Author and Artist
The Possum
A fictional travelogue; three minute read.
As the rising sun pushes away the Sacramento Valley night sky, I’m walking past the State Capitol towards the Tower Café. The tule fog inside my head is swirling. After yesterday, I’m hungry for a serving of therapy on a plate.
Yesterday after first period, with the blunt cruelty of youth Tad Huntington announced to everyone, “I hate this class. History is sooo boring.” I almost clapped back “You might like it if you tried studying,” but I don’t need another parent-teacher meeting in my life.
After Tad’s insult, I stopped by the worst place on campus—the teachers’ lounge where avoiding teachers is difficult. Mr. Brandon in physics was virtue signaling with an impromptu Ted Talk about saving a rare lizard. Mercifully, from my students I’ve learned how to fake paying attention.
Posted on the lounge bulletin board, I winced reading the latest school district shaming memo listing the latest in politically impermissible nouns. My first thought was the idiots who drafted this proclamation had me in mind. I wanted to scream “tiptoeing around verbal landmines erases me,” but it’s less trouble to cower in self-censorship.
All in all, another day of not meeting other people’s expectations. I’m far from perfect, but if I airbrush my imperfections, my flaws, my failings, what’s left? An avatar designed by everyone else?
All last night, drenched in sweat, I tossed and turned. By morning, my neck muscles were as hard as the headboard. My pillow was kicked to the floor.
In my nightmare, I’m at my high school. My eyes are lidded, mouth slightly open, body inert. People are hovering around me, walking past me, not seeing me.
Like a possum, my breathing is imperceptible, inward, secretive. After all, a possum playing dead is nothing more than one mammal lying to another.
When my Saturday alarm went off, I dragged myself out of bed. But for the promise of a fattening breakfast—honest, heartwarming, hopeful—I could have stayed in bed forever.
The Tower Café restaurant is a riot of upbeat, multicultural confidence. There are artifacts and treasures from around the world. Beaded wall hangings in rainbow colors. South Pacific carvings. African masks. Textiles in bright reds, blues, greens, yellows. Vintage travel posters. Yoruba headdresses. Gold leaf buddhas.
Next door, highbrow indie movies are screened at the Tower Theater. In the 1960s the very hip Tower Records was founded here. This is the vibe I need.
As she balances platters of food on arms decorated with colorful tats, my waitress flashes sparkly fingernails. Her blouse is a bit too tight. A short black skirt wraps around magenta leggings. I can’t tell if her chattiness is an inborn warmth or a learned habit in search of bigger tips. Either way, I respond cautiously, trying to remember the vocabulary on the school district’s memo.
I order a pair of ten-inch-long slabs of half-inch thick, custardy French toast slathered in whipped maple butter. Three solid slices of smoked bacon. Coffee black as tar.
My comfort calories arrive on a large oval plate. My clenched hands unwind. My muscles relax.
My mind chews over the day ahead. I’ll take it slow. Like a waddling possum.
From the restaurant speakers, a seventies tune is playing: “Happy Days.”
