When signs come, follow them.
Coincidences exist, but so do smack-you-over-the-head directives. There are everyday signs, so clear you can’t ignore them. Anything can be the key to a Narnia. Any spider can be the one with the gift-giving bite. Any spoken word can be a spell.
~~~OOO~~~
Egg shakers. Glue sticks. Picture books and portable speakers. So much to put away after an off-site storytime, including snack.
“Gold-fish, gold-fish, I love gold-fish,” I sing to the tune of ‘Where is Thumbkin’ while en-route to the pantry closet, toting the half-demolished box of smiling orange crackers. As a Children’s Librarian, I’m allowed to be silly and sing to myself.
“What kind of goldfish?” Dana’s voice. She must’ve just walked in from the adjoining office.
“Edible ones.” I pause, sliding them onto the shelf. I’ve got to remember to check-in the books. All ocean-themed. At least this storytime was for the preschool crowd, with whom I can have an intelligent conversation (something along the lines of: “What sound does the cow make?” “Moo!”), as opposed to the baby group, whom I’ve dubbed the Lobotomy Squad.
“The argument can be made that live goldfish are edible too,” Dana quips. Great. Now I’ve walked into it. I stash the speakers and stand attendant, hooked on the thread of conversation. Dana is a walking Wikipedia. It’s tough to wriggle free.
“Goldfish swallowing was a huge college craze,” Dana continues, “Started in the 1920s.”
“Like phone-booth stuffing?” I fidget, looking at my basket of glue sticks and books. Can’t Dana see I’m in a hurry? I frown at the glue sticks and another question gallops up: does anyone disinfect these things? No. But we should, especially after the McMahon triplets have been handling them. Those three kids think the things are chapstick.
“No. Phone-booth stuffing didn’t take off until the 50s.” Dana has a limited sense of humor. “Goldfish swallowing started in the 20s, at Harvard.”
“Great,” I say, putting the glue sticks and ocean-themed books on her desk. It’s 11:58. “Check these books in for me, will ya? I’ve got to boogie.”
“Enjoy the wedding,” Dana says.
~~~OOO~~~
“All right everyone, welcome to Brad and Melissa’s Wedding!” The DJ, a short man with an ageless voice, cues up the mike and the tunes. The reception hall is complete if not resplendent with a dance floor, purple lighting and too many tables to count. Presumably, there are at least fourteen tables, because that’s where my boyfriend and I are sitting.
Everyone claps and the DJ introduces the bridal party. Each kid is practically identical. “Great! And here’s Marc/Tyler/Ryan/Devlin/Dean/Scott/Hayden with Valerie/Jaimie/Neema/ Laura/Darbie/Petra/Shannon! All right, everyone…”
I wince, feeling a horrified kinship with this DJ. Wishing goodwill like some sort of shrill, pagan-priest, or a waterfall of encouraging vomit. I know the sound of standby crutch-phrases. Excellent work, everybody! has been mine lately.
“Sweet Caroline is guaranteed to play sometime during the night,” I say to my boyfriend. It’s inevitable, just as much as the Hokey Pokey is guaranteed to play in mystorytime.
“Bah bah bah,” he sings grimly.
“All right everyone…let’s have some dances! Everyone out here to the dance floor!” the DJ yips. The purple lights start up again and the bridal party converges for the reheated hash of current dance tunes. Soon, it’s time for a toast (written on a pizza box, no less) given by the drunken best man.
I notice the centerpieces when I get bored. Ours has two goldfish swimming in a glass bowl, offset simply by green marbles and sprigs of baby’s breath.
Goldfish. The edible kind.
“Hey.” I nudge my boyfriend with my elbow. “Lookit. Goldfish.”
“Oh. Sweet.” He doesn’t get it. Now I’ll have to explain everything.
“I had goldfish crackers for snack time today,” I say. The pounding music forces me to abridge. I hate abridging. I lean in and yell. “It’s a sign. The goldfish mean something.” They must. I have to trust.
“Oh.” My boyfriend makes an indulgent face, all pursed lips. He doesn’t get it.
It doesn’t matter, really, because then the meal is served. A predictable trinity: meat, chicken, or fish.
Cookies, apples, or goldfish.
“You want anything?” I stand, motioning to the bar. The threes off-settle me for some reason.
“Get me a beer?”
Off I go to order from the too-tan bartender and wait. I’m not exactly surprised to find a trio of groomsmen, all sharing the same thin nose and deep-set brown eyes. Brothers. Triplets.
Of course.
At least they are armed with rum and cokes instead of chapsticks –sorry, glue sticks. I pretend to study my nails and listen in.
“First thing he sticks it in…” The best man, sans pizza box, is already stripped down to a t-shirt and a cowboy hat from the photo booth.
“Melissa,” The second groans, looking as though he’d rolled out of a particularly stressful meeting, all unknotted tie and bloodshot eyes.
“We’ve got to wreck these goldfish,” the third one says, bearded and with the tips of tattoos at the cuffs of his clothes.
“You can swallow them,” I say. Three identical heads swing up to greet me, like some human Cerberus. Crap. I shouldn’t have said anything. But all I can do is repeat the lines given to me. “The goldfish. They’re edible.”
“Excellent.” Cowboy turns to the others. I suck my lips, thinking.
Excellent. My crutch phrase. Another sign.
“Eating the goldfish.” Faux-businessman slaps his brother’s back and it’s sealed.
“If there’s goldfish being swallowed, I’d like to swallow one too. I need to.” Emboldened by their skeptical eyebrows, I elaborate, somewhat senselessly. “It was a huge craze in the 20s.”
“Check her out.” Beardie grins. The brothers share a look of approval, three heads bobbing.
“Got here at the right time,” the faux-businessman says, nodding to their table. My drinks come and I go back to table number fourteen to chew dry steak and puzzle over the logistics of getting a goldfish out of the vase. That’ll be the hardest part.
I decide to forget it, since there’s no need to worry. It’s already fated.
A gorgeous girl catches the bouquet. An amusing slinky is brought out from the bride’s dress during the Garter Hunt. The DJ plays a lot of ‘80s rock, and, dutifully, Sweet Caroline. The cake is peanut butter based, my favorite. Everything is as it should be.
I go up to help myself to the s’more’s bar and when I come back, plate ladled high with warm, marshmallow-y confection, my boyfriend catches my hand.
“Uhm.” He motions to the brothers’ table. “They were asking for you.”
Indeed, the triplets are all standing, drinks in hand.
“I’m going to swallow a goldfish,” I announce, leaving the table.
“Hoooo!” Cowboy’s cheer has a decided rum-induced dialect. His fist is curled around what I presume is a goldfish.
Cowboy puts his out fist and I hold my palm flat. I don’t question, I trust. I curl my fingers around it immediately. It could be anything, but it feels like a goldfish. Slimy. Squirmy. Small.
Up to my lips and down it goes, smooth. I feel its spine, pushing towards the top of my throat. There’s nothing else, no taste as I’d expected. Not thinking about its sentience, I chase it with a rum and coke one of the brothers has put in my hand.
It’s like a pill, a vitamin. It’s like the slap I earn on the back. Like an excellent experience.
Already, the goldfish has given me its placidity, its nirvana wisdom. This is what I am supposed to do. There are too many signs in the day not to follow them.
Now, I’ll wait.
~~~OOO~~~
I’m still waiting. Nothing has happened. Nothing of merit. No super powers, no ability to see into the future, no ticket to the Hogwarts Express. I’ve followed the signs, but I’ve been cheated.
I thought it was supposed to mean something. I thought it was calling to me, sending me the right words, a message to escape the ho-hum drudgery.
For a day, I thought I was special. That something was fated, some spell was cast, some thing was supposed to happen.
I don’t want to be wrong.
