Sunday Serial: 280 x 70, 55. Pie Charts by Gill James, double gin and tonic

 Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 280 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day. 

55. Pie Charts 

 

"Just look at this." Cindy pointed to her screen. "It's worrying."

Arnie looked at the pie chart. Why green, yellow, blue orange? Green for go, he supposed. The sections looked reasonably even though yellow was the biggest and yes green for go next.

"What does this mean, "couldn't vote"," he asked.

"All those people who pay taxes here but don't have full citizenship? People whose postal votes were lost? Those who have the right to vote but didn't register it in time?"

"Yeah, I guess. And those who didn't vote?"

"Unbelievable, isn't it? I do know that some of my students were confused about where they could vote. I wish they'd get their act together and figure it out.  It’s not good moaning if they don’t like the outcome.”

"Darn!" Cindy stamped her foot. "They wouldn't let a Trade Union call a strike on those figures."

Arnie studied the figures: yellow 18,604.470, green 17,410,742, blue 16,141,241 and orange 12,949,28. More people living here and not allowed to vote than those who voted for this crucial decision? 

"And he calls this an "instruction"? How is this an "instruction"? The damn thing was only supposed to be advisory. The clue's in the name. They were referring to the people, not getting an instruction from them."

She started typing furiously.

"You job is to assert and defend what you consider to be the national interest, so get to it you great big plonker. And tell your mates as well."

He put his hand on her shoulder. "Clam down love. You're putting your blood pressure up again." 

About the author

 Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown. She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation. She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing. 

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE  

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter  

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Saturday Sample: Keepsake by Jenny Palmer, A59, a pint of lager,

 

It wasn’t true. You couldn’t judge a book by its cover. That was one thing Marion had learnt over the years. It probably applied to men too. They were never what they seemed. Take this last one, for instance. He’d appeared normal enough.  He was reasonably good-looking, in a feminine sort of way. His ears stuck out a bit but what did that matter? Looks weren’t everything   He was interested in science and politics. Well, at least he had a brain.

They had met in a country pub just off the A59. The pub served the usual kind of pub grub. Substantial.  Nothing fancy. A lot of country pubs were serving food these days.  They had to get the punters in somehow.  There was a live band playing.  At least she could listen to the music, if all else failed.  The band was a trifle loud for her liking but conversation was still possible, just. 

They went through the usual formalities of getting to know each other. They both led active lives and compared notes on the number of social groupings they belonged to. He topped her nine with thirteen. He went ballroom dancing. Each to their own.  Interests weren’t everything. He liked discussing politics and current affairs. That was a plus. Why did he have to go and spoil everything?

‘I’ve just been to see an astrologer,’ he announced, apropos of nothing.

‘Was he any good?’ Marion asked, instinctively. She’d learnt that things could turn nasty quickly if you cross-questioned people on their beliefs, especially when it came to religion or politics. 

‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘As a matter of fact, he was.’

She had known people in the past who believed in weird stuff like that. Some of them were quite sensible people.  He saw that she wasn’t impressed and changed the topic.

‘So, you are a writer,’ he said. ‘What do you write about?’

‘Whatever takes my fancy,’ she said. ‘Quirky stuff, usually. Human nature, mainly.’  

 He talked about some long-dead Parisian writers he admired who had been into mysticism and the occult.   

Marion couldn’t help raising her eyebrows.

‘There must be something in it,’ he said.  ‘There were a heck of a lot of them.’

‘I believe what I can see with my own eyes and only half of that,’ she said.

‘But the evidence is all there,’ he went on.  ‘I could tell you something really interesting, at the risk of totally losing my credibility.’ 

She always seemed to get the crazies. They made a bee-line for her. What would he come out with next?  She’d better indulge him.  She didn’t feel like arguing. They were supposed to be enjoying themselves.

‘Did you know that the earth is hollow and there are aliens living inside it?’

She’d thought he was weird but not that weird. Now she was beginning to doubt her own judgement

‘Really,’ she said, not wanting to encourage him further.   

‘Yes. They come out at night but only in special places, along lay lines,’ he said.

She was in a time warp. She was back in the sixties, having one of those late-night esoteric conversations with people, in an altered state of consciousness.  ‘And I can tell you,’ he said, leaning towards her in a confiding way, ‘that one of them came out recently somewhere near here. Can you guess where?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she said, flatly.

 ‘Go on. Try,’ he urged.

 ‘Okay then, Pendle Hill,’ she ventured.

If people believed that witches flew around on broomsticks up there, then why not aliens? she thought.

‘No,’ he said, obviously disappointed.  ‘It was on Ilkley Moor.’

‘Well, I hope he had his hat on,’ she said.   

‘His what?’ he asked.

‘His hat. You know, like in the song ‘Tha’s ba-an te catch thee de-ath a cowd, on Ilkley Mo-or ba-at ha-at?’  Marion sang. 

He looked disgruntled now. The band started playing at an even higher volume.   It was impossible to hear anything.  He made some excuse about having sensitive ears and left.

Well, at least that got rid him, she thought.  She needed to be getting off herself. It was late and there was a storm brewing.

Driving along the A59 she mulled over the events of evening. The conversation had started off well enough but it had soon turned. He must have thought her very gullible to believe all that rubbish.

There was car approaching fast from behind. The headlights were shining right through the back window, almost blinding her. It was trying to overtake.  She clicked the catch down on the mirror to avoid the glare. As the car sped past, she noticed it was a BMW. She remembered him boasting about having a BMW. But he had left before her, surely.

‘Maniac!’ she shouted.

All that stuff about aliens. Didn’t he credit her with more intelligence than that? He could have come up with a better chat-up line. It showed a distinct lack of intelligence on his part. Of course, she was going to make fun of him.  Any sensible woman would.

People drove too fast on the A59. There were often accidents. She’d get off the road and take a short cut home. She preferred driving on country lanes, anyway, especially at night. You could see the cars coming by their headlights.  There wouldn’t be many people on the road. It was gone midnight.

As she turned off the main road onto the single-track road, she saw lights flashing up ahead. Something was blocking the road and a policewoman in a yellow, hazard jacket was walking towards her. Marion wound down the window.

‘I’m sorry,’ the policewoman said, ‘but you can’t get through here tonight. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’

She could see a car ahead. There was a branch lying right across the bonnet. The roof was all smashed in.

‘Was anyone hurt?’ Marion asked. 

‘That’s the strange thing,’ the policewoman said. ‘Someone called 999 a short while ago but when we got here, there was no-one around. We can’t understand it.  I’m afraid it’ll be another two hours before we can clear the road. We're waiting for the breakdown lorry to arrive. You’ll have to go home another way. 

 It meant going back on the A59. That was a drag but there was nothing else for it.  She reversed up the road and turned the car around. As she was driving away, she caught sight of the smashed-up car in the rear-view mirror. It was a BMW and the registration number was 1MAN AL1EN.

 

Find your copy here  

About the author

Before becoming a writer, Jenny Palmer taught English to foreign students both abroad and in London. In her spare time, she co-edited four anthologies of short stories published by the Women’s Press and Serpent’s Tail. Since returning to her childhood home in rural Lancashire in 2008, she has written and self-published two memoirs Nowhere better than home and Pastures New, two family history books Whipps, Watsons and Bulcocks and Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists, and a poetry book called Pendle Poems. Keepsake and other stories, her first collection of stories, was published by Bridge House in 2018. Butterflies and other stories is her second collection. These new stories have been published in the Lancashire Evening Post, on the Cafelit website, in the Evergreen anthology, and in Creative Mind anthologies. Ladybird and Health Check are in Best of Cafelit 12, and The Visitors 2 is in Best of Cafelit 13.

 

Just Tell Her by Rob Molan, Valpolicella

I loathe coming to London at the best of times. Emerging from Kings Cross railway station just before eleven o’clock, I find the entrance to the Underground closed. The guy standing by it tells travellers the whole system has been shut down and bus services have also been suspended. What the hell’s going on? Whatever the reason, I suppose I better press on by foot even though I get lost every time I visit the capital

I set off down the pavement along with hundreds of others. Police cars and ambulances fly by, lights flashing. After a few minutes, I arrive at a greasy spoon café and dive inside. The windows are streaming with condensation and the tables are covered with vinyl checked tablecloths.

‘Cappuccino, please,’ I say to the dark-haired lady behind the counter.

‘I’ll bring it over to you.’

‘Thanks. By the way, am I heading in the right direction for Liverpool Street if I continue that way?’ I turn and point to the left.

‘Yes, you are.’

I sit down and text Heather to warn her that I’m going to be late.

I fasten my eyes on the television set sitting on a shelf. A female newsreader is speaking.

 ‘To sum up, we have verified reports of three explosions on the Underground and a bus bursting into flames in Russell Square. We will provide you with further updates as more information comes through.’

I wish I was watching this in the comfort of my own home rather than in the centre of the action.

The newsreader pauses for a moment.

‘We are now going over to Downing Street for a report from our correspondent.’

The café falls silent.

‘At a press conference in Downing Street, the Prime Minister, Tony Blair said there has been a coordinated terrorist attack on London this morning resulting in numerous casualties and the entire transport system had been shut down as a precaution against further attacks.’

I feel numb as I listen to this and check my ‘phone but there’s no reply from Heather. I look outside and see lots of bewildered looking folk wandering past.

My coffee arrives. I’ve no idea how long it will take me to get through the metropolitan maze so I’d better head off as soon as I’ve finished this. I’m glad I put on my trainers this morning.

I pay the bill and find the sun is shining brightly when I step outside to resume my trek. Walking along, I mull over our imminent reunion. Heather knows how to manipulate me, her latest call being an example.

‘I’m on a residential course in London next week and will be free from lunchtime on Friday. I want you to come to Liverpool Street station and meet me there. There’s lots we need to talk about. I’m sure you agree.’

I always hate it when she dares me to contradict her views. However, as ever, I agreed to her demand. It’s mad because it’s only two months since our last break up and I promised myself then there was no going back. I’m stuck in a state of limbo caught between her spell over me and the possibility of finding a meaningful relationship with someone else. I know Cheryl holds a torch for me but she won’t wait forever.

I rehearse in my mind what I want to say to Heather.

‘I decided to meet you today so I could tell you face to face that this relationship - if you can call it that - is not doing either of us any good. We need to finally end things and move on with our lives.’

Yet, as I'm thinking this, a memory pops up of Heather coming out of the pool in Majorca last year in that blue bikini and giving me a sultry look, and curling one of her index fingers in my direction. It’s so hard to shake her off.

Walking through the streets, I keep telling myself that I can follow through with my plan but a nagging voice in my head reminds me what a coward I can be. There's no breeze and the heat is stifling, and after a while I decide to turn into a quiet square with public gardens where I can rest. I buy a cold drink from a corner shop and head for a free bench under the trees where I plonk myself down and take a sip. It’s calm here away from the cacophony of emergency services in the distance. I dread to think how many poor souls have been hurt or killed, and whether there have been further attacks.

 

A forty-something lady appears pulling a suitcase. She is wearing a floral print dress and has her auburn hair cut in a Mary Quant style.

 

‘Do you mind if I join you?’

 

‘Be my guest. All dressed up and nowhere to go?’

 

‘Got it in one.’ She has a north American accent. ‘I’ve been walking around for hours with lots of other confused and disoriented folk. It’s as if time has stood still and none of us can move backwards or forwards.’

 

‘I know how you feel.’

 

‘In the circumstances, you either become a stoic or go stir crazy. Boy, do I now regret deciding to break my journey in London. I wasn't bargaining on a visit to Armageddon.’ She sighs.

 

‘Where did you fly in from?’

‘Rome. The US my ultimate destination. Are you stranded yourself?’

 

‘Yep. I travelled up from Peterborough to meet someone.’

 

‘What a drag.’

 

‘By the way, I’m Ian.’

 

‘Cindy’s the name.’ Her green eyes scrutinise me.

 

‘Were you there on holiday?’ I ask.

‘No. I was there trying to connect with my younger self.’ She laughs

‘Did you succeed?’

 

She frowns.

 

‘No. I studied art history there when I was young and lived the dolce vita. It was a wonderful time and it’s where I met the love of my life, Gianfranco.’

 

‘Is he still there?’

 

She shakes her head.

 

‘No, he’s a chubby father of three living in Milan now. But he set the benchmark for how love should feel. Later, I married Harry in my home city Boston and we were happy enough for a few years and set up and ran an art gallery together.’

 

My mobile beeps.

 

‘Excuse me.’

 

I check but it’s not a reply from Heather.  I wonder if she’s okay.

 

‘Sorry to interrupt.’

 

‘Don’t worry. The gallery burned down and was not fully insured for its contents and closed. We blamed each other and our relationship fell apart. I decided that Harry had never made me feel as good as Gianfranco did and jumped at an opportunity to work as an art lecturer in Rome. But it didn’t work out. I was kidding myself I could be the person I was aged twenty and concluded Gianfranco had been a one off as far as Italian men were concerned.’

‘So it’s back home again?’

‘No. I’ve accepted a position with an art auction house in the Midwest. My friends and family think I’m crazy to change profession and to abandon Boston but I’ve decided to break away from old habits and make a completely fresh start in my life.’

A noise like a firecracker breaks the peace and Cindy jumps up.

 

‘Is that gunfire?’ she asks.

 

‘No, It's a car backfiring.’ I point to a passing Mini.

 

‘Thank God.’ She sits down. ‘Now I’ve explained why I’ve ended up here, tell me about the purpose of your visit.’ She looks me in the eye.

 

‘I’m meeting a lady who I’ve have had an on/off relationship with. Every time we break up, she comes back and pleads with me to get back together again. I try to persuade her we’re not suited for each other but each time I end up giving in.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

 

‘For years.’ I feel myself blushing. ‘I’m trying to find it in myself to finally tell her today that it’s over. It’s pathetic really but finding the will and the right words is hard.’

 

She wrinkles her forehead.

 

‘It sounds like you need to stop trying to reason with her. Just tell her it’s over and walk away forever. It’s as simple as that. Your world won’t fall apart as a result. It’s more likely to become a better place.’

 

That’s a change from the advice from my pals who think I’m lucky to have a looker like Heather in my life.

 

‘I wish it was that easy’

 

‘I don’t want to sound like some kinda life coach but it‘s not that difficult when, deep down inside, you want to reinvent yourself. That’s what I’m about to do. A handsome, strapping young guy like you should be enjoying life. Anyway, I promise not to say anything more on the matter.’

 

‘Point taken. I don’t know about you but I think I’ll stay a bit longer in this peaceful oasis.’

 

“Sounds good to me.’

 

We talk about all sorts of things as the afternoon passes. I get a teach in on art and she learns more about computers than she bargained for.  But Heather’s image drifts in and out of my mind as we speak.

 

“I saw an Italian restaurant round the corner,’ she says. ‘Do you fancy heading over there?’

‘Yes. I’m starving.’

The place is quiet when we arrive and we sit by the window. The conversation moves onto our favourite movies over lasagne and tiramisu. When the cappuccinos arrive, I change the topic.

‘I’ve been mulling over what you said earlier about my position. And….’ I’m stopped in my tracks by the sight of a red bus passing. “Look, the transport system must be back up and running.’

‘Thank God,” she says.  “Now, we’ve got our lives back.’

A message arrives on my phone.

‘Sorry about radio silence. Broke my phone this morning. Where are u? xx.’

I type a reply.

‘           In a good place having dinner with someone else. Enjoy the rest of your life.’

I press ‘send.’ I need to block her number now.

‘Everything OK?’ Cindy asks.

‘Couldn’t be better. Let me pay the bill. I’m celebrating.’

Hopefully, King’s Cross has reopened and I’ll get back in time to catch Cheryl when she finishes her shift at the hospital.

 About the author 

Rob lives in Edinburgh but lived in London for many years. He started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go by Karla S. Bryant, a glass of wine

“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”

by Karla S. Bryant

 

“Who is H. G. Wells,” I yell out loud at my TV.

The Jeopardy contestant looks hopeful and asks, “Who was Orson Wells?”

I almost choke on my food.

“Sorry,” the host says, “The Time Machine’ was written by H.G. Wells.”

 

I put down my phone, then finish the last bite of my sushi delivered by one of the four Door Dash drivers in town. I look in the fridge for something else to eat. I close the door as soon as I spot the leftover pizza, lean against the fridge, and shut my eyes.

Damn! I know better than this. After the big break-up with Lee Sobieski, I couldn’t eat enough Bassett’s ice cream. Salted caramel pretzel. I loved that ice cream. I loved Lee. I really believed I did. But it hadn’t been a love worth the ten-pound weight gain.

Ben Harmon? I couldn’t even pretend the relationship had been more than an attempt to stave off the nagging feeling that no one cared about me. Like, am I even attractive? Does anybody actually want to be with me? It was exhausting. In the end, truth be told, I didn’t really care about Ben. I no longer found him attractive, and I didn’t really want to be with him. By the time I ended things, it was like pulling off a Band-Aid that had lost its stickiness days ago.

 

I glance at my phone on the counter. Linda had left a voicemail an hour ago. I tap her message.

“Hey, Mimi! You’re going to hate me, but I’m bailing on our Girls Weekend. Jen is having her cake tasting party and I just found out. Ugh! Is this wedding planning never going to end? Let’s reschedule. Sorry for the short notice. Love you!”

I’d been afraid she’d cancel. Fine. She’d probably just talk about the plans for her daughter’s wedding the whole time. I feel like I’d passed the “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride” stage decades ago and was now at the “Always a guest, never a bridesmaid” level.

I pour myself a glass of wine and look out the window at the “skyline” of Mooresville. Only four buildings reach three stories. The rest are one or two stories. There’s the McNeil Trucking Company Headquarters, the Riesman Brothers Window Manufacturing building, the Holiday Inn Express - Mooresville at the PA Turnpike Exchange (it’s actual full name), and the Mooresville High School. I stare down the main street at Mary Beth’s Candle Shoppe, where I’ve worked for three decades.

Even if you’re a close runner-up for a scholarship, if you don’t get it and your parents are scraping to make mortgage payments, college won’t be your path. And once you start working in a small town and dating someone in that small town, you forget about your big city dreams.

I worked for Mary Beth’s Candle Shoppe on weekends and during summers through high school and after graduation, I worked there full time. Mary Beth is pleasant enough, but she’s had enough of it all. She doesn’t want to spend the majority of her days surrounded by Cranberry-Cinnamon, Vanilla Latte, or Northwoods Pine scents. She promoted me to Manager when I turned thirty. The title didn’t mean a lot to me, but what mattered was the raise that went with it. I could afford an apartment of my own. And food. And clothes, within my budget.

I rinse out my wine glass and get ready for bed. Maybe I really live in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, not Mooresville, Pennsylvania. Every day is a repeat of the one before. I wake up each morning and see the oak tree branches brush against my window. I open my closet and grab whatever seems to go together and get ready for another quiet day at Mary Beth’s Candle Shoppe. It’s not like Mooresville has a tourist season. I know almost all of the local customers and they know me.
I stare at my reflection and run my fingers through my hair. At fifty-three, I’ve somehow avoided gray hair so far. Must be in the genes. But the lines around my eyes are unavoidable.

 

I wake up and the first thing I realize is that there is no oak tree pressed against my window, but elm branches sway in a breeze overhead. And I’m not lying down on my bed. I sit on a… bench? I rub my eyes and look straight ahead. Independence Hall. My conscious mind knows Independence Hall is in Philadelphia, a 4-hour drive from Mooresville. It’s a beautiful fall day and I feel like I’m in the middle of a postcard… but why and how am I here? I’m in Philadelphia? The “big city” that my parents never let me visit because it was “too dangerous”? The city I couldn’t talk my Mooresville friends (or boyfriends) into going to for a weekend? How? In movies, there’s a fade in or fade out before a dream starts. Mine happened in a split second with no warning.

          There’s a man, about twenty-five, to my left on the bench. Thick, dark hair. He has small headphones on and stares down at his Sony Walkman. It can’t really be? I lean forward a bit and can see the cassette reels turning. I gasp.

           “Hey, are you okay?”
           Wow. What a smile. This guy is gorgeous. I notice he’s wearing a bright aqua t-shirt and baggy black pants made from… parachute fabric. Is this guy doing some kind of ‘80s cosplay or something?

I smile back and try to sound as normal as I can. “Sorry! I just haven’t seen a real Sony Walkman in a long time.”
           “No? They’ve been out for like five years.”
            I wonder if he’s all there. “Where did you get it… eBay?”
           “Ebay? I don’t know where that is.”
           Before I can respond to his incomprehensible comment, he adds, “I bought it over at Tower Records.”
           “Tower Records?”
           “You’re something else! You’ve never heard of Tower Records?”
           “I’ve always heard about Tower Records! I mean – where I live there was only one record store and when I’d ask for a new release, they’d always say, ‘Who do you think we are? Tower Records?”

He laughs. “Where do you live? Mars?” He shakes his head and sighs. “I’m a jerk. Didn’t even introduce myself or ask your name. Let’s start over.”
He holds out his hand and smiles – that smile again! “I’m Matt. Matt Baros. What’s your name?”
              I shake his hand. “Mimi. Mimi Sadler.”
              Matt tilts his head, “Mimi. I like it. It’s a nice name.”
              “Thanks.”
              “Mimi,” he says my name as if he’s practicing it. “You want to go to Tower Records with me? It’s just over at 100 South Broad. Maybe a twenty-minute walk.”

“Okay!”

A couple walks by, the man carrying a boom box. He wears a black jacket over a white t-shirt, snug black jeans, boots, and sunglasses. The woman wears a fluorescent pink t-shirt with large black lips on it and a denim jacket slung over her shoulders. Her leggings have a black tiger stripe print against bright pink, and she balances herself well on stilettos.  I can’t make out the song that ended, but the opening bars to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” blast out.

I stare at Matt. How do I ask him what year it is? How do I find out? I have to find out.
            “Hey, is it okay if I use your phone?”
            “Use my phone?” He looks taken aback. “I don’t live nearby.”

“So?”
            He laughs. “So? What do you mean ‘so’? You think I carry my phone with me? How would that work? It’s on the wall in my kitchen.”
My head is spinning.

I smile. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’m beginning to love it. I realize that if I can’t figure out what’s going on, I may as well throw my arms up and enjoy the ride.

 

We walk past a large plate glass window of a store on the corner. I stop, frozen on the spot. I stare at my reflection. I’m my twenty-three-year-old self. What the hell? My hair is permed and styled, and my make-up is dramatically on-point. For the first time, I see I’m wearing snug jeans and an over-sized lime green top that hangs off of one shoulder. If I don’t say so myself, I look damn good and now I see why Matt smiles at me the way he does.

He points at the display. “Those VHS camcorders are crazy, huh?”
           “I guess.”
           “Now, any one of us can be a camera man, like it used to be only the people on a movie set or working in tv. If there’s a birthday, an anniversary, something special like that, you can have an actual movie of it.”
            His amazement is endearing.
            “You could even, “ I say carefully, “Make your own movie. You could write your own script, hire actors, and film it yourself.”
             Matt laughed. “Now that’s going too far, Mimi.”
             He shields his eyes to minimize the reflection on the glass. Matt is startled. “I think they’re selling those Casio calculator watches!”
            “The what?” I must have missed this trend.

He points against the glass and puts his arm around my shoulder. We both lean in.
“Right there, right there. See it? Look how small the calculator buttons are under that screen.”
            “What does the screen show?”
            “The time.”
End of story. I hesitate. Well, why not go for it?
              “Imagine if the Casio calculator watch screen could show you messages from people, from friends, in real time? Or if you could watch actual movies on the screen. It could even tell you your heart rate and how fast you’re walking.”
               Matt laughs. “You’re something, you know that? You’ve got an amazing imagination. Or you’ve been thinking about Dick Tracy watches too much!”
               We laugh and keep walking, past the Reading train station on Arch Street and turn at City Hall. I look up at the statue of William Penn on top of the ornate building.
               “Did you know,” Matt says, “It’s an unwritten rule that no one is allowed to construct a building taller than the top of William Penn’s hat?”
               “What if someone does?”
               Matt shakes his head. “It’ll never happen.”
 

We finally near Tower Records, the yellow and red sign overwhelming everything else on the street. I can’t remember the last time my smile was so big. Matt notices it. He takes my hand, and my heart almost skips a beat. We step inside Tower Records and I’m speechless at the sight of so many albums, so much vinyl! Rows and rows and another story upstairs with more rows and rows.

“Where do you even begin?”
           Matt leads the way. “Start with your favorites.”

He stands in front of a row of albums, the middle tab he looks at is labeled “REM”.

“Oh! I like them, too!”
            “Yeah, they’re from Georgia, I think.”
Matt awkwardly tries to hold on to his Walkman, wires, and headphones while sifting through albums.

“Here.” I extend my hand. “I can hold that for you while you look.”
            “Thanks!”
As he looks through more albums, he asks, “You like any local bands? The Hooters? Tommy Conwell and the Young Rumblers?”

I feel like I’d heard of them when I was… well, twenty-three.
           “Yeah, I do.” I stare at the steps to the upper level. “Matt, do you mind if I take a look upstairs?”
            He’s on a mission flipping through another row of albums. “Sure, go ahead. I’ll stay here.”
            I turn and head towards the stairs. I feel dizzy… I am actually surrounded by albums. I’m in Philadelphia in the 1980s and I have no idea how any of this happened, but I’m relishing every moment. I mean, I have to wake up at some point. I just have never had such a vivid dream before.
             As I walk up the steps, I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling the smells of cardboard and plastic and stale cigarette smoke and some kind of weird incense. All at once, I fall. Like a house of cards. My heel caught on a step at an odd angle, and I can’t catch myself. I don’t want to drop Matt’s Walkman and try to grab the railing with one hand. It doesn’t work. Everything around me blurs as I go down.

 

I open my eyes and look over at the branches of an oak tree pressed against my bedroom window. I lie on my side and stare at it. I know it had all been a dream, but the confirmation of it cuts.  In my mind, I start hearing Bryan Adams’ “It Cuts Like a Knife”.

With a sigh, I try to remember if it’s a weekday or the weekend. I stretch my arms and feel something drop out of my hand. It’s a Sony Walkman.

I pick it up and look at it more closely. It’s an actual Sony Walkman. I pop it open and pull out the cassette. “Tommy Conwell and the Young Rumblers: Rumble”. Scrawled across the label is a name: Matt Baros.

I hold my hands to my chest and look around my bedroom. What had happened? How had it happened? A smile spreads across my face. What in the world could I do to make it happen again?
           One thing was sure. Nothing’s going to happen if I stayed in Mooresville. I shower, take extra care doing my hair and make-up, choose a flattering outfit, and drive to Harrisburg, where I know I can catch a train to Philadelphia.

 

And I do. I stare out the window of the Amtrak passenger car and watch trees, utility poles, farms, and towns flash by. I have no expectations. I only know I have to consciously go on this one adventure. This one crazy, impractical, impulsive adventure.

The train finally stops at 8^th and Market. My app says it’s my destination. Small suitcase in hand, I carefully walk down the steps, go up the escalator, and out on Market Street.

It was as bustling as it had been on my recent visit to the ‘80s. The affluent mix with the not-affluent in a steady stream of pedestrians. It’s noon. Most people may be starting their lunch hour. I join in the flow, I pass Macy’s… which I now know had been John Wanamaker’s department store at one time. I look up. William Penn still looks over the City of Brotherly Love. But massive skyscrapers stand in every direction, dwarfing his one-time status. I lift my iPhone to take a photo. I have the perfect shot. Well, maybe if I stand back a couple yards. I begin to walk backwards and, not for the first time in Philadelphia, fall down. I don’t even know what I tripped on. As I scramble to stand back up and grab my suitcase, I feel a hand on my elbow. Someone is helping me up. I turn around.

A handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair smiles at me. And what a smile.
            “Hey, are you okay?”
            My own smile couldn’t have been brighter. “I think so.” I pause. “Matt, right? Aren’t you Matt Baros?”                              
           He nods and grins, “Yeah, that’s right. We’ve met before?”
          “A long time ago.”
         “I think I should remember you. What’s your name?”
         “Mimi. Mimi Sadler.”
         “Mimi. I like it. It’s a nice name.”

And just like that, I have a second chance. A do-over of my life. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get it right. This time I’ll grab the chance to live my actual dream. Or whatever it was.

 

About the author 

 

Karla S. Bryant is a published author and essayist. She is also a produced independent screenwriter. She focuses her work on people in midlife, exploring the richness of their layered histories and how they play a part when their lives take unexpected turns. 

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