The Portland Short Story Series: Enjoy Your Last Thursday

Lisa woke with a start. She’d been dreaming of her flight. How she’d tilted her weight onto her left butt cheek, mashing herself up against the plane’s wall and window as casually as she could, trying to keep her facial expression neutral so her cringing wasn’t noticeable.

She’d known her seatmate’s cough was more than just the dry cabin air. Now she was certain to catch his cold, flu, bronchitis, or whatever it was that he was spreading.

Photo Credit: dmitrimaruta

She’d closed her eyes on the plane. She feigned sleep, but mentally, she was running through a round of EFT to ward off the panic attack she felt creeping up on her. Tap, tap, tap… Even though I am surrounded by contagion, I still...

Traveling had not been her idea. Too many people, too many risks, too much hassle. But Dr. Wright had pushed her, actually wrote “TRAVEL” on his prescription pad, surprisingly legibly. “Go somewhere new, get out of your apartment, get out of your head. Have an adventure. More than anything, just see that you can do this – taking a trip will be fun. Having some fun won’t kill you; it’ll do you good.”

Photo Credit: JKraft

Portland, however, was her idea. Not only was it practically the farthest place in the continental US from her home in Jacksonville, it was also the setting of the novel she’d been writing for the past seventeen months. Having never been there put her at a distinct disadvantage. There was only so much she could learn online. It would help to experience the place for herself, to take some pictures, to soak in the local flavor so she could fill in the details her work was missing.

Plus, it was late September, and oddly, the weather forecast was for sunny days during her visit. She hated gray, drizzly days – not so much because of their dreariness, but more because she always seemed to get sick after a period of rain. Maybe it was being forced indoors with the windows shut, breathing the stale air that circulated through her apartment building’s ventilation system. Mrs. Legasse down in 1B always seemed to be sniffling and coughing. Lisa could practically envision the path of the germs as they migrated from lungs to mouth, to air, to vent, then out into her own apartment, invading her body despite the surgical mask she wore on days she just couldn’t cope.

So, Portland. Here she was.

Photo Credit: Tyson Robichaud Photography

She’d booked a room at the Kennedy School. It was a quirky hotel housed in an old elementary school that had been abandoned, then purchased and refurbished. The guest rooms were old classrooms. Comfortable, quiet, and, she figured, less likely to be teeming with germs and perverts and extraverts as a chain hotel might be. She could fade into the setting, unnoticed and unbothered.

Photo Credit: Trimet.org

Lisa decided to venture out for ice cream, a reward for meeting her word count for the day. She crossed, then walked up NE 33rd Avenue. The 72 bus passed her and set her gut into a fit as she thought of all the bacteria she’d be breathing if she were onboard. She calmed herself, holding her breath until the bus’ exhaust wake passed.

Photo Credit: Slasta

She’d read every review of Salt and Straw’s ice cream, as well as their list of seasonal flavors, and already knew what she’d order – the Honey with Rose Petals. A single scoop. Maybe she’d do the same each day she hit her 2,000-word target. Net, of course. She spent hours each day re-reading, re-writing what she’d written the day before. What the voice in her mind created one day, the editor in her brain struck through the next with no mercy and very little approval.

Noting each span of concrete that was crooked or misaligned in the sidewalk, she walked four blocks, then turned right onto NE Alberta Street, passing a neat row of one-story brick condos. Small flowerbeds overflowed with blossoms and garden decorations. Oversized roses hung heavy on their stems, and she stopped to finger their petals. Smooth, silky. Possibly treated with toxic chemicals. She snatched her hand back from the blossom as if it had purposefully lured her into complacency. She hurried on.

Chastising herself, she continued on Alberta. It was late afternoon on Thursday, and she was surprised by the flurry of foot traffic on the street. Bicycles lined the sidewalks in places, workers in restaurants and cafes tidied up their outdoor seating.

Photo Credit: The Art Counselor.com

Up ahead she saw vendors erecting curbside tents, arranging jewelry, artisan soaps, plastic bins filled with matted artwork. Some greeted her, announcing special pricing, one even proclaiming that he would not be undersold or out-painted. She gave her “please don’t” smile and kept walking, eyes scanning the pavement, peripheral vision scanning for the odd little sculptures she’d noticed for the past few blocks. Strange little disembodied plaster hands, painted with all sorts of colors and patterns, then stuck in random places – tucked into a flower planter, resting on a table, perched on a window sill. Odd.

Old men perched on picnic benches outside Mexican cantinas, bicycle shops, hip-looking townhouses to the left, one with a ’64-65 split window VW bus parked at the curb. There was music blaring from some vendors’ spots, traffic sounds from the side streets, twinkle lights strung in trees over outside dining areas. She felt herself half-smiling as she soaked in the feeling that something exciting was happening here. Chiding herself, she sobered, remembering that with more people come more germs, more crime, more possibilities for unpleasantness.

Photo Credit: Kinfolk.com

Finally, after twenty-three blocks, mostly short, she reached Salt and Straw, adjacent to a Bollywood theater. Odd combination, but somehow less so in this strange place. She walked in through the first door and looked around. High ceilings, vanilla-colored walls, chalkboards bearing long lists of exotic ice cream flavors – olive oil, salted caramel, pear and blue cheese, cinnamon snickerdoodle, and a handful of workers scooping ice cream into waffle cones and cups. A mother and her teenaged daughter giggled in line ahead of her, debating getting one or two scoops each, and trying flavors on metal spoons.

“Would you like to try our Almond Brittle with Salted Ganache or the Freckled Woodblock Chocolate today?” the girl behind the counter asked. Nearly interrupting herself as she finished, she added, “Oh, I love your necklace,” as she reached across the glass countertop to touch it on Lisa’s collarbone, admiring it.

Lisa swallowed hard, inhaled haltingly through her nose to compose herself. “Please don’t touch me. Honey Lavender. One scoop,” she managed.

Photo Credit: Chloe LaPointe

The girl let the necklace plunk back into its place with a look that was half puzzled and half stricken, and began scooping, never really breaking eye contact except when, still holding Lisa’s cone, she turned to drop the scoop into a container of water on the back counter. Handing the cone across the counter, she sidestepped over to the register. Lisa slid her debit card through the reader, wrapped the tip of her finger in a napkin, and punched in her PIN code. Declining her receipt, she finally took her first lick of ice cream, creamy, soft, and exotic on her tongue.

The girl smiled again, coolly this time, and said, “Well, enjoy your last Thursday,” then turned to wait on the next customer in line.

She stumbled out of the shop and searched for a spot where she could sit, but all the spots on the nearby benches were taken. She was feeling dizzy, beads of sweat starting to surface at her hairline. The upper part of her stomach was tightening.

Photo Credit: Teeramet Thanomkiat

What kind of thing was that to say to someone? “Enjoy your last Thursday.” Had she heard correctly? Who says something like that? Someone who’d touch another person’s necklace, for sure. Someone like that must be sick, twisted. Someone like that might even spit on someone’s ice cream cone when they weren’t looking.

She felt the panic attack coming on strong, grabbing her lungs and squeezing them so tight she could barely manage half-breaths. She heard nothing but muted street sounds, a dull roar, and the pounding of her own pulse in her ears. She had to get out of there, had to get back to her hotel room, had to go now.

Her heart was pounding so insistently that she could feel it as she grasped her chest. She stepped off the curb tripping over the leg of a street closure sign. The pavement rushed toward her, and she landed hard. As her tunnel vision closed in, she read the sign...

“Pedestrians Only – Last Thursday on Alberta.”

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