Author and Artist
The Possum
A fictional travelogue; three minute read.
As the dark night is pushed away by the rising sun, to clear out the grey tule fog inside my head, I’m walking past the California State Capitol towards the Tower Café. After yesterday’s wounds, I’m in need of therapy on a plate.
With blunt cruelty, after class Tad Huntingon told me he hated my high school history class. I wanted to clap back that he might like the course more if he studied harder, but I don’t need another parent-teacher meeting in my life.
After Tad’s rejection, I stopped by the faculty lounge. The worst place on campus is the teachers’ lounge where it’s impossible to avoid teachers. Mr. Brandon in physics was virtue signaling with an impromptu Ted Talk about politics. I’ve learned from my students how to fake paying attention.
As the Vice Principal handed out a language shaming memo, she looked directly at me. I’ve stopped tracking the latest in pronouns and political correctness. I shoved the memo into my briefcase, unread. I could have said something about “tiptoeing around verbal landmines erases me,” but it’s less trouble to cower in self-censorship.
Another deflating day of not meeting other people’s expectations. I’m not perfect, but if I airbrush my imperfections, my flaws, my failings, what’s left? An avatar designed by everyone else? A mannikin?
All night, 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 was at my high school. My eyes were lidded, mouth slightly open, body inert. Like a possum, my breathing slow, even, inward. After all, a possum playing dead is nothing more than one mammal lying to another.
When my alarm rings like a school bell, I drag myself out of bed. But for the promise of a fattening breakfast—honest, heartwarming, hopeful—I could have stayed in bed forever.
When I reach the restaurant, it’s a riot of cheery, multicultural optimism. 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.
An urban oasis with leafy shade trees shelters patio diners. Next door, highbrow indie movies are screened at the Tower Theater. In the 1960s the very hip Tower Records was founded here. This is my vibe.
My waitress flashes sparkly fingernails as she balances platters of food on arms decorated with colorful tats. 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 of personality or a learned habit in search of bigger tips. Either way, I stay inside myself.
I order a pair of ten-inch-long slabs of half-inch thick, custardy French toast slathered in whipped maple butter. Three slices of smoked bacon. Hot coffee black as tar.
My comfort calories and a sugar-high on a single oval plate arrives. My hands unwind, my neck relaxes.
My mind chews over the day ahead. I’ll take it slow, in a hobbling manner. Like a possum. What choice do I have?
Very quietly, I hum a seventies tune. “Happy Days.”
