Circus in a Shot Glass

by Beth Overmyer

  “Somewhat,” I said, smiling, “but really just a lucky guess. I’m Ardal, by the way.”

  The blonde girl introduced herself as Kelly, and the petite one said she was Karen or Carol—it was hard to tell since she was muttering.

  But the one girl I wanted to know didn’t say her name. She just watched the others converse with her soulful eyes. Shy, I mentally noted.

  One of her friends, a pleasant girl with a retainer, tried engaging me in conversation. “So, how long have you been living here?”

  I blinked. Was my accent still so obvious? I supposed it was. Tearing my eyes away from her, I tried focusing on the girl talking to me. “I lived in Nevada for a while, but I’ve been here in California since I started uni.”

  The girls giggled—Definitely freshman. All must have been feeling flirtatious, except for the one who had my interest. It was frustrating that she wouldn’t giggle about my accent.

  “I meant to ask how long you’ve lived in America.”

  Of course I had known this, but it was fun seeing how far people would go to hear about my origins. I told her I had dual citizenship and traveled back and forth across the pond quite a bit.

  “Were you born in Australia?”

  I blinked. I didn’t think my dialect went so far south. “Um . . .”

  The girl of interest leaned forward and whispered something into her friend’s ear, caught me looking, smiled, and walked away. This was not acceptable. This was bordering on horrendous! What if she got away and I couldn’t find her again? This was a large campus. Would it be rude to ask her friends for her information?

  Before I could follow after the girl and ask for her mobile number, her friend stopped me and corrected herself. “I’m sorry. Were you born in England?” She flushed up to the roots of her blonde hair. “I never was good with dialects.”

  “No, ‘sallright. Yes, I was born in a little town in Yorkshire, but I lived most of my life in Westminster.”

  They all nodded, though I could tell by their looks they had no idea where Westminster was. Still, I let it slide.

  Since the conversation came to a crashing halt, I decided to take matters into my own hands. “The girl who was with you,” I said, knowing how obvious it would sound, “is she from around here?”

  That set them off laughing again, smirking. “We don’t know,” Kelly answered for them all. “She was about to introduce herself when you walked up.”

  I blinked. This was confusing. “So, none of you know her?”

  “Nope,” Carol/Karen said. “She just sort of ran up here like she was spooked or something.”

  Great. She probably thought I was a stalker and had run up to the first people she could find. Now I would never know the answer to my question. Unless . . . “Suzette,” I said aloud, causing the girls to giggle.

  “You know her?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Her name’s Suzette?” Kelly the blonde asked, brow furrowed. “I thought you didn’t know her . . .”

  How and why did I keep getting myself into these situations? “Oh, it’s nothing,” I said, sounding quite distracted and confused to my own ears. The homeless woman would have the girl’s name; I needn’t worry. But if I could catch her before she slipped out a side door or into the bookstore, maybe there would be no need to grill strangers for her information. “So sorry to have interrupted your evening. I can see you were in line and here I am rambling. Nice to meet you, ladies.”

  Whether they were amused or annoyed by my actions, I didn’t stick around to see. I’d just glimpsed my watch, saw I had twenty minutes to get through the dinner line, scarf down whatever appeared most edible, and rush to my class. “Nope.” I’d have to forgo food and forget the girl for now. So I got out of line, bought some crisps from a vending machine, and ate them on my way across campus.

  I arrived five minutes before my intro to theater class began, taking my seat behind the freshman with the deodorant quirk—I’d seen him run a stick of the gel stuff across his crew cut—and next to the PSEO student who remembered everything by acronym. The three essentials of theater—Performers, Audience, Purpose—in her study notes had ended in an awkward study group session, but we’d all aced that portion of an ensuing pop quiz . . .

  The high school girl glanced my way, nodded her hello, and turned back to searching for something. The others were just filing in, and I began to wonder: What was I doing in Introduction to Theater? I wasn’t even interested in acting. The things I was interested in could not be found in this room—none of them.

  “Mr. Bishop,” said Dr. Lindsey, our prof for the course. She always managed to sneak up on those who were not paying attention, ready to dole out criticism of posture or worse. Dr. Lindsey tended to leave me alone, however, and part of me had wondered if it was because I was a good foot taller than her. Something must’ve put her in a right foul mood, because she started in on me. “If you gaze into nowhere like some lovesick bull-calf you will never find your stage presence, will you?” were her thoughts on my expression.

  The freshman with the deodorant fetish looked back at me with sympathy. The PSEO student seemed relieved it wasn’t her, and the rest of the class took up staring at their notepads, jotting down notes about goodness-knows-what.

  “Sorry,” I said, trying to “engage myself in the moment” as we’d all been drilled to do.

  “What’s that?” she said, putting a hand to her ear, pretending she hadn’t heard my apology. What the woman wanted, I knew, was a complete sentence.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Lindsey,” I said again.

  Her head gave one great jerk-of-a-nod, and she began teaching us out of an Oscar Wilde play. She had us take turns reading the different characters, while I was assigned the task of reading stage directions. It was a nightmare. By the time we’d finished for the evening, my throat was as dry as paper, my temper was on the rise, and Dr. Lindsey had assigned us a double-load of homework.

  “But this is a one-hundred course,” one of the students said.

  The rest of us just looked at her, glad she’d been the one to say it and not us.

  Dr. Lindsey said something snarky, and we all hung on until her closing remarks for the evening. I was almost out the door with the rest of them, but the professor caught me before I could even scent freedom.

  “What are you doing in my class?” she asked.

  The truth is a fickle thing and it leapt out of my mouth unbidden. “My mum took theater in college.”

  It would seem that was the answer Dr. Lindsey had been expecting. She sat on her desk, angled so one foot almost reached the floor and the other dangled off. “Sit.”

  “Sorry, I have a class—”

  “It can wait. No one’s quite the witch like me; they’ll understand if you’re late.”

  I cleared my throat and took a front row seat. “Professor?”

  “You cannot expect anyone to take you seriously in theater if you’re only doing it because your mum did it.” She gave me a stern glare over her thin-rimmed glasses. “And yes, I know you don’t want to be an actor. Most students come through the door expecting an easy credit for their time. Few want to tread the boards, as it were.”

  We were silent for a moment. At last I voiced what I knew she was getting at: “You think I’m wasting your time.”

  Dr. Lindsey groaned. “Ardal, the time you are wasting is your own. What do you want to do?”

  “Hmm? I don’t know.”

  She laughed without mirth. “Pfft. Don’t pretend like you haven’t given it any thought, and don’t lie to me—you’re not good at lying, and I’m a trained liar by profession.” There was silence as she continued to stare at me, expecting an answer. I didn’t offer one. “Well? Speak.”

  “I have given it a lot of thought, actually,” I said, trying to keep the ire out of my voice. Why was I letting this woman work me up? No one got the better of my temper, but she was close to bringing out the rudeness in me.

  “And?”

&n
bsp; “And nothing. It’s out of the question.” Surely the woman could tell I was anxious to leave. In a way, she was a student of human nature, for Pete’s sake! Just to give her a hint, I looked down at my watch.

  Dr. Lindsey sighed. “I thought you’d be difficult. You British and your stiff upper lips and all.”

  I bristled but didn’t reply. She would not coax me into spilling my soul. She would not.

  The prof continued. “What is your love?”

  “My what?”

  “What do you love to do?”

  I shook my head. I thought of my father, who worked far too many hours than what was healthy. He loved his job. I would not follow in his wandering footsteps. “No, love is not for things or occupations.”

  Her expression shifted. “All right, then. What is your passion?”

  I could feel a blush creep across my face. Passion? Such a personal, intimate word, wasn’t it? And yet, wasn’t cooking a personal experience I chose to share night after night with my customers?

  “Ardal, we are not talking the birds and the bees here. What do you enjoy doing in your free time? What would you study if your mummy wasn’t breathing fire down your neck?”

  That was going too far. “If you please,” I said, “don’t bring my mother into this.”

  “If not her, then whom?”

  My jaw clenched, and my fingers dug into my chair as if acting of their own volition. Every part of my being resented this woman for jabbing her finger at every personal aspect of my life. “Dr. Lindsey—”

  “Who is putting so much pressure on you? Who is calling the shots as to what you do or don’t do? You’re a man, Ardal, not a mouse. I can see you doing great things with a great passion, loving someone with a great love and sharing that passion with them. You and your girlfriend, what do you two do together?”

  I didn’t want her to win. But I had to break eye contact before I raised my voice. “I think it would be better if I left now. Unless you’re going to give me an F.”

  She raised her hands. “I’m not the one who decides whether you pass or fail at life, Ardal. I’m just a road guide, a trope, a blip on your navigational radar.” She climbed off her desk and rubbed her hip. “You may go now, but I don’t think you need to bother coming back.”

  “But I need—”

  “What you need is to live your life.”

  “But theater—”

  She waved my words away. “Bah. Life is theater, theater is life. You’d make a lousy actor, anyway. Go take your passion somewhere else.” She said it with force, but her expression wasn’t unkind.

  Without a parting word, I gathered up my backpack and headed for the door. Before I was out of earshot, she said after me, “I’ll see that your mother is refunded for the course.”

  I didn’t stop to hear anything else. She had rattled me. Rattled me to the core.

  My following class—Physics—normally bored me to tears. That evening, I didn’t hear a word of the teacher’s lecture and ended up cutting out early. The prof gave me a dirty look as he passed his handouts around the room. I ignored his displeasure and headed to goodness only knew where.

  I needed to be alone, to think, to sort through things and perhaps let go of a few of my mother’s delusions. An actor, I was not, nor had I ever wanted to be. And a businessman? I laughed at the thought, trying to imagine myself climbing a corporate ladder. Where was the imagination? The fun? The passion?

  It was somewhat light outside, the sun having set minutes before. And I was surrounded by music. It was engaging and foreign and ethnic. Closing my eyes, I paused and breathed in the aromas of garlic and fresh herbs carried to me on an evening breeze. I could almost taste them.

  My eyes opened to a small crowd of people of all ethnicities sitting on a veranda just off the sidewalk. They were engaged over food and lightened by a dark wine they passed around in a hokey-looking jug. Fairy lights hung above their heads and climbed into the tree I stood under.

  The music stopped, and a new voice began to croon. I smiled, all stress and distress forgotten in the presence of such lively chatter and the scent of good food. Without thinking, I stumbled to the door as a starving man and was seated inside the white-brick Italian restaurant at a table for one.

  I dined on mushrooms stuffed with breadcrumbs and herbs, moistened with a thin broth and a splash of wine. Then came the chicken and pasta, hand-rolled, the waiter informed me as I dangled a strand on my fork in front of the candlelight. The sauce was divine. Creamy, perfectly seasoned, it reminded of the dish I had seen earlier. Laughing, I realized it had been the same dish the kind girl with the soulful eyes had given the homeless woman.

  It was decided in that moment: In the morning I would find the girl who gave pasta and clothes to Suzette. And I then would inform my mother: Her son was going to cooking school.

  Destiny, it would seem, was at work.

  I put off calling my mother until the afternoon. First, I took the slabs of veal to the shelter, hoping to run into Suzette or the girl who had my interest. The kitchen staff was delighted by my donation, saying they knew just the recipe to use it in.

  “Is Suzette here today?” I asked one of the workers.

  One of the volunteers answered my question with a sad face. “No, she’s been fighting the flu and might’ve ended up in the hospital. Poor thing is sick more often than not.”

  I nodded and made sympathetic noises. In truth, I was concerned for the sick elderly woman, but I knew she’d receive good care. The shelter always found ways to help their residents. “Does she have any friends around here?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant and stay out of the way of the bustling workers.

  “Oh, some of you college students usually end up talking with her. Everybody likes Suze. Excuse me, Ardal. Could you give me a hand with this?” She gestured to a fifteen-pound bag of potatoes, which I lifted for her onto the countertop. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” I picked up a peeler, scooped a few spuds into a colander, and carried them over to the sink. “I saw she had some new clothes yesterday.” I winced, wondering what they would make of that.

  “Oh, we get donations in all the time. Some things look like new. I know she didn’t steal anything,” a new volunteer informed me.

  “That’s not what I meant. I was wondering if there was some program that has the students giving residents homemade clothing?”

  Zelda, who’d been listening nearby, started chuckling. “Oh, you’ve noticed her, then?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t play coy with us, Ardal. The little miss who goes around handing out clothes? Quite the popular one with our people.” She gave me a sly sideways glance. “Especially the older gents. She’s a bit young for most of them, I’d say.”

  I couldn’t help but grin at the middle-aged woman. She meant no harm and always was keeping an eye on me. Therefore, I didn’t feel too embarrassed as I asked, “Do you know anything about her?”

  Zelda came over and took the potatoes out of my hands. Apparently I hadn’t signed in and wasn’t allowed to be volunteering without my John Hancock on the smudged sheet next to the fire extinguisher. “Nice kid. Always polite. Haven’t caught her name, though.” She read my expression right. “Now hold on. You can always ask Suzette when she’s on her feet again. Suzette knows everything about everybody in this town.”

  I nodded, thanked her, and made for the door. “You’ll let me know how Suzette’s getting on, yes?”

  Zelda smiled. “She’ll be glad to know you asked. There’s a card for her back in the office, if you want to sign it.” She jerked her head in toward the cramped side office and went back to attacking the potatoes with her peeler. “See you next Wednesday, Ardal?”

  “Yes,” I said, waved my farewells to the rest of the staff before signing the card and heading home to the task I was dreading and could put off no longer.

  My flat mate was on a date. “Good.” I picked up his rubbish and threw it into the bin under the sink
. It needed emptying, so I pulled out a trash bag from the pantry, emptied the bin, washed my hands, and then reached for my phone. “No charge. Hmm.”

  I didn’t quite believe in Fate, but it would seem something was stopping me from calling my mum just that moment. I hunted down my power cord and let my phone charge.

  My shared flat was in disarray, so I went about straightening it out. As I vacuumed and dusted, my nerves tingled. What was she going to say? Would she be furious? Disappointed? I didn’t know how much animosity I could handle from my mother, especially since things hadn’t been quite right with my father. I couldn’t lose both parents. I couldn’t. Things would have to be handled . . . delicately.

  I was moving on to give the toilet a good cleaning, when my phone trilled at me. Without checking caller ID, I answered. “Hello, this is Ardal.”

  “Hello, darling. I’m not interrupting class, am I?” my mum’s voice asked me. There was a pause, a nervous, calculating pause on my end. That seemed to worry her. “You still there, Ardal?”

  “Mm? Yes, sorry—Well . . .”

  Mum laughed. “You sound distracted. Is someone there?” She lowered her voice. “A girlfriend?”

  I let out a shaky laugh. “No, still no girlfriend, Mum.”

  “Well, they don’t know what they’re missing out on.”

  To occupy my hands, I began sorting through a stack of books, arranging them alphabetically and dusting them as I set them back onto the coffee table. “No bias on your part, of course.”

  “Of course.” Another pause. “Is something wrong? You sound a little odd.”

  I did sound odd. Maybe my theater prof had been right: I wasn’t cut out for the whole acting thing. I cleared my throat and started. “Mum, are you sitting down?”

  A gasp on the other end of the line. “You’re not . . . ?”

  “No, I’m not sick. It’s not bad news. It’s—it’s exciting news.” I winced at my own audacity.

  “Good news? Why do I need to sit down?”

  “Er, you may stand if you wish. But I’m—going to school.”