A Stroll (Interrupted)
And so it continued with the little girl and her corduroy frog. The girl, who had just turned nine a week ago, clung to the scraps of fabric stitched with a fraying red strand of yarn. Her burgundy coils ricocheted back and forth in the frigid autumn air as she skipped down the road, flailing the poor frog left and right. She stopped on the corner of Lindenbourg Street right next to the town bakery. Through a french-style window (or maybe it was German) an old man with rosy, age-tinted cheeks and a protruding beer belly scurried around the shop as he struggled to carry the slouching bag of dates to add to his cake batter. In the restlessness of the moment, he failed to recognize the idle waiting girl that had entered the shop. In fact, her quiet sneeze caused the old man to swivel around in shock. They stared at each other.
“Damn it, didn’t your parents ever teach you how to speak up?” The girl watched the man as she gnawed on her index finger; letting it lie on her glistening bottom lip. “What! What do you want?” She stood and watched, only rotating her pupils to fix her gaze on the date cake shimmering in the background.
Seconds passed and the old man lost the little patience he had left. After all, if he diverted his focus for too long, the town’s baked goods would never be baked. Only goods. And nothing is good about unbaked goods. He placed a slice of warm date cake into her hand and pushed her out of the bakery leaving flour-dusted hand prints on her back. She took a good while watching. Watching the door close, watching the man return to his sweets, watching the road, thinking of the cars. Thinking, but mostly watching. And when she became tired of watching, she continued her stroll past Williams Ave, across the 2-10, and over to Sanction Dr. (also known as the place filled with dizzy people).
The dizzy people were often kind. They liked to prance and jive on the streets even after the sky had sunk into indigo. They wiggled around in their thick black Prada glasses and backless Vivienne Westwood dresses. But only the custom kind, of course. The dizzy people liked giving out diamond vases (pronounced vahz-iz) and copies of the failed book they published in 2008.
One dizzy woman liked to sit on the corner of Sanction watching the cars pass, pass, pass. Often, the little girl would see her sprawled out on the abandoned green couch like a cat. Loungin’ time is what the dizzy woman would call it. That day, as she toddled by, the woman barked, “Girl!” and wobbled as she stood. The girl had only seen her short and crumpled on the bench. But in her elongated and full form, she realized that the woman was tall and sturdy. Almost like her mother. The woman walked, wobbled, walked and wobbled some more, taking time to balance herself, flatten her creases, and straighten her hair as she approached the girl. Finally, she stopped. Panting, out of breath, gripping her tattooed knees to fill her lungs.
“You look like my daughter, Tandy.” Stone-faced, the girl toyed with the button eyes of her tortured corduroy frog. Her life had no more concern for any girl named Tandy now than it did before. “Do you know Tandy?” She stared up at the woman with slight agitation. “I’m sure you know Tandy. She goes to school. You go to school too, I suppose? You’re what? Twelve?" The girl was nine but she appreciated the false perception of maturity.
Out of the woman’s pocket came a leopard-print lighter. Tch Tch. The lighter refused to work. Tch tch tch. The woman raised the lighter to her head so that their eyes could meet. As if she was going to give it a strict scolding, she let out a guttural hiss. “Cheap piece of plastic.” She hit it once and then violently shook it so its leopard print faded into a blur of beige and mauve. Tch tch tch floom. The fire lit, the woman engulfed herself back into her bench, and her conversation (if one could even call it that) with the girl faded into a distant memory. Out of her mouth drew an ash ribbon that twisted and swam in the sky as it dissolved into a thin fog. The tips of her fingers, deader than frozen lily pads, coddled a quarter-worn, lipstick stained cigarette. The cold, silent exhales of burnt air cued the girl to continue her stroll past Sanction and towards Dune Avenue. But before she could even complete her first step, the woman launched an iron hand towards her, gripping her tighter than the girl had ever been held before. Her hands crumpled the skin on her wrist, and put creases on her paper skin (Nothing painful. Just a warm, desperate squeeze).
“Won’t you stay, Tandy? I feel alone again.” That was all it took for the girl to stand still, to swallow the painful pill of companionship, and to pity the dizzy woman just for a moment longer. And when the pity was over, when the cat’s eyelids feathered shut, she gathered her corduroy frog, and moved along to her next journey.
Obehi Akpengbe
This story follows a quiet, socially-awkward little girl on a stroll around her fictional city. I wanted to challenge myself to create a piece where the main character doesn’t speak. I also wanted to incorporate various elements from the city I grew up in as a child, such as the bakery and the “dizzy people” who were inspired by friendly regulars at the local park I used to love going to as a kid. This story also switches the roles and paints the adults as the reliant, chaotic ones and the child as a dependent and put-together person.