The Wrong Side of Twenty-Five

by Dionne Abouelela

  I decided to stay due west. Las Vegas had potential for me to make money if I ran out. I could wait tables, pass out fliers, or if I was lucky, become one of the pretty girls in the large feather headdresses dancing on stage like the photos. I would need to tighten up my stomach a bit. Added to my to-do list: Do 50 sit-ups every night. I wasn’t sure if fifty would be enough, but it would be a start.

  I felt the best I had felt in years and I decided there would be no more waiting for Blossom Springtime Weatherby Franklin. The new me started now. I stood up with passion, unrolled my towel to free my naked body and spread the thick terry cloth out on the floor. I laid down on my back, pulled up my knees until my legs formed a perfect equilateral triangle with my butt and put my hands behind my head like they taught us in grade school.

  “One,” I gasped and pulled my untoned frame up to my knees before plopping back onto the ground. The fast descent was evidence I had no control in my core. I couldn’t even lay down slowly. One will have to do for now.

  It’s a start, right?

  Chapter Five

  St. Louis to Las Vegas should take me two days if I did nothing but drive. But, I wasn’t planning on just driving. I had the hunger in me, the burning desire to explore the world and my mind raced with the possibilities of what existed just beyond the curved horizon. I rolled my windows down to let the dewy morning air seep in and felt my previous existence seep out. Blossom Weatherby Springtime Franklin of Franklin, BFE, evaporated in the mist and slowly rolled out the window only to dissipate in the crooked airstream of my beat up junker I fondly referred to as Merle, as in Merle Haggard, the great Country & Western rebel.

  The irony hit me that my trusty steed was named after a rebel. I never had a rebel bone in my body until now. I wondered if Mom missed me, if my sister even knew I was gone, and if Uncle Ray had anyone to pick up his mess of red plastic cups or if they were just toppled around the house with aged whiskey turned to spots of syrup in the bottom. Only a few days had passed since I left, but I already felt like their faces were starting to get fuzzy in my memory. I wasn’t entirely sure I regretted this, either, as those memories and crystal clear pictures in my mind were the very reason I stayed chained to the oil and gravel roads weaving through the cornfields of my comfort zone.

  Those oil and gravel roads were far behind me now, or at least a few miles off of this three-lane mega highway I sped down to my impending freedom. The Midwest was starting to make me believe I’d never find the change I craved. Each city circled around a small town center with one large building called the government center or something similar, a few small shops, a mom & pop restaurant serving potato chips instead of French fries with sandwiches made from pre-bought toppings, and one stop light by a grain silo. The roads in the city center were be paved with cheap asphalt. The rest of the town roads would be oil & gravel and surrounded by cornfields.

  I put the peddle to the metal, as they say, and hit the open road - for twenty-four more miles. When the oversized green sign appeared calling for my destination, I pulled my car to right and up the exit ramp at Chesterfield. This would be the first of fourteen stops Tyler and I had planned. More Tyler than me, which was odd I let someone tell me what to do, but also indicative of my entire life until now. Here, at Chesterfield, I would act like an art connoisseur and marvel at some large installation of a man breaking through the earth, also known as The Awakening.

  I fought with Tyler over this one. At least in my mind I fought. I said, “I don’t really like art,” with a shy whimper before making attempt number two. Attempt number two could roughly be summed up by something along the lines of I didn’t see why I needed to stop only twenty-four miles outside of St. Louis — felt like wasted time — and I really wasn’t in the mood to stop at another metal something or other sticking out of the ground.

  Why is everything some big metal something or other? Doesn’t anyone have other building materials? What happened to fiberglass or mud and hay? Development is overrated.

  Tyler insisted I stop. “The art is really amazing, Blossom,” he said with his eyebrows furrowed and his head cocked. I felt like he was telling me I needed to be a little more cultured and learn to appreciate some of the finer things in life. I twisted my mouth into a spiral like I had just sucked the life out of the world’s most bitter lemon and then agreed. I would indeed waste my time, stop by some massive sculpture and pretend I cared about art.

  Twenty-four miles didn’t feel like I had made much progress and I was hungry for progress. I had never been hungry for success, goal setting, or anything to do with anything other than cheese pizza. But, we had set a plan, agreed to a course, and here I was. I was sticking to a plan. I created an itinerary and a list of things I had to do and here I was the new Blossom Springtime Weatherby Franklin, and I. Was. Doing. This.

  I really need to change my name.

  The Awakening sprawled out before me and made my stomach turn. The subject of the sculpture looked like he was birthing himself through the great lady pieces of the earth and ripping everything to shreds to make his debut. The positioning and expression reminded me of an old SNL skit where Will Ferrell was born as an adult, much to the shock of his mother, doctors, and everyone in the room. For some reason, this segment was always put in the comedy compilations we picked up in $2 DVD bargain bins. I didn’t get why people found that skit funny and I certainly didn’t get this piece of metal sticking out of the ground.

  I grabbed my purse and the light blue reusable shopping bag Tyler loaded full of bandages and medicine for the continued care of my hands. He tossed in some extra items, carefully tagged with little sticky notes on them for future injuries he was sure I would give myself.

  I counted exactly forty-two steps to make it from the parking area to the giant’s left arm. I gingerly tested the heat of the metal with my forearm and gave a deep sigh of relief when I found the atrocity wasn’t hot enough to burn the skin from my body. I decided here is where I would sit for the hour Tyler insisted I dedicate to each and every stop. He made me promise I wouldn’t just drop by these random things, but actually get out of my car and walk around. I don’t know why or what exactly he expected me to do for an entire hour. Right now, staring at this thing people consider a great totem in their small Midwestern town, all I could think about was birthing fluids and vaginal pain.

  “I don’t get it,” I said out loud with a deep sigh.

  “Don’t worry, no one does. It just makes for good photos,” a bouncy voice responded. I looked around and didn’t see anyone. I looked for speakers to see if they had some sort of Siri style installation to make the exhibit interactive or mess with the minds of gullible tourists. I’d always been curious about how fancy voice activation systems worked.

  “Why would anyone visit this place?” I asked, testing the hidden technology.

  “For the same reason you are,” the voice answered, getting closer. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.” A perky blonde crawled around from the other side of the massive left arm. Literally, crawled. Hands and knees, crawled. “Why are you here if you are wondering why other people come?”

  “I am taking a road trip. I promised a friend I would stop by and sit here for at least an hour. He said something about soaking it in and learning about myself through the silence or something.”

  “Is he one of those dirty hippies?” she chirped.

  I laughed and noticed she flinched with my chuckles. She was perky but clearly someone who had been laughed at before. “I’m not laughing at you,” I interjected quickly before I began. “He is not a hippie, unfortunately, but perhaps he should have been. He’s actually studying to be a doctor, is financially responsible, and absolutely beautiful.”

  “Oooohhh, so he’s cultured. That explains everything, say no more. He wants you to have some visceral experience here and walk away from this parking lot lik
e you have a deep connection with sculpture.”

  “Maybe. He didn’t say why exactly, but he’s much smarter than I am. He may even be my first friend. We just met, to be honest. But, he was so friendly and in two days showed me what a friend could be, I suppose.”

  “Seems nice, but you shouldn’t trust just anyone,” she cautioned. Even her warnings were laced with sugar and energetic vibes. “What happened to your hands? Well, if you don’t mind me asking. Looks painful.”

  “Oh,” I sighed. “My hands. These will be the talking point for my whole journey, it seems. I burnt them on the Effingham Cross, back in Illinois. It didn’t occur to me metal was hot and could burn your skin.” She let out a string of hyena inspired chuckles that made me cringe and smile in amusement at the same time. “It’s not funny, it’s actually very painful.”

  “I’m sure it is, but you’re going to have to come up with a better story. Either you’ve never done hard work or dishes in your life and you have baby hands, or you did something really stupid and are trying to cover it up. The Effingham Cross won’t burn you. I’ve touched it many times.” She rolled her eyes and threw her palms up at shoulder level with a shrug. “My parents are really, really, REALLY Christian. They think going twice a year helps us to understand the scope of God’s love. To me, it’s just a large waste of money God would probably shoot down like Babylon if he wasn’t so busy with everything else going wrong in this world right now.”

  “That’s exactly what I said!” I shot back. “I thought it was a huge waste of money. I wasn’t raised religious, though, so maybe I just don’t understand the appeal of throwing your money into showing your faith.”

  “Oh, well, that’s probably why God chose to smite you then. Maybe you had an exorcism at the cross — those that don’t belong don’t get to touch.” She was serious. My mouth dropped open and I looked at her for a hint of jest, but she was serious. She burst out laughing and slugged my shoulder with quite some force for a petite little sprite. “I’m just shitting you. It is metal after all, and if the sun hits it just right, I’m sure damage could be done. Well, my lunch break is up and I must go. Enjoy the rest of your hour sitting here. Try to not get too bored.”

  “Hey,” I called as she stood up and started to walk away. “My friend gave me a camera. Would you take my picture real quick?”

  “Sure thing! Are you going to send it to him to prove you were here?”

  “Maybe. I can’t decide. I also don’t have a computer so I would need to find one.”

  “You’re weird. Are you a time traveller? You must be. Let me guess,” she said, looking me up and down. “You’re from the early 80s? I’m guessing based on the wash of your jeans and the way outdated color of your sweater. Pantone hasn’t done anything like that in a color palette for at least nineteen years.”

  “Pantone?”

  “Never mind. Don’t look so constipated. Relax, it’s just a photo. It’s not going to steal your soul or anything,” she teased.

  “I don’t know how to take a photo. Except for school photos, I’ve never had my photo taken before.”

  The camera fell limply by her side, swinging from her pinkie by the thin grey shoestring serving as a strap. I watched her lips slowly part and her jaw drop until the cavern replacing her lips was large enough to fit an entire foot long sub with all the toppings and double meat. I pictured cramming a sandwich into her judgmental little mouth and started to laugh.

  “There!” she exclaimed. “That’s going to make a great photo. Alright, safe travels, but now I’m running late thanks to you.” She turned on her heels quickly and took off to the parking lot, climbing into a sparkly pink Volkswagen Beetle and honked as she pulled out onto the main road.

  “Well, that was interesting,” I sighed. I waited patiently to see if anyone or anything answered me back. The grassy knoll remained dead silent and I sighed again in relief. Solitude and silence surrounded me, broken up by the occasional passing car. You could tell the locals apart from the tourists by how much their cars slowed down as they neared the statue. Thankfully, no one stopped and I remained alone in my thoughts and observations.

  In the silence, I was startled by the realization I never asked slightly judgmental Barbie what her name was, but I shared some pretty intimate details with her. She knew I never had my photo taken, I likely came from an unsatisfied life, I was a moron who had no sense for danger, and I had absolutely no fashion sense but thankfully, she didn’t know my name, either.

  I stared at the red camera sitting in front of me, cradled in between bright green blades of grass. I pulled a blade up from its roots and marveled at how sturdy the tiny plant was. I had never held a single blade of grass before. I had never noticed just how green the blades were, and I had never paid attention to the way it smelled, the way it cooled your nostrils when your body inhaled the aroma hungrily, creating a craving for more, energizing itself from the inside out after a taste of freshness.

  I wanted to capture this moment. I wanted to show Tyler I did appreciate this stop and I happily spent time here. I snapped photos of the blade of grass against my gasoline covered shoe, of the fingernails on the sculpture’s monstrous hand, of the angry mouth trying to bite and chew up the sky, of the knobby knees fading into muscular caves held into the earth by an underground goblin refusing to let him go. I was thankful no one else stopped by or else I would probably be sitting against the left arm still trying to act invisible, or more likely, in my car where I would act like I was impatiently waiting on someone who gave a shit about roadside art.

  I plopped back against the left arm and looked at the miniature camera screen to see I had taken twenty photos. Twenty photos. I marveled at the amount of snaps but stared at the buttons in confusion without any idea of how to preview my gallery worthy fine art. I was sure they would be amazing and if need be, I would sell these off to make money when I ran out. I could see it now, the headlines would read, “Surprise girl from Nowhere, Indiana, takes the photographic world by storm with her unique eye for detail!” I would be everywhere. Travel magazines would call me, National Geographic would hunt me down, and my hometown would put a plaque under the welcome sign saying, “Hometown of Blossom Franklin, world renowned photographer.”

  I sighed and laughed to myself. The ridiculous assumptions I would make it on a fluke, or possibly have talent, never even crossed my mind before. I never believed I would be anything more than pure white trash, the daughter of a failed author, a lifetime welfare recipient, a fatherless daughter.

  The longer I sat and allowed myself to see my surroundings, the statue no longer looked like Will Ferrell and looked more like someone trying to break free of their own personal hell. The longer I stared at the face, the more the creases around his lips became anguish and the wrinkles around his eyes became fear. The longer I stared, his anguish turned to relief and those wrinkles turned into hope. The hands that once looked like gnarled raptor claws ripping out of the dirt with ferocity slowly evolved into delicate fingers grasping for any reason to keep living, pulling at the air to try and catch strands of a lifeline that wasn’t visible to the naked eye.

  “I get it,” I said to myself. “I get it. Maybe I’m not an expert but I think I get it.”

  I gently peeled my bandages away from the blisters and treated my palms with the exact precision and direction Tyler Bennet, soon to be M.D., had instructed me to do. I was careful to not wrap them too tightly or too loosely, and I placed a small piece of medical tape over the fraying edges of the gauze so the bandage would stay in place during the next round of my journey.

  “I get it,” I said to myself, again, before packing up my makeshift first aid kit, tossing my bags over my shoulder and marching with a sense of pride to Merle. I unlocked the door and bumped it with my hip to encourage the inner spring to release and allow the latch to open. I turned around to look
at The Awakening one more time.

  “I don’t get it,” I huffed. “I’ll be damned if I just don’t get it at all.”

  Chapter Six

  You know what is amazing about highways? You can roll the windows down, turn your music up as loud as you want, and no one complains. Driving on the highway is not like driving through a city where even the slightest amount of noise pollution causes those around you to go manic like rabid cage dwelling lab rats. You can guarantee a handful of the cars around you are also on a journey, will have the windows down and the radio up, and sometimes, you’ll pull up to someone with the same song on and have an impromptu battle of the car bands.

  The last one didn’t happen often; Merle didn’t exactly gain positive attention. Come to think of it, an impromptu car battle hadn’t actually happened in the last two years. Exactly two years ago, my sister was being an asshole and put superglue around an Amy Grant cassette tape. A casette tape now forever stuck in my car. I am limited to belting out wholesome classics like, “Baby, Baby”. The chances of anyone pulling up next to me with jamming to Amy Grant would not only be rare, but would probably cause me to roll up my windows and sit in my steaming hot sauna of a car without air conditioning or a fan strong enough to circulate air.

  I had approximately two hours to get well acquainted with Amy Grant or the various noises of the road should I decide to hit the worn down knob on the left side of my stone age radio and turn the power off. If I had a modern car, or maybe not even a modern car but just a newer car, I would simply hit the button saying, ‘FM’, or ‘CD’. The super-glued tape would have a moment of peace until I decided to indulge my inner child and listen to those same songs once again. But no, Merle was old as dirt and the only way to change from cassette to radio was to physically pop the small rectangular plastic out. I sincerely wished many times over the last two years whomever had designed this system was fired shortly thereafter when the company realized drivers really needed to pay full attention to the road and not what to do with the tape once it popped out of the cassette deck.