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Chapter Seventeen
This building has a chalkboard sign by the door that has a hand-drawn picture of a plate. Stacked on top is a mess of chalk lines, some curved macaroni bits, and a protruding and phallic hot dog. Above it, in bold letters is: COME AND TRY OUR FRANKENFRIES.
It took me just over an hour to make it to Memory Lanes Bowling Alley. That sounds bad when you learn that the bowling alley is a sedate seven-minute drive from Providence, but my hatchback was surprised to see me and slow to start.
Then I had to dash back up to check my cottage door. Then I sat in my running car and approved some new forum members. I listened to a five-minute meditation. I left and drove back (twice). But I’m here now, and I consider this evening to be a victory.
I get a text from Teddy: Where r u? I’m lonely. I suspect he is hungry. Before I can reply, he begins compulsively texting, and the following are received in the space of a minute:
My 1939 Dream Girl won’t talk to me
I am forming a search party with hounds
Your little Turtle Mobile is gone
Are you on a date????
Drowning myself immediately in my bathtub
Update—drowning in YOUR bathtub, I like it better
I’m laughing in my car like a dweeb. What was his original question? Where am I? I’m lonely for him, too. Before he can do anything rash, I reply: I’m out doing my homework. I send him a photo of the chalkboard.
A bunch of kids run past me inside the bowling alley, squealing with laughter. This was a good, safe choice. I’m not good at selfies, but I manage to get myself and the bowling alley sign into the same angled shot, which will serve as proof of attendance for Melanie. I’m even wearing the designated black dress and the cool evening air feels unfamiliar on my bare arms.
“ID,” the bartender calls out in a forbidding voice when I reach the top of the stairs.
“Wow, okay,” I reply and hand it to him. “I’m twenty-five.”
He checks it, rechecks it, then chuffs a laugh. “You look about twelve.”
I’ll take being mistaken for twelve over a Golden Girls cosplayer any day. As I tuck my ID back into my purse I briefly consider getting wasted. Maybe I’ll drink straight from that bottle of green stuff back there. I’ll leave my car here all night and order my first ever Uber home. I’ll crawl up the path to my cottage behind the tortoises. Maybe they’ll eat my corpse.
“Can I get the Frankenfries and a regular Coke, please.” Witness me, cutting loose.
The bartender is doubtful as he looks around me. “You by yourself? The Frankenfries are designed for a group of people. It’s a very big portion. Doesn’t make great leftovers.”
I absolutely bet Teddy will eat the leftovers when I bring them home. He’s like a vulture, picking at the carrion left behind by the Parlonis. I put my money on the counter and the transaction is completed.
With my glass of strong black aspirin in hand, I decide on a booth. Should I go beside that group of men, or that group of women? I choose the women, probably defeating the purpose of the Sasaki Method. The bartender shouldn’t have felt so sorry for me. I have two great friends, they’re just not here.
Oh, shit. I haven’t messaged my forum friends in . . . (I scrabble around to find the group chat) . . . nine days. I have known them for a decade. I start to type out a few sentences to them but nothing seems right. How do I apologize for forgetting they exist? They’ll be the ones I’ll be trading Heaven Sent memes with when Melanie and Teddy move on. I’ll work out how to explain my absence when I get home.
But: They didn’t message me either.
Worksheet out. Pencil case unzipped. Earphones in. I may as well be sitting alone in the school library. Melanie’s worksheet has a cute curling ribbon graphic as its border, and I take out a pink pencil to procrastinate. Carefully, perfectly, I color it as I think about the exercise at hand.
Who am I, exactly? I’m changing, so it’s a fair question.
I liked myself a lot when I was neck-deep in chlorine water. I set aside all my inexperienced floundering and just put my hand on a beautiful man’s chin. It was like a fantasy, but I lived it. I didn’t get the kiss, but knowing he wanted to is enough for me.
I feel the booth cushion compress, I look up and Teddy is leaning his forearms on the table. He’s brought his sketchbook. He is a sight for sore, sad eyes. When I pull out my earphones, he says to me with feeling, “I have never seen anything so beautiful in my entire fucking life.” As I register the ripples those words make inside me, I see he’s looking over my shoulder.
“And an order of Frankenfries,” the bartender sets them down. “Teddy. What’s up, man.” (Of course Teddy knows everybody.) “When are you moving to Fairchild? I’ve got a friend I wanna send to you. He needs a touch-up on an old piece.”
Teddy rubs his hands together and says to the plate, “I should be taking bookings by Christmas. Maybe leave it to the New Year so I can get settled.”
“I’ll let him know. Bet you can’t tell, because he’s such a mess,” the bartender says to me with a grin, “but this guy is the best at what he does.” He rolls up his sleeve to show me a beautifully rendered old-style naval anchor.
