  Jaidee watched me in his rear view mirror. I caught his looking several times as if he was trying to make out what was different in this return visit. I was never good at deceiving anyone. And I never improved on it. I always relied on my charm and the inspiration of the moment to authenticate my intentions.

  ‘And how iz you Miz Suzka?”

  "I'm fine, Jaidee. Just less chatty... tired I guess."

  I went into myself and pulled down a curtain with thoughts. He respected my silence and my discomfort in continuing the conversation.

  [ Jaidee picked me up from the airport five times just in that past year. We became close friends. )

  My head was filled with daughter's chatter. I was part of those cutout families who prepared the children they made for this very moment. From birth, children are contracted with a scenario already set in place and passed on through generations. Heavy rosaries hung around mothers' necks - gifts from their mothers that they will pass on to their daughters. The string of crystal beads tightening, choking daughters with guilt and obligation. Branded lots of tradition scramble around bumping into each other. They seem to be growing willy-nilly to places where panic and the very worst scenarios survived by sucking the blood from daughtering artists.

  I looked down at the dried paint on my hands. There was Terra-Rose, Gold, Indigo and Hooker Green, colors from ‘Salinas Landscape Stanzas’ – the painting I was working on last night. It was one of my best paintings and now hanging on the back wall in my studio. I always felt warm, centered and somewhat grounded when my hands were spotted with paint that survived its washing.

  Picking the dry paint off my hands was an indulging and warming distraction. I first peeled away the dry paint stuck under the nail parts. Specs of color fell onto my lap and scattered across my skirt posing as creations of Seurat and Jackson Pollack. Were they the artists who were sent to deliver the contract - the daughter's contract regarding guardianship?

  There was no turning back. I felt served and summoned. I was the chosen one to fulfill the deed. The obligation of my mother’s concerns was deposited on my lap, into my account with no approval or signature - a customary requirement, I thought.

  There was no choice. I was the undocumented creative, living in a traditionalist world illegally. I had to be sacrificed for the good of the whole. The limo was the least dangerous place to wait before the authorities of my fate caught up with me.

  Stop it, stop it, stop it, I screamed inside myself. Where are you going with all this thinking? This is not the time to go crazy.

  I took several deep breaths and told myself everything was going to be fine. My mother was like a bull for God's sake. I seriously believed she was too damn stubborn to give in to any serious illness. Finished. I would think nothing more into an uncertain future.

  A pile of colored paint specs was scattered on my lap

  - enough of a gathering to make me stop picking. I brushed the colors off my skirt and looked out the window past my reflection. Everything I was familiar with wasn’t there. The snow covered it up.

  My stare was stuck and blurred everything outside. I blinked hard to clear my eyes. But the reflection took me in and replayed my last visit like an old movie.

  I closed my eyes and heard a whisper so soft I could barely hear the words - I'm here. When my eyes opened the window reflected a girl, looking like myself, walking into at my mother’s house in the middle of the night.

  “I’m here. Mom...I'm here..." The girl in the window’s reflection had just opened the front door and stood in an entry motionless. She had appeared overwhelmed by the commotion before her. 3.

  A MONTH EARLIER [ Images crushed up against each other like a mob of angry protestors carrying all the obvious signs I neglected to see.

  I was there just a month ago.]

  Looking back from outside myself. I am the girl…

  “I’m here. Mom, where are you?” Inside all the fixtures were working hard - everything was on its highest volume. Lights from all the shaded and florescent fixtures loudly went about their business of changing night into day bright.

  The girl had slowly brushed the snow-wet hair out of her face and leg slammed the door behind her. The heat appeared to have suffocated her face at first - her eyes looked squeezed and sucked dry. Chimes from a standing old clock in the entry vibrated a nervous sound without the help of time telling it what to do. Loud sounds, busy in various conversations, over-talked each other from
another room.

  A radio voice had babbled about the snow, "770 customers are still without power. A few isolated areas will be restored on Saturday late in the afternoon. It's a bad night to travel folks." – The television's Ben Matlock just reported to the police, "Lucy's dead. She died in her sleep sometime last night, in that beach house of hers in Texas." – The radio's traffic reporter talked over Ben… "No fatalities. A semi-truck overturned on the Stevenson near the Pulaski exit." TV Ben added "Yup, dead. She has a husband living in Mexico. We need to find him.”

  An old boombox was playing gypsy music in the background. Music played by Stephan. Every inch of air transmitted some sound. The noises tripped over each other demanding the girl’s hearing attention.

  Stephan was the girl's uncle, a brilliantly intense musician who pounded on the piano like a prizefighter. He was an impressive classical pianist who performed in a number of Chicago clubs and gypsy bars in Chicago. He was expressively dramatic and perpetually on stage. Years ago, Stephan would take the girl to bars that had pianos. He coached her to ask the bartender if her uncle could play Happy Birthday for her on their piano. More than often, they said yes, except for once. "Didn't you have a birthday last week?" The girl was quick. "Oh no, that was my twin sister."

  Stephan would start with playing Liszt's version of Happy Birthday that went on for hours. He dazzled his audience and won over their admiration as he changed their corner bar into Carnegie Hall. The paid musicians who were on a cigarette break would often get angry. When Stephan finished, he bowed profusely to standing ovations and requests to continue. He smiled modestly and left with the night's tips. He was a colorful character who brought music, volume and division among the family traditionalists.