Daiquiri

 A MAGICAL SHORT STORY

My name is Colona, like "colony." This morning, I woke up drunk. My eyes are as closed as they are open; it's early. Last night I partied—I karaoke like a boss; this doesn't help me now because I got to get up. Ask me why I went out last night. I just wanted to get drunk.  

So, here I am staring at the four walls and the ceiling wondering how I got here.  Right now, all I see is what I see; and I'm looking at a wall of blue. That color sways with me—carries me on the breeze. 

Yeah, I like blue. My room is blue. Not baby blue, not midnight blue, it's candy blue. It has clouds painted all across it; so, when I look at it—like when I'm lying in bed drunk—I feel like  I'm floating, grazing the birds.  

I got to get up. So here goes. I hear my mother in the kitchen. She shuffles about like she's looking for a bone. I love her. She watches after me, protects me with fierceness.  

She is a 4-foot-tall bucket of dynamite. I hear her drag her stool across the lemon-yellow tile. The pink curtains and the custard-colored counters make our kitchen look like it belongs in a bakery like, it's one of the desserts.  

When she came in, I wanted to bite her. She smelled like pancakes, bacon, and sugar—of the maple syrup variety. She had a tray with her; and, carried on it my breakfast. It was all of those things and more; she brought me orange juice, too.  

"Aren't you getting up," she asked with a twinkle in her eyes. "The sun's rays are busting through this window," her thick, southern tongue basted the words. 

"I'm getting up. I was just taking my time." I grinned at her as I said this but, I kept my eyes closed. "But, it is my first day, and I don't want to be late." 

In the bathroom, it smelled like a red, mixed drink and hard candy. I almost vomited. At this time, I was glad I didn't paint those bathroom walls a blaring shade of ripe yellow; that would have just pushed me over the edge. I readied myself to dye and cut my hair—the main point of getting up. 

I chopped my hair off to the quick. No, not down that far. It was until the initial bud of curl popped. I fought tears as I went painstakingly through years-long work all in the name of a  brand new me, brand new life. 

I pulled on plastic gloves; and, I smeared some of the thick, gooey, gunk all over my head while trying to avoid my scalp as stated in the directions. I took in the scent of ammonia, helpless against it singeing my nose and traveling down my throat. It kind of had a pleasant smell to me like gas and nail polish.

 

✴✴✴ 

As I trailed down the boulevard like a panting dog in the heat, I thought to myself. I just thought. I thought about things that I can't put words to; and, I remembered things I'd forget about thinking soon enough. I guess I was thinking about my childhood, which wouldn't be a surprise. I was going to work at a daycare.  

When I got there, the woman said, "Your laughter is like a song." She sighed as she said this to me—her friendliness on display.  

"I think I like you," I said, but not to her. I said it in my head, to myself. My thoughts are my own. 

  

For one, I was particularly enjoying the thought of how the platinum blonde color I put over my naturally jet-black hair complemented the golden-wheat toast tones of my skin.  

The kids came in trailing over each other and bounding out as if someone had spilled them. I addressed them as if they were one person, seeing no point in singling one of them out. I  didn't want to make one of them nervous. 

The lady took me on a tour of the facility. She was a head teacher, I think. She was perky enough. In all of my two years studying the behaviors of minors, I felt as though I knew as much as she did. 

When it came time for me to participate in play, I dug in. I got down on the students'  level. I was having fun, truthfully. 

The kids colored and drew in a room covered in white. Yeah, they got their artifacts all over the walls; I knew that was gonna happen. I was left wondering why the walls were white in the first place. I would've guessed that the walls were white on purpose to catch any primitive artwork that may find its way there; however, there was a world of hurt feelings and tears upon punishment for that very abuse. The children were being trained to get the stuff on paper; they were being trained to focus.  

I colored with them; I felt their pain. I drip-dropped globs of the unctuous matter onto my pants and shirt. Feeling at war, I splashed it on myself and the children to let out my electricity.  They fought me back, too. Ablaze with laughter and fulfillment, I was content and feeling at home. There was not a cruel word; they weren't old enough.  

I was safe—until the end of the day. That's when the friendly lady who gave me the tour tapped me on the shoulder. She came up behind me so quietly that I jumped out of my skin at her touch. "I'm sorry, Colona. But, this isn't going to work." 

I'm so disappointed that this wasn't a surprise. One of the head administrators didn't approve of my hair. This person was offended; I should have used natural coloring on it, but I  was lazy. I left with my tail between my legs. This day wasn't brand-new after all. 

✴✴✴ 

He was sitting on the street that day when I passed by his café—his bold café. I was walking up the boulevard back home, the way I had come. My tail was still between my legs.  Smoking a cigarette, he puffed and blew into the street. His skin was like mine; his hair flew upward in a mound of curls. I smiled at him not thinking. Usually, I'm quite shy. He gave me a wink in return. No, it wasn't that kind of wink. He was just another friendly guy—I guess I  needed that.  

Then, he stopped me. All I could think of was the word "winsome." "Have I seen you before?" he asked.  

"No, I don't think so."  

"New here?"  

"No," now, I was blushing.  

"Okay, I'm sorry. I just noticed and thought you looked like someone because of your  hair."  

"Who?" I said this without expecting an answer.  

"Oh, someone I saw the other day." he grinned at me from under his eyes, "She was  someone I didn't know." I was right about not getting an answer. 

"Oh, well then. I guess I'd better be on my—"  

"Do you want to come inside? We're opening today." Suddenly I saw the big banner behind him. It was big and pink. It said, "CAFÉ NOW OPEN." I guess I gave him a weird expression. 

"This is my café," he said throwing down his cigarette and smiling again.  I followed him inside. The chilled air rang against me in opposition to the heat I had just exited. "Ugh, what's your name? Sorry, I forgot to ask."  

"Colona."  

"Like colony?"  

I felt as though it was fate. No one ever compared my name to that word except for myself. What this signified, I wasn't sure. There was a fresh vibration in the air. Anything could happen. I was eager to find out what this man would bring into my life.  

He walked behind the counter—his counter. His personally inviting me inside made me feel special. He was the owner, wearing a pink apron striped with yellow and white over a gray t-shirt. He was wearing jeans. I thought that was cool.  

It was a small shop. The walls were windows making me feel that I was closed in yet exposed. I bought some ice cream so that I could float on this summer day. "I've got pie, and spanakopita, if you like. On the house."  

I declined, feeling bad. He noticed and said, "I get to give away something at least once a  day."  

We got to talking, though briefly. I began to hope that there was a job for me there as a waitress. "I live uptown," he said pointing. He was as personable as a Sagittarius. I told him where I lived. He coaxed it out of me as if he were spreading sweet, creamed butter. And I  couldn't stop smiling, laughing.  

"You live there? I see that place all the time." For some reason, I felt honored.  Immediately I began to fantasize about having made a new friend so easily. "It's like a pastry,  itself. I got my inspiration for this shop from driving down the street and seeing your house and  places like it down the beach." 

"Beaches and pastries," I said trying my hand at being clever. My new friend laughed at me; I couldn't tell if it was just because he was kind. I didn't think I was that funny. I ended up telling him about my former one-day job that turned out to be a one-minute job.  

I think I touched him on the inside because he told me that he had a kid—a new baby boy.  His girlfriend, Lovey, had to start work again and she couldn't watch him and her daughter,  Corrinne. The last thing I found out about him was his name—Heath. 

Next thing I knew, I had a job. 

✴✴✴ 

They lived in a beach house not far from mine and my mother's. It was a simple house:  stairs, small rooms, but comfy. The term I would use to describe my overall impression of the  place would be "wood." The structure had a clean post and beam sensibility. Being there triggered me, my sense of a time before even my memories began.  

I heard the baby cry as if he knew I had arrived—as if he wanted to greet me. His name was simply, Blu; perfect. When I held him, his eyes opened up—round and softly, brown. I held his hand not knowing how long it would take him to figure out that we would soon be alone.  

His mother came bounding down the stairs still arranging her clothes. "Hi there," she said to me. I noticed that Lovey had to be around my age. She was very tall, though—model-ish. Her beauty was obvious enough to send a pang of jealousy in my sacral region.  

Casually, I returned her greeting. When I did, I saw something more in her; she softened.  I didn't feel as though she was threatening—not that I did in the first place—as she morphed into a baby in my mind. I wanted to hug her. I was thankful that unlike other girls I had met who look like her, she wasn't a little bitchy, a little posey, a little mean. Man, I was judgmental.  

It didn't take long for her to bring me into the living room. It was filled with primary colors against woodgrain as expected. "Did you do this yourself?" I asked.  

"Sure," she said while shaking her head in affirmation.  

Her little girl was in the room. She was unto herself—the one who is alone but not lonely.  She didn't even look up at me to greet me. I already knew her name.  

She was scratching something along a span of paper. Whatever she was doing captivated her to the point of something beyond distraction.  

Lovey introduced us. The girl said nothing. "On another planet. I get it," I said to make it better.  

"Well, we're going. Don't wait up," Heath said making a sudden appearance. I hadn't seen or heard from him since we made our plans. They were going to a party for his café. He was sorry that I couldn't make it. However, my decided duty was to watch their kids.  

It was at the brink of l'hour blue—my favorite time. As the door shut, I looked at Corrine still scribbling and ignoring me. When she finally looked up, I didn't even see her. The baby was lying down in his room presumably sleeping.  

I brought coloring books thinking that the child and I could color together.  Since she was preoccupied, I decided to color by myself. I opened the book and touched my finger to a butterfly. As the colors rippled and shot from my pointer, I was careful not to drip any onto myself as I had the day before. 

Coloring is a tricky thing. Judging from the camphoraceous smell in my nostrils, I was running low on that color I love to use. The smell wasn't so heavy that Corinne noticed from where she sat at the bay window; however, she did notice when she stood beside me. She had come over as expected to see what I was doing.  "Do you need some help with that?" she asked me, "I have a lot of blue in me. Today,  mostly I've been using my pink…and yellow," she said with a shrug.  

I accepted. Using her tiny pinky, Corinne traced over a wing and most of the sky. The color came out of her in a smooth shot as it did for me when I was her age. As I watched her, I  also enjoyed the organic scent that she let off like a child's perfume. She still had some baby-ness in her; and, that is the most delightful smell in the world. My mother told me that that smell is why she had children in the first place.  

Coloring causes hunger. In the kitchen, I made us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  Corinne sat on the counter and ate the meal by opening it up and using her pinky to escort globules of strawberry jam into her face. "So, is this your first time babysitting?"  

"No, I studied it at the University." I felt no need to explain my work in more detail.  However, I was impressed by Corinne's well-spoken interest. "I do shuffle about a lot though.  Part of me doesn't know what I'm going to do from one day to the next."  

"When Heath doesn't know what he's going to do, he goes and looks for it at the beach,"  Corinne offered. 

✴✴✴ 

The lemon-scented water tickled me with its saltiness as I mused about taking advice from a 10-year-old. I let my toes crush the sand between them. The warmth of the day and the sun above melted into my back making me feel like I could rise.  

There were balloons in the sky, peach, green, lavender—pastels. Some were striped, some dotted. I smiled at this. I knew that people were enjoying themselves; and, I wanted to be there with them.  

I wanted to watch them. I let my chest grow with each breath. Sailboats drifted across the twinkling horizon. I saw myself—finally, at that moment—alone on the beach.  Some children ran; their chirping alerted me to their presence a while ago. I waved at them. One boy wearing an orange shirt flew a kite. He turned running backward and gave me a smile. Then, he stopped and gazed at something behind me. I turned to look and was shocked at what I saw.  

One of the beach houses had upturned and was rolling towards the ocean. It skidded and flew as the wind propelled it. The sense of danger shot through me like a spear. Without thinking, I ran towards it. I caught up with it and threw myself underneath it skidding across the sand. I used the burning blaze of my thighs, the pain, to eject what I could from within. I succeeded in stopping the house. Together with others who had run to help me, we encased the house within a hard coating of colors. We gently lowered it into the ocean and allowed it to float as the water gradually melted what we had done. It stayed put briefly bobbing before resting still.  

I think whoever owned the house was there because someone used the remote to fold the house back up into its out-of-the-box state.  

I was tired and dehydrated. My eyes felt like they were popping out of my head. The new burning behind my eyes replaced the burning I had in my thighs. I watched as others trailed inside of their tents to fold them over and wrap them up.  

I went into my tent, padding up the stairs. I frowned and reached up to untie the sac string. A sudden breeze shook its sides smearing blue on me as it fluttered. "Cheap ink," I  thought to myself. I rolled inside of the tent for a second. It scared me since I was a little off due to the earlier ordeal. However, I chilled because it had happened before. They're circles; of course, they flip on the water. They should make beach houses heavier, so they don't jump up all the time.  

When I got home, I told my mother everything. She wasn't surprised as she had figured it would happen again. People had been reportedly killed—my mother saw on the news not too long ago; because those houses started flying. "They need to do a recall and figure out what the heck is the matter. All these new devices and inventions just piss me off sometimes," she said in a huff.

✴✴✴ 

I hadn't heard from Heath for a month after babysitting for him that one time. I began to wonder if I had done something wrong. Typical. My guilt factor tends to shoot up at the slightest possibility of abandonment. I walked down the boulevard thinking about what I could've done.  

I walked past the shops that were lined up according to what they were selling—my usual route. As I walked, I could see the ocean waves crash against the land; I could hear it--the definition of blue.  

When I reached the store called "Apex," I entered. I needed a new backpack. The salesgirl greeted me with a cheery, "Hello" as I looked around. A rainbow filled the display case—the backpacks, the shoes, the jeans—all arranged by color.  

When I found a backpack that I liked, I asked the girl offhand if they were hiring. "Sure,"  she said nodding her head and pointing to the register. She told me that I could get an application up there.  

I was passing the stairs to the offices on the top floor as I saw her come down the stairs.  Leggy and in short shorts, she came down with a bounce in her step that deadened when she saw me. "Hi, there," she couldn't remember my name.  

It was Lovey. "I didn't know that you worked here," I said as my spirits dropped.  "Yes, I do." She looked down, and then back up into my eyes. She gave me a hug quickly and scurried off, heels clanking as she went.  

I gave up on the thought of working there. I didn't want any awkwardness. 

✴✴✴ 

I left the store with my new backpack. I surprised myself by choosing a red one.  As I made my way back up the street, a man was coloring the sidewalk and the walls. He created a mural with intense fury. I could see the sweat dripping from his brow. He flexed and forced the colors out of him; they formed a thick paste. The mural glistened in the sunshine. He used all of the colors.  

"What am I looking at?" someone asked him.  

"If you don't know, I can't tell you." He sat down on a nearby bench to take a break. He reached into his bag and took out some water. He poured it over his forehead; and, I winced at the splashes it made. I relaxed, though; since it was only water.  

It wasn't unusual to see someone using their colors this way. By this time, we knew enough about how the human body worked to understand how to reignite them if we needed to.  In classes, I learned about the originators of the art. It was a long time ago since the person to do it reached down on the ground and drew a mark without a pen. We can feel a great deal and use that feeling to colorize the world. It's only ink, though; so, it washes off.  

I looked at the man's mural. To me, it was the image of a tiger catching its prey. It could have been a gazelle leaping across the Sahara or, a baby drinking its mother's milk.  

I took all three images that I saw into myself, holding them there for future contemplation. Looking at the artist, I said, "It's love."

✴✴✴