Authors: Leah Marie Brown
“Great.” I will not cry. I will not cry. “I have an unbalanced, ill aura. I wonder if Each One, Teach One’s insurance plan covers visits to aura healers.”
Laney snorts. “Nobody can heal your aura but you.”
“So I’m a hopeless case, then?”
“No way!” She holds her napkin up. She has made an origami swan. “Your aura is like this napkin. It might have started out flat, square, but look at it now…transformed. You are like this napkin, Fanny. You are transforming into something totes spec.”
“Spec?”
“Spectacular.”
“You think?”
Laney nods her head. “I
know
.”
I take another sip of my beer—a little shot of liquid courage—and then I tell Laney about Father True Allight, my mission statement, and my real reason for volunteering with Each One, Teach One.
“That’s awesome!”
“It is?”
“Shyeah!” She pumps her fist as if I just finished a marathon. “Don’t you see? You felt you were imbalanced, so you did something that would knock down your precariously constructed life. You’re starting over, but this time you are going to use joy and insight to rebuild. It’s empowering. It’s beyond spec!”
“Okay, then,” I say, raising my beer bottle. “Here’s to healthy chakras.”
“And new friends,” Laney says, clinking her bottle against mine.
“And new friends.”
Jessica arrives with a heaping plate of king crab and a bowl of melted golden artery-clogging butter. I mentally calculate the calories in a pound of king crab sans butter—approximately 380—and two Belgian beers—at least 300— but I stop short of calculating the time I will need to spend pounding the frozen pavement to work off those calories. The new Fanny isn’t going to stress about calories…not obsessively, anyway.
“Tell me about you, Laney,” I say, cracking a crustacean leg in half. “Where are you from?”
“Boulder, Colorado.”
“Colorado is beautiful.”
“Have you been to Boulder?”
I shake my head and dip some crab meat into the butter. “I’ve been to Vail, though. I went skiing there a few years ago.”
“With Vivian?”
“No.” I grimace. “An ex-boyfriend.”
“That sounds romantic.”
“It wasn’t.” I pop the buttery meat into my mouth, chew, and swallow. “He was a pervert.”
I don’t tell her that he was a proctologist with a penchant for smutty jokes and anal sex.
“Why did you volunteer to come to Sitka, Laney?”
She shrugs. “I wanted to do something. Ya know?”
“Weren’t you doing anything in Boulder?”
“No.” She shakes her head, and her fringy bangs move back and forth over the rims of her glasses. “Nothing of substance, anyway.”
“What did you do in Boulder? I mean, were you going to school or working?”
“I graduated from the University of Colorado Boulder with a dual degree in Arts and Music three years ago. Since then, I’ve shown a few pieces in local galleries, worked part-time at the Art Museum in Denver, volunteered with an artist co-op teaching handicapped kids to paint, and picked up a few gigs with my band, but I just felt…”
“What?”
“Unfulfilled.”
I think about the life I led in San Francisco—working overtime, working out, always working, working, working—to get a raise, get a new purse, get some praise. If someone as spherical as Laney could feel unfulfilled with her coops and creative outlets, it’s no wonder I felt unfulfilled.
“So,” she says, smiling brightly. “I am headed to Sitka to teach their indigenous people art utilizing recycled materials and environmentally friendly paints.”
By the time we make our way back to the Klondike, we have demolished a pound of king crab, consumed several beers, listened to the Wailin’ Palins, a blues rock band with a lead singer who looks a lot like Sarah Palin, and bonded in a big, big way.
Karma is Queer
Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:
Um, yeah, I’m running out of designer failure-to-success stories. Don’t Monet, though! I still have a little pep talk for you. Did you know Van Gogh only sold one painting before he lopped off his ear and killed himself? Keep trying to make the world beautiful, Fanny, and no matter how blue you get, please remember you need two ears to wear earrings.
When I return to my room, the little red message light is blinking, and my heart does a silly flip. Maybe the message is from Calder.
I grab the handset, jab the message button, and hold my breath, but the voice on the other end of the line is definitely not Calder’s deep, sexy brogue.
“Hello Ms. Moreau, this is Paige, from the front desk. I contacted the Anchorage Police Department about your stolen luggage. They said you need to file a report at their station on K Street, but I explained you were flying to Sitka in the morning. If you call Sergeant Packwood at 907-786-8525, he will take a report over the phone. I also talked to our security guard. He promised to review the security footage first thing tomorrow morning. I hope you were able to purchase a few necessities. Goodnight and have a safe flight.”
I hang up the phone and fall back onto the bed. There’s a possibility the police will catch the tweakers who stole my luggage. I might even be reunited with my beloved Louis Vs. I should be ecstatic, but I just don’t care. A tiny voice whispers in my head,
Admit it, you’d trade your luggage and Louboutins for a call from Calde
r.
* * * *
It is still dark out the next morning when Laney knocks on my door. I have already done my hotel room workout, showered, dressed, packed my new suitcases, and phoned Sergeant Packwood.
“
Bonjour,
Fanny!” Laney chirps. “
Êtes-vous prêt pour le petit déjeuner?”
“Tu parle français?”
“Oui.”
Laney is one of the most unpredictable people I have ever met. She doesn’t fit any specific stereotype. She’s part breezy hipster and part wise sage. One minute she’s spouting new age gibberish about auras, and the next she’s standing in the hall outside my room, a furry panda hat on her head, speaking fluent French.
“
On se bouge
.”
We start our power walk from the Klondike to the Snow City Café, a popular diner reputed to serve the “best breakfast in Alaska.” I am not a morning person, so I am hoping Laney doesn’t want to engage in mind-numbing chitchat. The cold is numbing enough,
merci beaucoup
!
I expect Laney to be like Vivian—someone who leaps out of bed with irritating, boundless enthusiasm. Vivian even sings a song.
Merde!
Now I hear Vivian’s voice in my head. Good morning, Good morning, it’s great to stay up late. Good morning, good morning, to you.
Vivian says the song is from some classic Hollywood musical, but I think she made it up just to annoy me. I don’t wake up with my best friend’s effervescence and optimism. I just want to sip my two espressos and be left alone until at least midday.
Thankfully, Laney appears to be a reluctant riser too.
“How do you like your new boots?” Laney’s breath billows from her lips, forming small mushroom clouds. “Are they comfy?”
So Laney is a talker. Fine, just please, please, don’t let her start singing.
“Actually,” I say, wiggling my toes against the sheepskin insole. “They are the ugliest footwear ever created, after those clunky Danskos clogs and plastic Crocs, but they are quite comfy.”
“I love my Uggs.”
“So does Vivian. She tried to talk me into getting a pair years ago by saying they were as ‘warm and comfy as a pair of slippers.’” I laugh. “Not the most persuasive argument. Do we really need to wear our slippers in public?”
“You’re Parisian, which means you take particular offense to anything that is not beautiful,” Laney reasons.
“
C’est vrai!”
I think of the women who wear yoga pants to the grocery store and shudder. “Americans don’t get it. You don’t dress to make yourself feel good, you dress so you don’t make others feel bad.”
“Perhaps,” Laney says, picking up the pace. “Or maybe people use clothes to express what they are afraid to say out loud.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you ever considered that you dress in expensive, trendy clothes to impress others or to keep them at arm’s length because you’re afraid they might not like what’s underneath?”
Wow! That stings.
“So my clothes are just a way to say, ‘I am worth getting to know.’”
“Or they’re saying, ‘I am afraid you won’t think I am worth getting to know so I am going to intimidate you with my fancy labels.’”
“Wow,” I gasp. “You’re not afraid to go deep, are you?”
“Sorry.” Laney shrugs. “I don’t do superficial.”
And there it is—the reason I don’t let people close. Laney hasn’t even known me a full twenty-four hours, and already she has decided I am as shallow as a puddle.
Laney suddenly stops walking. I stop walking too, but it takes me a few seconds to muster up the courage to look at her. When I do, there’s no judgment, no condemnation, just kindness and sympathy reflected in her big bespectacled blue eyes.
“You don’t need Coco Chanel and Christian Dior to impress people. All you need is Stéphanie Moreau.” She grabs my hand and squeezes it. “You’re enough.”
A powerful wave of déjà vu washes over me. Two years ago, I gave Vivian similar advice. Be authentic. Keep it real. Now, the universe has done one of those queer Karma things, and I am the one being told to be authentic and keep it real.
* * * *
“Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent into beautiful Sitka, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed underneath the seat in front of you or in the overhead bins. Please turn off all electronic devices until we are safely parked at the gate. Thank you for flying Alaskan Airlines.”
“This is it, Fanny!” Laney says, squeezing my hand. “The beginning of our new beginnings.”
I raise the shade and we look out the window. The sky is thick with heavy purplish clouds that hang low over the snow-covered mountains and cast the city in an ethereal lavender light. Sitka is small and low-slung, clinging to the base of the mountains as if it is afraid it will slip into the sea and float away.
“
Il est très joli, non?”
I am not putting my PR spin on it. Sitka really is quite beautiful.
“It looks like an impressionist painting, doesn’t it?” Laney sighs. “Like Monet got bored with his gardens and water lilies and started painting mountains and frosted trees instead.”
The plane banks sharply to the right as we make the final approach into Sitka, affording us a view of the narrow, frighteningly short runway. The airport is located on an islet that appears to be connected to the mainland by a single bridge. If the pilot makes the tiniest of miscalculations, the plane will slide off the runway into the sea. Takeoffs and landings terrify me. Always have.
The plane levels off. We are flying so low over the water I feel I could reach my hand out the window and grab one of the milky-white ice floes floating in the harbor. They look like jagged pieces of a puzzle.
I am not sure which crash scenario would be worse: being doused in jet-fuel and burned alive, or being trapped in your seat while your airplane plunges into an icy ocean. I think I would prefer the fiery ball over the watery coffin. I saw
Titanic
. I do not want to pull a Rose, floating aimlessly on flotsam, slowly becoming a human Popsicle. No thanks.
I grip the armrests, close my eyes, and count—
un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq
. The rear wheels touch down and we are speeding down the runway, brakes screaming, front wheels bouncing.
When the commuter jet finally comes to a stop, I open my eyes and stare out the window at the sign affixed to the small airport.
Welcome to Sitka Rocky Gutierrez Airport.
Four minutes later, we have deplaned and retrieved our luggage from baggage carousel number one. That the airport bothered to number the carousel fills me with no amount of sardonic glee. There is only one baggage carousel at the Sitka Airport. Perhaps designating their only carousel as number one was an act of tremendous optimism. “We better call this carousel number one. Someday, we might have two carousels and we wouldn’t want folks to get confused.”
The moment we step out of the heated airport, Sitka gives us the ultimate “fuck you” greeting. A bitterly cold wind slaps us in the face and leaves us gasping for breath. It is not skiing in Aspen cold. It is a brutal survival of the fittest kind of cold. The kind of deep in your bones cold that can’t be cured with a brandy-spiked hot cocoa and thermal blanket.
We huddle close, stomping our feet and rubbing our hands together, as we wait for a cab. An eternity passes before a blue-and-gold taxi pulls to a stop in front of us. The driver pops the trunk but doesn’t get out to help us with our bags.
“I guess it’s Donner Party Rules,” I say, glaring at the back of the taxi driver’s head. “Every woman for herself.”
Laney giggles as she hoists her luggage into the trunk, but I am less amused by our driver’s refusal to assist us with our bags.
Il est impoli
.
It’s just rude.
I load my bags, shut the trunk with more force than necessary, and join Laney in the backseat of the cab.
“Where to?” the driver asks, looking over his shoulder.
“Good Morning to you too,” I say, smirking. “We need to go to 1102 Sockeye Circle.”
He whistles and shakes his head. “No can do.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I can’t drive you there.”
“What? Why not?” I am hanging on to the very fringes of my temper, and this man does not want me to let go. “This is a taxi, isn’t it?”
“Yep.”
I swivel my head in all directions, looking at the inside of the taxi with wide, bewildered eyes.
“I am new to this area, so perhaps you could enlighten me. Do taxi drivers in Sitka perform the same functions as the taxi drivers in the lower forty eight?”
“Ma’am?”
I look at the laminated vehicle for hire permit affixed to the passenger side visor. His name is Alexi Baranov.