Mosquitoland(22)

This is a good sign.

I take another look around and hook my thumbs in my pockets. I whistle, I smile, I throw on my idiot face. Give me your hats, your honky-tonks, your boots, your bedonkey-donks. I am Mary Iris Malone, tourist extraordinaire.

Behind the statue is a store called Hat Shoppe. Summoning every ounce of Malone stick-to-itiveness, I walk inside. The floors are wooden, the people are loud, the music is I-don’t-know-what . . . The first hat in reach has black and white spots. I pick it up, and, just out of curiosity, inspect the tag on the inside: MADE WITH AUTHENTIC COW HIDE. Well that’s good and gross.

I take a deep breath.

I put it on.

I look at myself in the mirror.

I set it down.

I walk out.

As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.

I spend the next ninety seconds in the adjacent Boot Shoppe, then over ten minutes in a record shop. (S-H-O-P. For real. It’s not hard. Actually, it’s two letters easier.) Pre-loved vinyl is a weakness I inherited from my mother, one I’m quite proud of. I had a record player long before my classmates decided it was cool. And when they finally came around, I didn’t rub this in. Everything sounds better on vinyl. It’s not a trend. It’s a fact.

I almost purchase a near mint copy of Remain in Light by the Talking Heads but talk myself out of it. There’s no telling what sort of expenses I might encounter between here and Cleveland. Speaking of which . . .

What little sustenance may have been garnered from a hockey pucked–burger, I’d put to far greater use during the Incident of the Bile in the Restroom. Which is to say, I’m starving. At a nearby taco stand, I order three carnitas with extra cilantro, then wolf them down on the walk back to the Greyhound station. Once there, I keep my head down (on the off chance Poncho Man is still around) and step in line for the sixteen seventy-seven at Gate B. After a few minutes, the line inches forward. I stick my hands in my jeans pocket and grip Mom’s lipstick.

Shit.

I should’ve bought that Talking Heads record.

She would have loved it.



September 2—1:32 p.m.


Dear Isabel,

My mother was the greatest alarm clock of all time. Every morning, without fail, she threw back the curtains to let the sun in, and always, she said the same thing.

“Have a vision, Mary, unclouded by fear.”

Just like that. It was so wonderful. (Of course, this idea of unclouded vision would come to mean another thing entirely after the Great Blinding Eclipse, but that’s neither here nor there.) The quote was an old Cherokee proverb, one that her mom told her, and hers before that, and so on and so forth, all the way back to the original Cherokee woman who coined the phrase. (Mom’s father was British, but her mother was part Cherokee, which is, I think, a perfect example of history getting the last laugh.) I was so proud of this heritage, Iz, do you know what I did? I started lying about the degree of Cherokee blood in my veins. I was something like one-sixteenth, but honestly, who wasn’t, right? So I claimed one quarter. It just sounded more legit. I was young, still in middle school, so I went with it the way kids that age do. The more admiration this garnered from teachers and friends, the closer I felt to my ancient ancestry, my kinswomen, my tribe. But the truth will out, as they say. In my case, this outing took on the sound of my mother’s unending laughter in the face of my principal, when he told her the school was going to present me with a plaque of merit at the next pep rally: the Native American Achievement Award.

Needless to say, I never received the award. But even today, there are times—most notably when I wear my war paint—when I really feel that Cherokee blood coursing through my veins, no matter its percentage of purity. So from whatever minutia of my heart that pumps authentic Cherokee blood, I pass this phrase along to you: have a vision, unclouded by fear.

Not sure what made me think of all this Cherokee stuff. Maybe it’s the plethora of cowboy hats and boots I’ve seen today. Politically correct? Probably not. BUT I’M ONE-SIXTEENTH CHEROKEE, SO SUCK IT.

Anyway, I just remembered there’s a bag of chips in my backpack, so I’m gonna put the kibosh on this note with another one of my mother’s Cherokee proverbs.

When you were born, you cried while the world rejoiced. Live your life so that when you die, the world cries while you rejoice.

Funny, as a child, I never knew whether to laugh or cry when Mom said that. But now I know the truth. You can laugh and cry, Iz. Because they’re basically the same thing.


Signing off,

Chieftess Iris Malone



I SHUT MY journal and slide the lock to UNOCCUPIED.

This new bus is far from packed, which means I get my own row again. Considering the rare collection of individuals on board, the having-my-own-row thing could not be of greater import. It’s a freak show, really. Reminiscent of my time in the Deep South. Mosquitoland: the thorn in my side, the rock in my shoe, the poison in my wine. Unfortunately, it appears the thorn, the rock, and the poison have followed my path north.

29B is breast-feeding.

26A has fallen asleep while snacking on a box of Cheez-Its.

24B is playing Battleship with 24A, complete with warlike sound effects.

21D is wearing Bugs Bunny slippers and a T-shirt that says NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG.

19A and B must be mother and daughter, a beautiful Hispanic duo. They’re asleep on each other, and it’s actually kind of adorable. So okay, they’re fine.