Slime Trails

And a Banana

“Stop the car,” I said to my husband on the way out of our driveway. I jumped out and retrieved four dew drenched envelopes scattered on the lawn. “Do you think someone was messing with our mail?”

“Maybe?” Carleton said, looking rather guilty.

My eyes narrowed. “Let me guess. Yesterday, you took the mail from our box and put it on top of the green waste bin. Then you dumped some recycling into the blue bin and walked away. Last night, the wind blew the envelopes from the green bin onto the ground.”

“Probably,” he said with a sheepish grin.

“Honestly, stop being so spacey.”

As I spread the wet envelopes on the car’s dashboard to dry, my mind drifted back to my freshman year in college, recalling my own experience with the affliction.

Laughter echoed down the hall from my dorm room. My roommate’s best friend was visiting from Pittsburgh. To give them time alone, I’d gone off for a long shower. Guess they didn’t hear me approach, because I was barefoot, having forgotten my slippers.

“Honestly, how can you stand to be around her?” the friend said. “She has the attention span of a hungry flea, hopping around a dog show.”

I froze outside with my hand on the door knob, wanting to hear...but not.

With a small laugh, Meagan answered, “Oh, Aron’s not so bad. She’s a good roommate and we get along.”

“Yeah, but she’s so spacey. The way she stares out at nothing, gives me the creeps.”

Her words faded as I raced back to the bathroom, still clutching my towel, toothbrush and refreshing peppermint toothpaste. Tears of shame trickled down my cheeks. I bashed through the swinging door and skidded to a stop.

“Hey,” growled Cindy, the R. A., standing near the sinks. “Slow down, you’re going to hurt someone.”

I didn’t answer. What could I say? It wasn’t as if I wanted to be an airhead. I tried to pay attention, but then my mind would float away. Up, up, out of my body. Into blissful peace. That was the trouble; I loved peace. Everyone thought I was stoned out of my gourd, but I wasn’t. It was natural, my way of coping with stress. It worked at home where I was a good robot girl, doing exactly as ordered. But in college it wasn’t working.

I collapsed onto the toilet seat and hung my head. What was I going to do? The events of the past months raced through my mind. How many times had I lost my meal ticket? How many books, coats, and wallets had I lost? How many times had I been late to class or forgot an assignment? Now worse, was my roommate considering dumping me as a friend?

My personal low came to mind. It was party time in the cafeteria; a big celebration to commemorate the beginning of spring quarter. Awards were to be given for outstanding scholarship, citizenship, dorm spirit, etc. Naively, I thought there was no-way-in-hell that I’d receive an award, so I shoveled in ice cream, digging the way its cool goodness melted on my tongue.

Then Meagan thumped her elbow into my ribs and whispered, “You better watch this. Cindy’s up to something.”

“Oh?” I glanced at the podium and saw our R. A. holding a banana.

“Now,” Cindy said with a giggle, “this next award is for a student who has a stellar future in the space industry. You might say she has her head in the clouds.”

My mouth dropped. I knew what was coming. I tried to look happy, or at least fully conscious.

“Yes, the winner of the Spaciest Student Award is Aron. Please come up to receive this certificate and golden banana, which you can eat the next time you lose your meal ticket.”

Everyone whooped and hollered. I forced a good-natured laugh, all the while thinking that the banana wasn’t golden...it was fucking yellow.

The memory had done its dirty work; I let out a sad moan. Then I read the ingredients of my refreshing toothpaste, which did nothing to lift my spirits. I placed the toothpaste on top of the box for used feminine products and wrapped my towel around my head like a turban.

Bathroom sounds of running water and flushing toilets seemed oddly comforting, as did the scent of baby powder. I felt my body shiver with nervous energy, trying to defuse the pressure of my emotions. I could spend the night hiding in a toilet stall, or face my life and make a metamorphosis. The choice was mine.

I fiddled with the toilet paper, rolling it up and down. I tore off a length and made a crumpled white flower, then a limp fan. My hands trembled, but that was normal for me. I tossed my creations into the water and flushed. After they circled and disappeared, I slid open the door, planted my feet on the ugly gray linoleum, and asked the earth to pull me back down.

It worked mostly.

“Oh no,” I cried. “Stop the car!”

“Why,” said Carleton, “what’s the matter?”

“There’s a slug oozing from under the wet envelope. It’s leaving a trail down the dashboard.” I looked closer at the slime glistening in the sunlight. “Oh shit, there’s another. And another. And another!”

After Carleton pulled the car over to the side of the road, I brushed the four slimy slugs out the door. Then I resumed lecturing him about how to stop being spacey, but I don’t think he listened.

Aron Lee Bowe is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support the work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.