Turning Left

Turning Left

We stood in an uneasy triangle. The curtain was about to rise. The audience was restless with stomping feet and finger whistles. I was ready, but Phelix had a problem, of course he did.

“She screwed it up again. All my props are out of order.” He whined. He looked from Mr. J to me and back again. “I’ve had it. It’s either her or me.” he said.

He had it? I had it! I was done babysitting him. This has been my dream job for ten years. But when Mr. J hired this ph… Phelix, his nephew, the show went downhill. Phelix had consistently sabotaged everything I did and then blamed me. Everything Mr. J and I had planned, every routine, every costume. It was all gone.

The curtain lifted while the three of us were still standing in the center of the stage. Locked in Phelix’s battle.

“You know what? Screw you and them.” I nodded toward the crowd. “I hate you and I hate the job. I quit.” I knew I was lying when I said I hated the job, I didn’t, but I did hate him. I turned, but not before I saw Phelix’ grin of satisfaction. Steaming with rage, I stormed off the stage and left the building.

The afternoon streets were more crowded than I’d thought they’d be. Why aren’t these people at work? Why are they strolling around as if they don’t have a care in the world? Are they all unemployed like me? What do they do all day? How do they pay the rent, put food on their table?

I knew I was replaying my parents’ messages of caution and saving, of hard work and providing, of never borrowing, always paying your debts. But it felt good to not have to kow-tow, to not bend over and take it. To not have to listen to the Flange’s complaints and accusations. To not watch the apologies in Mr. J's eyes.

I was tired of doing all the grunt work, all the planning, all the details and never getting credit for it. Tired of the Phallus getting all the attention and ovations. I deserved respect.

“R-E-S-P-E-C-T,” I shouted.

“I shall play that for you,” my car said. See? That’s the kind of respect I deserved.

“Thank you, Siri.

While I was shouting along with Aretha, I found myself in the left turn lane, pointing away from where I lived. I couldn’t even call it home, a third floor one-room walk-up with a bathroom down the hall that I shared with someone who worked another shift and never cleaned up after him- or herself.

So, fuck it, I thought and turned left.

Somehow, I found myself in the middle lane of a three-lane one-way street. Hemmed in on all sides. I didn’t know our town had roads like this. More lanes merged, but there were no exits. No signs telling me where the road was leading. Overpasses, freeways , endless one-eighty turns, trucks, ambulances, police cars, buses, and low flying planes and still no exit.

Now and then I could see the town, recognize a building or two, sometimes on my right, others in the rear-view mirror. Never getting closer, never drifting further away.

My hands gripped the steering wheel. Siri kept playing RESPECT, over and over. I begged her to stop, but the loop continued, louder and louder. Horns honked, sirens blared, brakes hissed and squealed.

I closed my eyes and screamed.

Silence.

The road was clear.

One measly lane, I was alone.

Trees, shrubs, hills, meadows, wildflowers.

The car sputtered, coughed, and stopped with a sigh.

A cow looked up from grazing, nodded and resumed its life duty.

Stunned, ears ringing in the silence, throat raw and dry, heart pounding in my chest, I slowly peeled my fingers off the steering wheel. My gas gauge was beyond empty.

Where was I?

Trembling with fear and exhaustion, I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes. How did I get here? How did a simple left turn get me here in left field?

I jolted and stifled a scream when I heard a knock on the passenger window. His skin was dried, wrinkled and brown like an apple left in the sun; teeth were missing from his smile.

“You coming?” he said. “Marshia. Come on.”

Who was he? How did he know my name? Where was I supposed to go?

What choice did I have? I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and stepped out of the car. He straightened up as much as his question mark allowed.

“Come, child. We’re late.” He urged and shuffled a little faster.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“You know,” he smiled.

“No, I don’t.” I confessed,

“You will,” he nodded.

The road stopped, became a path, carpeted with last year’s leaves. Birds sang; critters scurried; shadows swayed; sun dappled; wind rustled. It was as if choreographed by the books I had found in the children’s section of the library. I looked for rabbits holding ribbons and mice rolling pumpkins.

Instead, what I saw were more people stepping from behind trees and bushes. Two or three at a time. Smiling, juggling, laughing, riding unicycles, chatting, guiding dogs, or stoking snakes draped around their necks. They greeted me by name. A tiger nuzzled my hand and purred. A young man on top of an elephant held out his hand to me. I took it and was lifted up.

The clearing was startling, the tent enormous. Three rings, at least, with tight ropes, trampolines, clowns, and animals. I couldn’t wait to see the show. The midway had rides and rip-offs, food and fortunes, bearded ladies and balloons, shouts, and smiles.

I turned to the man behind me, but he wasn’t there. It was me on an elephant riding down the center of midway. I felt at home dressed in an outlandish costume, waving, smiling and beckoning people to follow me.

At the entrance of the tent, the old man stopped the elephant and made it kneel. I climbed down and stroked its trunk.

“Where am I?” I asked. “What am I doing here?”

“Living the life you were meant to live.”