This is a short story that I did for a good friend. Love ya Lily!
It may be a meaningless phrase, but I will say it here: Once upon a Time. For not only does this story happen to be in the measure of regulative time, but this story circulates around a place entitled “Times Square”. It was not unlike to a village square, with the exception that it was in the midst of a very dense city. It was surrounded by skyscrapers that reached the foggy clouds overhead, billboards that were visible a mile away that shined out messages and products, greasy men that sold greasy hotdogs from their carts, smoke rising from the depths of the city, and a constant hum of buses, cars, bicycles, and electric shavers. In fact, it was most distinctly opposite from a village square.
Although this setting may be very exciting, this is not where the actual story takes place. You may say, “But you said it did, you big bully,” but, in fact, I did not. I said the story circulated around it, and it certainly does. For there lived a girl (Louisa by name) in a shady meadow just outside the incredible city that held this “Times Square.” This Louisa loved the city, especially the square. It was certainly difficult to contain the dreams of an amazing metropolis when the magnificent buildings would peek their crowns from the fog on clear days. And what made it harder, Louisa could see them, and the tiny occupants, from her bedroom telescope. She imagined herself surrounded by strange people of many different cultures all buzzing about speaking in their different languages. And perhaps, maybe, she could understand a word, a phrase, maybe even a whole clause! that would somehow betray their native tongue, allowing her the authority that comes with the title: “International”. “International Louisa,” she giggled.
But these were only fancies, dreams that sprang up when her mind blurred the lines between herself and the girl she wanted to be. After every single daydream, she would come barreling back into the room where she sat on an uncomfortable chair, listening to Mlle. Jenoisprenouis (pronounce jhen-wee-pren-wah) speak boring old French to her class. She would blabber on and on about how France was the country of stately kings. On how she was once courted by one, and how she declined his offer for marriage because he only had three houses and twenty closets altogether, definitely not enough volume to contain her theatrical collection of 19th century opera costumes, especially the Viking ones. At this point the Mademoiselle would shake her head and wipe an imaginary tear off her rouged cheek. “Oh vel,” she would quickly snap, “I mooch perfer to leeve alone with my cats anyvayz.” The strange thing about it: Mlle. Jenoiprenouis was most definitely German. She spoke and taught only German in French class. She bragged over and over again on the greatness of Richard Wagner and continually sang opera whilst teaching. Poor Louisa. If only she could escape the many stories of Wagner greatness.
But one day, one that started like any other, ended like none other she would ever experience.
It was the class’ special trip day. And they were scheduled to go to the nearby mushroom factory to learn about a poisonous fungi, Tremulo molto Wagneros, named so for it’s…well, I’m not sure why it’s named after a German composer, but I’m sure it’s for a good reason.
Anyway, Louisa was ecstatic. She would get to drive through the Square. They might even need to stop for some gas, or to take a rest stop. She could feel the excitement blow through her hair as she stuck her head over the edge of the enormous buildings. The rush of warm air as buses hurried along beside her. The air hot and sticky with the strange wisps of smoke rising from vents in the ground carrying the smell of tobacco and hot dogs.
She was ready. Her bag packed. Her sunglasses balanced perfectly on her head. Her bus pass in-hand and her favorite road song on replay in her head. This was it. This was her day. She was going to be alike to that adventurous Louisa, the one who could speak foreign languages and know her way around any mazelike street.
You may be inclined to hope for the best, especially for sweet Louisa, which is of course a wonderful trait in any living human, but if there is one thing I have learned in this world, it is this: “Nothing happens as you may have planned, pictured, or expected to happen.” This was the case for Louisa. She didn’t go see the city. She didn’t get to hear the hum of subway trains, or eat food that tasted slightly of gasoline. She didn’t even get into an elevator.
What she did do? She sat across from runny-nosed Billy Blake for hours as the class was taught every intricate crescendo and trill of “Nachtmusic il Quando very Mechi Excontragoalini Horus Policimus,” the longest playing opera of all time. The field trip was cancelled because of a severe breakout in the factory of rashes due to the Wagner fungus. So instead, Louisa and class listened…and listened…and listened as the rain poured outside.
And during the twentieth act of listening, Louisa was struck by a thought. This miniscule,l little thing told her this, “What if all the sky skyscrapers are too high for comfort? What if all the people are just a little too gruff and the food a little too greasy? What if all the foreign talk sounded like a bunch of Pig Latin? What if she in fact hated cities altogether? What if dreaming about them is more enjoyable than being in one?”
Then she realized and found an inescapable truth, that your imagination is powerful, and more often than not, more delightful than real life.
And from that day on, whenever Lousia began to think or day dream about Times Square, she would think of how wonderful and clean, bright and happy it was.How magnificent the lawns were, how beautiful the birds. And I’ll tell you one thing…she never visited Times Square.. Ever. Yet she was happy.
