Start Your Engine

I drum my fingers on my thigh, wondering if it’s possible for this elevator to move any slower. Looking down at my watch my eyes grow wide and I inhale sharply. It’s ten forty-five. I’ve anticipated this for weeks, traveling several hundred miles, including crossing two states to be here. I’ve worked so hard only to oversleep this morning. This is my final interview for medical school. I’m desperate to make a good impression on the panel of professors and current students that I’ll meet today, and a late arrival will not be looked upon favorably.

Fifteen minutes. That’s the time I have in which to arrive at my destination, where the fate of my career will be decided. It’s as if I’m a formula one driver preparing for the start of a grand prix race. I can hear the commentary now:

Welcome ladies and gentlemen to our race today in beautiful Roanoke, Virginia! We have mostly clear skies and balmy mid-April temperatures. Our course today will take us through scenic downtown, concluding at Roanoke Community Hospital. Our featured driver today, Anberlin Tisdale, is a newcomer to the racing circuit. We look forward to seeing her performance today. It’s race day in Virginia! Anberlin, start your engine!

Fifteen minutes.

The elevator door opens.

Vroom, vroom! The green flag drops, and we’re off!

The lobby of the Hotel Roanoke is engulfed with people awaiting entry to a ballroom, posters announcing a conference for the Virginia Association of Surgeons and Residents. Towers of breakfast pastries and assorted tea, coffee and juice flank two walls, white ceramic coffee mugs can be seen scattered about the room, cradled gently in the hands of conference goers.

I nudge through the crowd, muttering pardons with each accidental arm or leg graze. Just as I approach the front doors, a woman in a knee length blue sundress approaches from my left. She looks over her shoulder, waving to someone behind her when she bumps into a round table, holding a large flower vase. She loses her footing, her mug of dark brown coffee slipping from her hands. I sidestep just as the bolus of hot liquid hits the floor, in the very spot where I was standing mere moments before.

The yellow flag is out, signaling caution on the track, ladies and gentlemen. That was a close one!

An apology tumbles from her lips rapidly, cascading like a waterfall over a cliff. I wave my hand, muttering pardons and reassurances that I am unhurt while tip toeing around the puddle on the mahogany hard wood floor. I step through the front door and into the midmorning sun.

I look down at my borrowed white blouse, grateful that it survived the lobby unsoiled. I scrimped and saved every penny I’ve earned at an assortment of part time and seasonal jobs for the last two years to pay for medical school preparatory testing and applications, and for the gas money to drive to evaluations. Mom loaned me a navy-blue pant suit and ivory blouse to wear today, the only formal clothing in her closet, nearly consumed by a sea of khaki custodial uniforms. She was so proud that I made it this far in the selection process that she took money from her meager savings to pay for my hotel room. I cannot let her down today.

Thirteen minutes.

Back to green flag racing!

I step into a glass-enclosed walking bridge that crosses over a set of train tracks connecting Hotel Roanoke with downtown. Ahead in the distance I can see the hospital perched on a hillside, its commanding silhouette serving as a beacon of wellness for the community. I pick up the pace, the click of my high heels echoing in the corridor. Accustomed to running shoes and sandals, these are a bit too large and a bit too tall to walk briskly in. I wobble, making a great effort not to fall. I take them off and drop them in my bag before descending the stairs to the sidewalk. I wrinkle my nose at the prospect of walking barefoot on urban foot paths but decide to take my chances with whatever may be littering the ground over the strong possibility of breaking my neck attempting to walk long distance in the pumps.

Twelve minutes.

I step off the curb to cross over Salem Avenue, pausing at the sound of a bike bell chirping. I look to the left, jumping back onto the sidewalk just as a peloton of bicycles come flying directly toward me. I feel a whoosh as the group breezes past, a gust of air sending my hair flying around my head.

And out comes the blue flag, everybody. Anberlin must make way for faster competitors. This will cost her dearly in time. Can she make it up?

My eyes follow the group as they traverse the pavement. I look up, noting a banner hanging from a streetlamp, announcing a fifty-mile urban bicycle race traveling through the heart of downtown. I smooth my hair and look both ways, pausing for a solo straggling bike before scampering across the road while the getting is good.

Ten minutes.

Campbell Avenue is bustling with crowds eager to choose brightly colored fruits and vegetables provided by local farmers. I scurry around and between patrons scrutinizing rainbow-hued heirloom tomatoes, hot and sweet peppers of all shapes and sizes, cucumbers, and a forest of leafy greens. I’m briefly distracted by a chocolate shop I pass along the way, calling to me with its long glass case of delicately decorated truffles and wide selection of chocolate dipped goodies. I wonder if chocolate dipped potato chips are as good as they sound, a delightfully intriguing combination of sweet and salty and crunchy, when I snap my thoughts back to the task at hand: get to the hospital, preferably in one piece and without soiling mom’s pant suit. Promising myself a sweet treat later as a reward for my efforts, I press on toward Elmwood Park.

Eight minutes, thirty seconds.

Tick, tock.

As I walk through Elmwood Park, a light breeze rustles petals off cherry blossom trees lining either side of the walking path. Raised, glass-bowled fountains dot the concrete, bubbling to life one at a time as I pass. I note a low, rhythmic buzz. It sounds too loud to belong to a standard bumble bee, but then again, maybe Virginia has mutant, oversized insects. I start to tremble, realizing I’ve forgotten my Epinephrine pen. I fight the urge to catastrophize this situation, internally spiraling at the thought of ending up in the emergency department with an allergic reaction instead of sitting in front of table of interviewees. I steel my courage, and turn back toward Campbell Avenue, raising my eyes to the tops of the trees trying to account for the source of the growing buzz. I see a few solo bumble bees dancing from blossom to blossom, but nothing large enough to account for the growing sound.

Discerning that the sound is behind me, and continuing to grow louder, I turn very slowly back toward my destination. I freeze, standing stock-still as a pack of college-aged co-eds on rented electric scooters blow past me on either side.

The red flag is out! Oh, no! Could this be the end for Anberlin?

They weave and swerve, laughing loudly as I hug my purse close to my chest, holding my breath. I pray silently, begging not to be hit by a passer-by. I keep my eyes closed tightly for several seconds after the humming as faded. I look down at my watch and resume a quick stride.

Six minutes.

Proceeding at a lively pace, I stroll through Elmwood Park’s outdoor amphitheater. The sprawling stage faces a lush grassy hillside, gently inclining to a plateau with a library and playground on the top. Fliers advertising an upcoming music festival, to be headlined by a regionally known band, litter the ground. I envision myself taking breaks from study sessions to eat lunch outside in this lovely space. I smile, fantasizing of building a life in this quaint town. The top of a building peeks from behind a large tree on the border of the park. I could live there, spend leisure time in this urban oasis and pursue my medical passion.

The air goes flat and it becomes eerily quiet as a nudge forward. I hear gurgling and feel a light vibration under my bare feet. I look down to see holes recessed into the sidewalk between the stage and the grassy knoll. Bending over for a closer look, I jolt back just before being shot in the face and chest by a gush of water. I take a step back, and then quickly hop to the side, narrowly dodging another spurt of water. I scan the ground around me and notice that I’m standing in the middle of a dancing water fountain, extending in a circular pattern in all directions.

I look to my left, noting a staircase sloping upward toward the hospital. I take off running across the asphalt, avoiding recessed piping with each step. One by one, as if activated by the weight of my steps, the fountains spring to life around me, starting with the inner most ducts, traveling outward. I skirt a spout to my left, then to my right, them to my left again before leaping over a final spout just as it begins to sputter.

I run full speed up the steps, fearful that slowing my pace will result in an unwanted bath. My lungs are on fire when I reach the summit. I’m clearly not in shape for this and vow to wake up running as hobby when all of this is over. I round the corner and slide to a stop on the curb before slamming into the passenger door of a car stopped in traffic on Elm Avenue.

Four minutes.

We’re coming into the final turns of our race, folks. Anberlin can almost see the finish line. Can she make it?

Elm Avenue is a busy four lane road running east to west in front of the hospital. I look to my right, noting the east bound lanes stopped by a red traffic light. To my left, the west bound lanes are blocked by an ambulance clearing the scene of a recent motor vehicle collision.

Without stalling, I begin hopping through traffic in the east bound lanes, like a frog hopping from lily pad to lily pad. I weave around the front of two cars, waving graciously to the drivers for not running me over as the light turns green and vehicles begin to creep forward.

I pause briefly on a grass median to survey west bound traffic. Emergency medical personnel has cleared one lane for traffic to begin moving. The cars directly in front of me haven’t noticed this yet, so I take off running as fast as I can, not stopping until I cross the hospital parking lot and land on the curb in front of the entrance.

Two minutes, thirty seconds.

Entering the home stretch!

I bound through the sliding door, entering the first floor of the building. A directory on the wall indicates that the main lobby is on the third floor, with an arrow directing me down a narrow, dimly lit hallway to the elevator. I jog down the hall, pound the up button, and resume drumming my fingers on my thigh. I fight the urge to look at my watch again. If I don’t look at the time, I can convince myself that I’ve arrived on time, staving off discouragement if I haven’t. The elevator doors open slowly and I nearly fall into the elevator car, pushing the button for the third floor followed by a repetitive tap on the button to close the doors.

Eleven o’clock.

The elevator bell chirps, announcing a stop on the third floor. The doors open and I step off. High heels on, hair smoothed into a high bun. I swipe a thin coat of light pink lip gloss over my lips, push my chest out slightly, drop my shoulders, and raise my eyes.

The checkered flag is waving! She made it, folks! She made it!

         I glide across the lobby, my heels clicking my arrival. A young woman in a Roanoke College of Medicine pullover, sitting at a rectangular table, looks up from a clipboard to meet my gaze.

“Do you have an appointment?” She asks.

“I do,” I reply, “Anberlin Tisdale.”

Her eyes scan her list and check my name off. “Ah, yes. Miss Tisdale. Welcome back. Right this way.” She stands and leads me through a wooden door, a sign hanging from it reading: Interview in Session.