The Wrong Side of Twenty-Five

by Dionne Abouelela

  To-Do: Make enough money to buy a new car.

  I bought Merle for $1500 at a buy-here pay here lot from a dumpy woman who claimed to be the most knowledgeable sales associate in the Midwest when it came to used cars. She proudly kept her blouse unbuttoned to nipple level over her clearly fake boobs while her bottle blonde hair was so dry the strands turned into tumbleweeds when the wind blew past us in the car lot. She made me think of what might happen if you put Dolly Parton and Anna Nicole Smith into a futuristic people-cloning machine and combined their DNA. If Merle was $1500, I figured a brand new car couldn’t possibly cost more than $9,000. I mean, people have to live and eat, right? Finding a job over $12 an hour with my skillset, or lack thereof, would probably be a challenge. Of course, not having any discernible skills didn’t seem to stop people I worked with before from buying new, or newer, cars.

  Merle gave a little shudder as if he knew I was contemplating his future replacement. He did this sometimes when he was frustrated or overworked, which I understood, and knew the feeling all too well. I drew my hand over the sun-faded dashboard in a similar fashion to how one would stroke a prize winning Persian cat. “It’s okay Merle, you’re doing a good job. You and me, well, we’re all that we have. We have to keep each other moving.” I looked at the road signs to spot the distance to our next stop and reassured Merle he only had 115 miles to go until he could rest his weary road worn steel bones in some small historical Podunk parking lot.

  Tyler convinced me to go to Arrow Rock by saying I needed to see an original town to appreciate the history that makes my small hometown special. He made a point along the lines of until we appreciate where we are from, we will never be at peace with where we are going. I gave in to visiting The Awakening, and over coffee I somehow quit arguing with him about where I wanted to go. He seemed to have a pretty good handle on this crazy time called life. I needed to drop my inhibitions and he was the stroke of luck urging me along my way.

  The number of tourists strolling around the streets like organized packs of wild dogs was astounding. I never imagined people would travel to see an old city. You could find small towns wherever you went – small towns with history and a faded purpose. I expected to find the same here in Arrow Rock as I found back home, in Effingham, and even in Chesterfield. My interest in the town grew quite simply because people were walking around. I realized spending an hour here might not be as painful as I originally anticipated.

  I spotted a friendly looking older couple in matching lime green Hawaiian shirts and straw hats strolling hand in hand. “Excuse me,” I called and crossed the street to them. “Can you tell me where I can get some more information? Like, is there a tour or anything?” Did I seriously just ask to go on a tour?

  “Absolutely,” the old man said in his chipper, scratchy voice. “You’re here on High Street. That there is the Old School House,” he instructed and pointed one block south. “You can go there for a map or you can go over one block here to Main Street, turn left, then walk two blocks until you get to the guided tours office. We just did the walking tour. It was real fun!”

  “Great,” I said without a hint of the sarcasm I was internalizing. “I really appreciate your help!”

  I decided to go for a walking tour. Exercise would do my body some good, especially if I needed to become a Vegas Show Girl. But I still didn’t understand how walking around streets of buildings could be in the least bit interesting.

  I didn’t have any problems finding the building the helpful old adorable man had referred to, and that says something. I could get myself lost trying to find my way out of my closet, which was just a makeshift cupboard my mom pulled out of a closed down restaurant’s trash pile.

  The office staff was as warm and inviting as the people on the street, wishing everyone who made eye contact a hearty, “Hello.” Their greeting was chipper and came immediately as the door chimed to announce my entrance, catching me off guard. The instinctive jump I had slowly perfected from years of being ignored and shocked when someone spoke to me crept out in force, giving away my lack of social prowess.

  With a chuckle, the portly lady behind the counter adorned in a navy blue muumuu apologized with a soft Southern makeshift drawl. “Are you lost or looking for the highway?” she continued.

  “No…ma’am,” I replied nervously. My palms began to sweat. I hope she didn’t think I was going to rob her. I was well aware I currently portrayed how people not trained in the fine art of deception and burglary act in the movies or on Cops before they get caught. “I actually wanted to go on one of the walking tours. Are there any spots available?”

  She released a deep chuckle that reverberated through the layers making her portly and answered, “There are always spots available. We normally don’t get youngins’ around here, at least not ones that aren’t being drug by their parents.” She released the deep chuckle again. “Next tour leaves in ten minutes. Feel free to hang around outside.”

  “Thanks,” I said and moved towards the door, reminding myself to not jump at the chime this time. I slowly turned around as my hand touched the door handle. I stammered embarrassingly, “Does the tour cost anything? I mean, do I need to buy a ticket?”

  “Not at all, sweetheart. The walking tour is free and led by volunteers like myself who are retired, widowed, or just have too much time on their hands. Money is a concern to you, I take it?” she asked sweetly.

  “A little. I’m kind of running from my old life and working as hard as I can to get as far as I can with as little as I can.”

  Note to self: STOP giving so much information to strangers.

  “And while you’re running you decided to stop by Arrow Rock? That’s interesting. I can’t say I blame you, I find this little gem fascinating and worthy of a stopover.”

  “My friend, well, a guy I met in St. Louis,” I paused, not sure if Tyler was my friend since I had just met him, even though I felt like I could call him a friend and he would be okay with that assumption. “He set up my itinerary. He said since I’m looking for answers to life I needed to find all kinds of life in all kinds of settings.”

  I gasped, excused myself, and skirted out the door. I had been in this little town for a measly thirty minutes. I had spoken to three people, walked approximately four blocks, revealed my innermost secret, and outed my self as a runner from life. Most importantly, when I responded to the hearty chuckler, I had already taken on a bit of her faux Southern small-town Midwestern drawl.

  I leaned against the cold brick wall of the building’s façade, hidden under the shadow of the sloped roof extension covering the walkway, and looked around. According to the brochure, this entire town was a National Historic Site with importance due to the Westward expansion during frontier days. You could see the age in the bricks, the attention to detail in the faux gas lantern streetlights, and the way everything seemed unified in color scheme and appearance.

  “Did you hear about the missing girl?” I heard a woman standing behind me say to her friend. They were both dressed in white pleated shorts pulled up so high they could double as bra underwire. Wide cuffs lined the bottom edge. I stifled a chuckle when I recognized their outfits were identical. From their wide brimmed straw visors attempting to fool people into thinking they were a hat, to their grey curls meticulously sprayed over the elastic band, to their t-shirts that said, “Branson or Bust – From Houston to Show Me”, right down to their periwinkle blue bordered bobby socks with the little ball that hung over the back of their impeccably clean white lace up Keds.

  “What missing girl?” I interrupted, not caring if doing so was rude or not.

  “Some girl in Indiana went missing. They think a serial killer got her and everyone should be on high alert,” the identical woman on the left said.

  My heart raced. Did my parents actually care about me? Did they put out an amber alert or APB to h
elp the entire universe find me? I had to know.

  “What did they say about the girl?” I continued to pry.

  “I saw her photo on the news. She was real pretty. Long red hair, bright green eyes, in college on a track and field scholarship. Such a pity, that one had real promise,” the other identical woman said and dramatically placed her hand over her heart, finishing with a, “Tsk, tsk.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  I was faced with the impossible task of my hiding my disappointment the missing girl was not in fact me, but someone else who was actually going to make a dent in the world, find their place, and be missed by their entire town. My town would probably throw a party for one less welfare baby to be suckling at the tax-provided teat of American government.

  I decided this tour was not for me after all. As a matter of fact, this entire town was not for me. This storefront strip was not far enough away, the brick wasn’t a different shade of red, the streets weren’t a different style of paving, the greens weren’t greener — or browner. It just wasn’t.

  I slinked away, kicking at stray pebbles and shuffled back towards my car. I looked at the clock on my old school cell phone and saw I had been in this town for exactly 52 minutes. If I walked slowly enough, I would reach my required and agreed upon one hour at each and every designated destination.

  “Hey there, runner,” I heard a raspy voice call. “The tour is this way, you coming?”

  The words sounded inviting. They almost sounded sweet. I paused quickly before I threw my left arm up into the air in a gesture of half assed surrender, of which I also learned from bad television.

  “Nope. It’s not for me,” I called over my shoulder before pushing myself forward. I probably could have been a little nicer. I probably could have at least given her the courtesy of turning around and looking her in the eyes, but not today.

  I didn’t have any courtesy left in my body. I didn’t even think I had any emotions left in my body. All I had left was one single tear that trickled down from the outer corner of my right eye, leaving a small trail through the light layer of dust that accumulated on my cheeks after driving with the windows down.

  Chapter Seven

  My next stop was supposed to be the Shoal Creek Living History Museum. I would continue to culture myself by seeing live action demonstrations of some of the more bloody bits of American history. Tyler said the only way to really love your life was to learn all the parts of what gives you the blessings in your life. As an American, these were pieces made up of our ancestors fighting for our freedoms, being brave enough to conquer uncharted territories, and riding across this big ass land in big ass wagons where they died from dysentery and, rightfully so, royally upset Native Americans. When he said this at the coffee shop, the museum sounded nice.

  In theory, the thought was nice. In theory, I wanted to care. In theory, I wanted to go take a bunch of photos with living history actors and, in theory, I wanted to be cultured and appreciative. In reality, after visiting Arrow Rock, I didn’t think I really cared. I may have to take a closer look at this list and find some places of my own to visit I find to be interesting. Or, better yet, I should rip this stupid list up, toss it out the window risking a $500 fine for littering on the roadside, and stick to my original plan of driving until I ran out of gas.

  Instead of ripping up Tyler’s carefully constructed plan, I folded the sheet into as many tiny rectangles as I could manage, tossed it into the glovebox on top of the shiny red camera (which I was also giving up on for now), and decided I needed to seek some advice from someone who was known for giving a weary, lost, tired, exhausted, desperate for answers traveler a way back home. I didn’t want to go to my home but I wanted some time to think about where home might be. I didn’t want to think about the possibilities. I didn’t want to think about the five thousand ways I could reinvent myself. I wanted to make a plan and follow that plan. I wanted structure. I wanted organization. I wanted meaning and discipline. I wanted to tell people who asked me where I was headed I had a destination instead of a starting point.

  I was heading to Kansas.

  The Wizard of Oz was one of my favorite movies growing up. This may be because it played on all major holidays and was one of the only movies we could watch on one of the only channels we could get through our bent dumpster rabbit ears with aluminum foil extensions.

  I pulled past the large roadside sign painted with Dorothy and her motley crew peeking over a yellow brick road, excitement bubbling in the pit of my empty stomach. Childlike glee continued to bubble and froth when I turned on to another small road in another small town full of turn of the century buildings, and felt just like some other small road in some other small town full of turn of the century buildings I was trying to leave behind. The only difference that mattered to me was this particular small red brick building was joined to another small building painted green with a vinyl awning proudly painted shades of yellow and emerald, shadowing a large sign proudly proclaiming I found the Oz Museum.

  I knew the great and wonderful wizard would not be here and I knew he couldn’t rip the medal giving the lion his courage out of his nappy furry mane to hand to me, but inside of these hallowed walls, I could pretend. Deep down in the pit of my stomach, I felt possibilities abounded for me to find my own little piece of heart, courage, and even though I didn’t think I needed it, a little bit of a brain.

  With each mile being added on to the distance between what I previously considered home and where I was now, I started to think my life had mainly been about pretending. Who I was, what I liked, what I accepted as okay, what I allowed in my life, and, who I thought I could be. My life was all about taking it day-by-day, living in this withered and shrinking shell of a girl with no identity.

  But was my perceived identity true? Did I really have no identity? Does anyone ever NOT have an identity? No matter what we are, or where we are, we always have something. Maybe we just don’t know we possess more than we think. What was my something?

  I sat in the parking space, edged up to the front of the museum. A guttural roar, erupted with a vibration from my gut, my ode to the lion I was hoping to find as I meandered through the fake Oz before me.

  “Sweetheart, this is the Oz Museum, not the Star Wars Museum,” a willowy man laughed. He walked past and opened the door for his squat little wife. He winked and let out a chortle that could resemble a horse choking on a squeaking dog toy. “But that is a good Chewbacca you’ve got going on,” he called over his shoulder. “Come and find me inside if you want information on Chewbacca contests.”

  I really must remember my windows are down at all times. Almost all times. Maybe I should also look for stops that are a little less obsessive fan girl oriented and more occupied by people my own age. Places where I can meet people who might show me who I am, or who I can be.

  What a shame, I thought. The whole purpose of this journey was to find who I was on my own and yet here I am, again, looking for someone else to tell me, to find me, to show me. Would I ever change? Would I ever grow up? Would I ever give myself the time to be myself or would I always be looking for a different person or a different opinion to show me the way?

  I suppose the only way to know now, in this moment, was to consult the great and powerful Wizard of Oz. I hoped they had one of those ticket telling gypsy machines resembling the Wizard. Even a preprinted computer-generated ticket telling me about the history of my stars would be enough to give me hope right now. I’m running on hope. I’m running on dreams. I’m running on exhaustion and I’m running on fear. I’m running on nothing with any meaning and I’m running on the belief I’ll soon be running on some kind of meaning.

  A burst of self-belief drove me to the front door and I threw the thin glass frame open in a fury matching the infamous tornado. Eagerly, I rushed inside to find the yellow brick road and my inner Dorothy. I barely felt the
tingles of pain surge through my hand from the pressure I exerted in announcing my entrance before a voice broke through my trance.

  “Excuse me Ma’am,” a feisty southern drawl carried out through the lobby. “You need to buy your ticket before you go through to those exhibits.”

  A ticket. I hadn’t thought about spending more money. “How much are they?” I stammered. Please be cheap, please be cheap. I can run on hope but I can’t run on gas fumes.

  “Eight dollars, unless you have a military i.d. and then it’s only six,” she replied.

  “No, no military i.d. Okay, $8,” I sighed and rifled through my wallet.

  Inside the crackled fake leather was a few twenties, a few fives, and a lot of ones. If I paid in ones, especially after sighing like a cow chewing cud at the thought of having to buy a ticket, I risked looking extremely pathetic. But, if I paid with the twenty now, I would risk looking pathetic and broke down the road when appearances might really matter.

  I decided to pay with ones. I handed them over and watched the counter agent return my deep sigh with each dollar bill she flipped and rotated until they were all facing the right way. She picked up my ticket and gently laid it on the counter while I was fingering the plethora of maps and brochures on the stand to my left.