The Wrong Side of Twenty-Five

by Dionne Abouelela

  “I take it you haven’t been here before,” she remarked, drawing each word out in the Southern drawl that permeated this not so Southern area.

  “No Ma’am, but I am a huge fan of The Wizard of Oz. It was one of the only shows we watched growing up…one of the only movies that our rabbit ears and tin foil would pick up.”

  A smile slid over her youthful face. We must have found common ground. “We hear that story quite a bit. The Wizard of Oz is often a favorite memory or moment for many of our visitors. Well, right through there is Auntie Em’s gift shop. If you spend over $100 then you get a 10% discount and a free tote bag,” she said and pointed softly over my shoulder.

  I gave a little laugh and watched her face contort. “Oh, no, it’s not that I wouldn’t spend money,” I began. “I’m a bit like Dorothy. I mean, I’m on a journey. I’m running from my old small town in Indiana and trying to get as far as I can with, well, now, about $230. With my budget, I can’t get too far if I buy t-shirts or The Wizard of Oz Monopoly,” I finished, eyeing the special edition board game to my right.

  She gave a little chuckle and twisted her mouth in deep contemplation before reaching below the counter and sliding a museum magnet over the counter. “Just don’t tell anyone. That promotion doesn’t begin until next week.” She gave me a wink, nodded her head, and I picked up on the cue that it was my turn to move on down the yellow brick road. I nodded, slipped the magnet into my front pocket and made a note to send a thank you card back here once I found my final destination. I eyed her nametag and scribbled Betsy to the notepad in my mind.

  I moved through the museum quicker than I originally anticipated. No matter how hard I stared at the replica of Dorothy’s house, Glenda the Good Witch in all of her wax mannequin glory, or The Wicked Witch cackling out, “I’ll get you my pretty,” I just didn’t feel anything. I came across the lion, so carefully posed in mock anticipation of jumping and only noticed the fear in his eyes. I looked at the scarecrow with his dopey eyes and jig in his step, slightly envious of his blind joy without reason, and only felt slight envy I wasn’t the happy naïve person, but the fearful naïve person. I looked at the Tinman and scoffed a little, trying to reason why anyone would beg for a heart. A heart only gets you in to trouble and causes you more pain. I was glad mine was tucked away in the confines of my soul with no hope of coming out.

  I skipped down the faux yellow brick road through the munchkin village until the munchkin village was no more, and in all the golden and gleaming emerald glory, I found nothing to ignite me inside. Here I was, so close to actual pieces from the very city I dreamed of as a child, the city — even though I knew it was fake — to make my dreams come true. I always thought if I could just get close to Dorothy’s red shoes I could click, click, click my way back to whatever home I was really missing from. I always thought that standing in the shadow of the great and once cowardly lion would make me feel brave and stand taller.

  I was standing in the expectation of sparkle, but standing in the shadows, surrounded by the magic that suddenly didn’t have magic once it was in plain sight. Oz was just ordinary. I didn’t feel any magic or inspiration. As a matter of fact, the only thing I felt was a burning desire to get back in my car and keep driving until the sun fell and eventually rose back up.

  I meandered my way back to the front. Betsy spied me and with a sly side eye looked me up and down. “Hey there, runner,” she called. “I’ve never seen anyone leave the Wonderful World of Oz with such a look of utter defeat. Maybe you should give it a second go?”

  “That’s what I thought, too, but on the other hand, don’t you think if the answers to my questions were here, I wouldn’t have to search for them? I expected to get here and find some sort of inspiration or something. The Wizard of Oz always meant something to us. But I don’t feel anything different.”

  “Maybe you’re looking for answers when they should be looking for you,” she chirped, nodded her head, and opened her mouth to say something else before stopping. I waited. I was sure she would say something else but it became clear that ship had sailed and was caught in a whirlpool.

  “Well, okay. I won’t look so hard,” I said, hoping to open the door to the rest of her thoughts.

  “I know it’s none of my business, but all Dorothy wants is to go home. Maybe her journey isn’t yours. Maybe you thought coming here would give you some sign you’re meant to go home. I don’t think you are. Home isn’t always where you think and certainly isn’t where someone else tells you to make one.”

  I furrowed my brow and let out a small huff. Her words were not what I expected to hear, and not at all what I wanted to hear. I decided I wasn’t going to send Betsy a thank you note after all. But I would keep the magnet. I nodded, more to myself than to give her appreciation, although I knew she would see the nod as a sign of understanding her philosophical small town quip.

  I could feel her coming: my inner smart ass, my inner frustrated girl who said bad things, who acted out. She started rising from my feet and I stared Betsy in the eye. Without any encouragement, my heels clicked three times and my mouth spewed something along the lines of, “Well, there’s no fucking place like home — even if you don’t have one.”

  My cheeks blushed, no, they burnt. They were beyond pink and rosy. They were deep crimson and stained with the murder of someone’s joy. They burnt so bad my upper lip twitched in response to the heat. The bitch in me stifled my apology to soften her shocked face and my heels once again took on a mind of their own, twirling my mortified body 180 degrees and marching it right out the front door.

  The door slammed behind me in response to the force in which I threw the flimsy glass open and I heard myself utter, “I’m sorry.” Even if my words were only heard by the wind rustling by, at least I said them. Maybe I should send Betsy a combination ‘Thank you/I’m sorry I’m a raging bitch’ note after all.

  I contemplated getting the red camera out of the glove box. But, what was the point of taking a photo of disappointment — both in the museum and myself?

  Chapter Eight

  I felt the heat rising from the mass of black plastic in my back seat before I even opened my car door. Note to Self: Buy a car with the coldest air conditioning I can find. And wooden hangers for my new clothes, but mainly, a new car.

  I clambered in behind Merle’s simmering steering wheel and felt the breath within me get sucked away in a vacuum of plastic scented humidity. Fishing around in the pile of wadded up paper and clothing I previously pried out of the mound of things I no longer wanted, I desperately looked for what my next stop should be. I knew I still had a few hours on the summer sun’s lifespan but my energy was dwindling. I would need to stop soon to recharge my own batteries. I was hoping I could at least find somewhere with a well-lit parking lot.

  “Abracadabra!” I shouted a little too enthusiastically, my fingers connecting to the folded-up piece of notebook paper containing Tyler’s list. I scanned the list to look over the pieces I chose to pass up. My heart dropped when I read, “Topeka, KS. Brown Vs. Board of Education. DO NOT MISS.” In my frustration over Arrow Rock being everything I was trying to get away from I travelled warp speed to Wamego for another disappointment undercover as the OZ Museum.

  I stared at the paper, at his sloppy but meticulous handwriting, at the all capital letters giving specific instructions to not miss a certain stop. I felt pangs of disappointment creep into my throbbing frustrations. I pulled my Stone Age cell phone out of my purse; thankful the aging battery still held a charge. Since I hadn’t planned on calling anyone, I never thought to make sure I kept a full battery. I cringed with each number I touched until his 7 digits were typed on the screen and then I hit the big rubber button with the green triangle indicating something like yes, call, start, or maybe hit me. Who knows?

  “Hello?” a familiar voice chimed from the other end.

&nb
sp; “Tyler?”

  “This is Tyler,” he replied with a pause. “Blossom?”

  “Yup. It’s me.” I started without giving him any room to ask how I was, be nice, or carry on a conversation. I wanted to get right to the point. “So, listen, what’s so important about Topeka and this Brown person and a Board of Education?”

  “You missed it, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. Arrow Rock wasn’t my cup of tea. Then I hurried on to the Oz Museum, only that place was beyond disappointing, and I almost made a friend with the gift shop lady who gave me a magnet, but then she pissed me off and I almost threw it back at her. Who charges $8 to go into a museum anyway? It wasn’t even that exciting. The whole thing reminded me of some cheap hole in the wall stocked full of a hoarder’s collection AND it wasn’t at all magical. Isn’t Oz supposed to be magical? I mean…”

  “Whoa,” he interrupted. “Slow down there, killer. How much coffee have you had?”

  I told him I hadn’t drank any, not because I didn’t want to keep pushing all through the night, but maybe because I didn’t want to spend the money. I went into a rant about why Arrow Rock sucked and how I was disappointed the missing girl wasn’t me, furthering my desire to keep driving because my family clearly didn’t care about me — they hadn’t even called my cell phone yet. I was sure he had hung up on me and as I took a breath to create a small sliver of silence in my manic ranting, he quickly popped in to take advantage of the small break.

  “So, Blossom, sounds adventurous. Are you at least taking photos at each stop?”

  Shit.

  “I took a few at the place with the giant coming out of the ground. I forgot to take any in Arrow Rock. I’m still at Oz, I can take one here I suppose although it’s really boring, again, I’ve said that already.”

  “Maybe it’s not that it’s boring, Blossom. Maybe you’re busy looking for magic instead of letting magic find you. It sounds to me like you’re not giving these places a fair chance.”

  “True.” I sighed. “That’s true. But they could have at least put glitter on the Yellow Brick Road to make it seem magical.”

  “Again, high expectations of what should be magical. You’re bound to be disappointed your whole life if you can’t let some things go, my friend.”

  Friend. He was the first person who had ever called me ‘friend’. I wasn’t sure what to think. I contemplated the implications of what this word meant to my life and he took advantage of yet another quiet moment to stay in control of the conversation.

  “So you missed Topeka, huh? That’s a shame. You’re really too far to turn back around at this point.”

  “Am I? That’s what I was wondering. I’m sorry. I feel really guilty now that I realized I missed a stop you so clearly told me not to miss.”

  “It’s okay, but again with the emotions. Why should you feel guilty? It’s in the past. You can’t do anything about missing a stop now and turning around doesn’t make sense. Just keep going. Always keep moving to whatever is ahead of you. You can turn back a clock but that doesn’t mean you’ve changed the time.”

  I knew I should put more value into what he just said to me, but his advice flew right over my head and landed in the backseat with the garbage bags. “Well, what was so important about Topeka?” I asked again.

  “It’s an important place in our country’s civil rights movement. Brown Vs. The Board of Education happened there. It’s where people fought to end segregation in the public education system.”

  “Oh,” I sighed. “Boring history stuff. I’m done with boring history stuff.”

  I heard his voice hitch. I could feel the tension in the phone as he debated whether or not he should respond to me calling history boring. I waited in a cloud of tension, curious about what I said wrong other than history being boring.

  He stuttered over his words. “Blossom, this isn’t boring history stuff. It’s where African American parents fought for the right for their children to be considered equal in the eye of the public education system. This case allowed them to walk in the same doors as white children, drink from the same water fountains, use the same pencil sharpener, and have a chance at the same life as other Americans.”

  I felt stupid. I could see why this was a big deal, but I also didn’t see why it should matter to me. My school had three African American students and they did the same things as I did; the new laws clearly worked. “But that happened like 100 years ago. We’ve moved on since then. We’ll be wasting all of our time on boring history lessons and like you said, we should always look forward, right?”

  “Well,” he paused, “there is a time to look forward and there is a time to understand where you came from. This impacted every single person in America. And it didn’t happen 100 years ago. As a matter of fact, it happened in 1954, which means it was a part of your grandparents’ lives, and was a large part of my grandparent’s lives. The purpose of this journey is to move your life forward, to show you about this amazing country you call home, right? I know this all sounds super cheesy but you told me you wanted to be different — to see the world in a new way and to not be that two road, singly blinking light, small town anymore.”

  “You’re right. I did.”

  “Sounds like you’re giving up too easy. If you don’t give yourself time to see new things with a new mindset, if you can’t drop the anticipation, expectation, and emotional ties to places you’ve never been, you’ll never really see them. You’re not going to learn anything. You’ll just be Blossom Weatherby from small town USA. You might as well turn back around and go home.”

  “I can’t!” I screamed. “I can’t go home. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  “I know. So don’t. Just don’t miss another stop, okay?”

  “Okay. Hey, Tyler?” He didn’t answer but I heard him catch his breath in anticipation of what I would say next. “Thanks. Thanks for rescuing me from your parking lot. I’ve never really met another person before outside of my town. I probably would have turned back if it wasn’t for you.” I felt myself start to babble again and knew I had to cut the conversation and move on. “I’m going to let you go because I have miles to go before I sleep.”

  “Oh, now you’re a poet, ay?” he laughed.

  “What?”

  “Nevermind. One day, well, maybe one day but with you I can’t be sure, you’ll understand. Just remember Frost.”

  “Frost? It’s summertime. There’s no frost out silly.”

  He just laughed and sighed. “Safe travels, friend. I have to get ready for bed. Early morning tomorrow. Be safe, yeah? No driving while you talk on the phone. Always pull over.”

  “Yes, Dad. I won’t use my phone while I drive. I have no one to call anyway.”

  He hung up his phone. I scribbled down the word ‘frost’ on the list of places to go with four stars surrounding it and a frame of squiggly lines.

  From here on out, I would honor Tyler and stick like super glue to his thoughtfully crafted list of road trip stops. Merle and I would carry on towards Lucas, which Tyler’s notes indicated would be full of promising photo opportunities and oddities. If my calculations were right, I would need around two hours. My gas tank had other plans, telling me to slow down and find a place to rest.

  All things considered, the miles behind me were increasing and I wasn’t participating in a race. I had the time to be patient even if my desire to move as fast as possible continually crept in to fight with common sense. A greasy roadside diner with thick homemade milkshakes and crispy almost burnt French fries would be a welcomed and well-deserved break. Hopefully, if they were a twenty-four hour joint, I could sleep in the parking lot wake up in the morning for fried eggs, toast, cheap coffee and a pirate bath in the sink.

  Chapter Nine

  The waitress tapped her white BIC pen ag
ainst the small spiral notepad she used to mark down customer requests. I would say orders, but after sitting on a squeaky stool for fifteen minutes and drooling over an artery-clogging menu of what I’m not sure could be classified as food, not a single diner visitor just ordered off the menu. Every order was always, ‘extra this’, or ‘don’t give me that’, or ‘take this out’, or ‘double that and make it sloppy’.

  “You know, I don’t make my money by waiting on you to make up your mind. I make my money by bringing you food and moving you on,” the waitress cackled in the weirdest voice I’ve ever heard. Her tone was high-pitched but gravelly, squeaky on the inflexion and masculine in the monotonous drawl of the primary words, almost like she just inhaled a zorb full of helium after smoking for 55 years. I found every inch of her to fascinating and terrifying at the same time.

  “Your milkshakes…are they real milkshakes or are they, like, fake milkshakes?” I stammered.

  “Fake milkshakes? Honey, what in the hell is a fake milkshake? Either it’s a milkshake or it’s not.”

  That was good enough for me. “I’ll take a strawberry milkshake, a side of fries extra crispy and a grilled cheese. Please.”

  “Listen, sweetheart,” she guzzled and squeaked as she lowered her voice and leaned over the counter, balancing on her stubby forearm that now splayed out into a desk weight of fat working to keep her propped upright. “You must be new around these parts. If you plan to stick around here for long, drop the innocent act and stop saying, ‘Please’. These bastards in this wasteland will eat you alive and you’ll be stuck waiting on their fat-asses behind the counter of a rusted out diner, sweating grease out of your armpits for the rest of your life.” She turned around with a wheeze that may have been a chuckle or an attempt to hold in a fart. I sat on the sticky, vinyl topped, chrome barstool, staring at the ripped hairnet barely holding her curly maroon box-dyed strands in place.