And These Places Mean

by

Mackenzie Patel

Hello all! I apologize for not posting to LTA in a while, but it’s impossible to swim perpendicular to the rip current of schoolwork, pledging, fluting, and surviving. I wrote the semi-fictional short story below one lazy afternoon when nostalgia and a longing for a cinnamon crunch bagel gripped me. It’s the tale of how one location–the Panera Bread on Starkey Road in my hometown–was so incredibly important to me senior year of high school. At the time, the mass produced images of unrealistic bread and sticky floors of acai tea were trivial, but looking back, this cave of sandwiches and classical music was my home. I would like to start posting more fiction/short stories to LTA–I hope you all like it!

And These Places Mean

Serving buttery cinnamon scones and highly forgettable conversations, this restaurant of cheap sandwiches and internet sessions was an unending reservoir of memories senior year of high school. Fingering the greasy door handles carefully so as to minimize hand exposure, I pulled open the double glass doors. Lingering smells of overcooked tomatoes and sunscreen in this 90 degree heat overwhelmed me, but I breathed it all in, letting the burnt bagels and banana boat whiteness seep into my skin. It was a chain and not technically even a restaurant, but the cookie cutter food and $1.19 soda refills was the height of eighteen year old nonchalance for me. Go to school for a few hours, perhaps learn about a president or two, and then it was flying throughout the school parking lot to drive, be reckless, and laugh out of the car door and into this paper building. My calculus books would flirt with my scoop neck t-shirt, the pages leaping out of their binding to slobber derivatives onto my mother’s pearl necklace. I would slide across the tiles to the counter, the fake gloss and the shininess of freedom never seeming dull or finite. Did my innocent taste buds crave a chicken frontega sandwich? An asiago bagel? Or maybe a Mediterranean panini if I was feeling racy since he looked at me that way today? Blue eyes had licked my collar bone, but I laughed and cried inside, knowing nothing would truly happen in this land of miscommunication. The doors will crash open, the air condition wasted, and his polo-clad torso melts into a solid man beside me and my refillable decaf coffee. Of course, that did not happen, but I believed in shallow dreams and possibility of it all.

I wasn’t feeling that promiscuous, so a toasted Asiago bagel was plopped into my small, ring-less hands along with two packets of butter and four extra that would be wasted.

An emotionless “Water cups are by the soda fountain,” was offered to me by the cashier, and I scooped it up gratefully, my throat parched with youth and daydreams. I had never once met one person who liked their job here. As if being met with deadpan expressions of “I hate you because I have to serve you” wasn’t enough, most of the employees stubbornly refused to wash their hair, the scent of dandruff and grease leaking into tuna sandwiches along with the mayonnaise. But on that Friday afternoon, I wasn’t thinking about oily hands, burnt out twenty year olds, or the 420 calories I was about to inhale without a thought. Whole months of existence were crowded in this cramped building, the hands of time and blurry recollections snapping at my Converse-clad feet.

Walking back to the front doors after stealing my free water cup and sorry piece of shriveled lemon, my gaze rested on a little two-seater table hugging the window. The grime was noticeable and the handprints messy, but this glass between a beat-up parking lot and artificially warm interior smelled like November. On November 21^st, my frizzy hair and her fake, blond updo were intertwined at this island, the niceties layered on like frosting with artificial vanilla extract.

“So Mackenzie, why do you want to attend Duke?” I remember my palms, sweating, desperately clutching the cup of diet coke like those bubbles and syrup held the answers to my future. Could those cold beads of condensation contain the perfect wording, the unforgettable quip, that would admit me to my dream school?

“Well,” I began, bravely arranging my smile in a pleasant, and not downright terrified, manner. “The first time I stepped onto Duke’s campus, I just knew. The gothic architecture screamed of home, and the bookish environment was made for me. I’m an academic, I love homework, and I really love Duke.” Was the bullshit too heavy, too thick to plod through? But she, the wisps of blond hair momentarily obscuring her watery blue eyes and waxen eyelids from me, lapped it up. I was too scared to eat and too proud to display anticipation and fright, but after this forty five minute conversation, my organs gloated success to my insides, warming, comforting, and feeding them with delusions of North Carolina grandeur. As it happens, I was accepted to Duke University. As it happens, I did not end up going there.

I recalled this rich memory with dampened happiness, nearly spilling my bagel onto the linty carpet since I was tilting towards the table so much. An unquantifiable attraction lured me towards this tabletop, as if by warming that seat again I could reclaim my seventeen year old glory. But that was over a year ago. I was getting older, I ran a 5K throughout memory lane at least once a week, and I noticed my pretty hair and teeth losing their luster.

Directly opposite this table, on the far side of the front room, another hidden oasis of Sunday morning novelties beckoned me. It was a two seater as before, but instead of wide eyes and anti-wrinkle cream, there was only hesitant glances, a gulf of inexperience, and shy smiles. The amount of whim in our meeting was ridiculous, mostly because I barely knew him and vice versa. Four months isn’t enough to truly see flaws, but it’s long enough to become dangerously enamored without reason. He didn’t want to go to his prom. But he was more than eager to attend mine with me in a brilliantly overpriced dress and him in a rented tuxedo and matching bowtie. We thought our personalities matched more surely than flannel and denim, our tastes and interests melding together until we were the same person.

“So you definitely want to go with me then?” I asked, still in disbelief this beautiful creature with the bright mind would deign to go anywhere with me. His eyes, partially obscured behind oversized glasses, flashed, the light from them leaking onto his broad-lipped smile.

“I brought my money and the form, so yes.” Two seconds later and $50 was placed gently into my outstretched palm along with thrilling uncertainty and the burgeoning of something I couldn’t place my finger on. Was this feeling love or mere infatuation? I was too young—and still am—to tell, but I bathed in the newness of it either way. So I officially had a prom date! I had never had a date to anything before, and it was hilarious that my petite step into the wild lands of dating was consummated at Panera Bread. Classical music softly played in the background as we talked about derivatives, tests of statistical inferences, and many a pretty subjects that we thought no one else our age discussed. It was insanity, the way we fakley fell in love without any real guarantee of affection. But aren’t delusions so much sweeter than the truth? And we were both fooled.

This was the same boy from before, Alec with the unremarkable eyes and that slightly tan, slightly speckled face that hadn’t worked a day in his life but reveled in his supposed intelligence anyways. He said I wasn’t a “normal” girl, one that adored pink and mascara, but one that loved art history, could spend hours going over mathematical proofs, and write until words were gibberish. Truthfully, I loved pink, girly trips to Sephora, and embarrassing boybands but I never told him that. I was desperate for his hands and bass voice which was more rich and resounding than any string instrument could mimic.  And at this table, littered with crumbs from someone else’s sandwich and my half-drunk coffee, our six weeks of fever and lies began.

My eyes divorced themselves from that particular memory of him, his hands and his lips never to touch me again, either in real life or in some dark, unreachable dream.  Adjacent to the two seater, a half chair/half booth configuration arrested my attention. Someone had left their green sweater on the bench, and I sat down next to this abandoned cotton relic. Did it belong to a Mary Jane or a Father Mackenzie or an Eleanor Rigby? In reality, it probably belonged to a twelve year old girl with sticky hands and a training bra whose mother had specifically told her not to forget her sweater.

But before this sweater was here and this bagel was toasted, my 100 pound frame was lazily sitting in this booth, my long hair, straight because of the cold weather, tickling the edges of my math homework and getting in my mouth as I ate a Greek salad. Why must Paneras douse my lettuce in that sour dressing? But I did not care because I had driven here by myself, hitting the gas pedal and not once checking the dashboard or rearview mirror because I was invincible and dumb. I was sitting with Lisa, a fellow senior with morals more upright than a piece of freshly cut wood. She reeked of un-adventure and “good girl,” but being a scared piece of bland meat myself, we got along perfectly. It wasn’t until promiscuity and deathly vitality clutched me in college that we ran our separate ways. She was wearing a high necked sweater, her blond hair blending in with the light colored wool. Her chocolate chip cookie was nearly finished, but she kept pecking at it in smaller and smaller pieces until I was sure it would never disappear. Our books were spread eagle and untouched on the table, water stains from our free cups bleeding the ink in our textbooks.

“I can’t believe our calculus exam is tomorrow,” Lisa exclaimed, grasping her cross necklace like it held the answer to our “difficult” integration problems. Under the pretext of studying, we met here at least three times a week to commiserate over schoolwork that was childishly easy in the big scheme of education. No, we decided, we couldn’t possibly be smarter than we were now. We would stay 18 forever, our hair would never gray, and our lips would remain unkissed and bodies unhandled until we were 30 and ready to have children. This was before Alec, of course, before I realized how ridiculous and prudish we were.

“I know! I really need more time to study. All this stuff is so confusing.” Wisps of white should have stained my mauve lips, but they remained as cherry and innocent as before. I was not confused in the slightest. And I had already studied plenty at home, my journey to Paneras more of a social endeavor than anything else. This place of orange scones and poor paintings of baguettes felt so familiar and yet so distant. Now, only that beautiful half-drunk state, visits to guy’s apartments, and midnight runs to taco joints made me feel older and distinctly alive. Lisa remained as straight-laced as wire; I was merely a bent piece of wire poking her in the side with supposed debauchery. Even though we went to the same University, we never spoke unless I happened to see her in the Chickfila line.

“Would you like me to take your plate?” I was snapped back my present state of nostalgia by a manicured, outstretched hand. A girl with a neat ponytail, foam green Panera polo, and unflattering baseball cap, was looking at my empty plate with exasperation. Let me take it from you, goddamnit was etched over her otherwise pretty features.

“When did I finish my bagel?” I said more to myself, stunned that a cheesy circle of bread disappeared so quickly. But I felt full and not at all sated, so I bought another bagel two minutes later. It was strange how one place marked an infinite amount of minutes and milestones of my life—and it was so painfully ordinary.

Walking past the booth where I found out about my Duke interview, I traveled to the rear end of Paneras, the whispers of passable days and weekends refusing to leave my ears. I listened to my first Jay Z album here? Make awkward eye contact with that jackass from 2^nd period physics over there? I laughed at the pettiness of it all. But in ten years, when I have a baby on my hips and electric bills in my left hand, these fraternity parties and unending pizzas will be as foolish as curfews and first kisses are to me now.

The last table in the back, in front of the stuffy conference room filled with peeling wallpaper and broken paper clips, smiled to me. Stripper heels. Bow ties. The natural intimacy that only comes with knowing someone intensely for too short a time. The heat created curls out of straight hair and the sweat clung to my arms, but walking across this restaurant last May to the very back, I wasn’t thinking about my appearance. I was intertwined with midnight monorail rides, TI-84 calculators, overcooked hamburgers, and eleven o’clock hotel rendezvous. The academic team, of which I have written entirely too much about, was waiting for me in that sticky booth, their pretension and my overlooking of it creating an electric, incredible atmosphere. We were meeting for the first time after our Disney competition, and everything about them, from their tan skin to their shining eyes, threw me to impossible highs.

My stripper heels clacked against the stained carpet inaudibly, and they all looked up at my loping figure, sensing my presence merely by some strange fiery wire that connected us.

Their faces met mine simultaneously, our smiles reverberating around the tiny booth and building an ironclad tower of breakable friendship.

“I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve seen you guys,” I said warmly, forgetting that Liana was walking behind me as well. Apparently the boys, except Vladimir who was meeting us later, forgot her impossibly tall figure as well. They crowded around me, fighting for an embrace and to touch my tank-topped torso that left little to their imagination.

“I know. It’s been, what, a week?” said Eric shyly, still convinced that speaking to girls was an impossible feat for him. His curly hair and innocent pale skin stands out sharply in my memory, especially because he got an ear piercing a few weeks after going to college. We would be riddled by tattoos and bad decisions, but unlikely Eric getting an ear piercing before I did? In that world of heat and senior year angst, I would have laughed terribly at that.

My gaze lingered for a hesitant second on Alec, whose eyes and whole being I had somehow sensed the moment the drying air conditioned assaulted my skin. I knew our longwinded text messages and cutesy smiley faces meant absolutely nothing until my deep brown eyes and his watery green ones met under unflattering lights and classical music. I did not hug his thin figure, but a thousand physical hugs right now couldn’t compare to the intangible attraction, not physical but somehow vital, like water, we both felt. Neither of us screamed sexy, but his light blue shirt and khakis taped a permanent smile to my face.

“I’m excited for The Sound of Music, especially the band,” said Alec, never referring to our secret conversations, but their petty thrill evident with his every glance at my hands, wrists, and necks.

“Yes, me too.” I swished my skirt around extra flirtily when we got up to leave, the swaying fabric and daring pattern solidifying my confidence under the male teenage gaze. God, what a powerful tool eyes are—if only one could devour them and never have to question others’ thoughts again. I never ate their eyes and they scampered off to their Ivy’s without a backwards glance at mine.

Asiago bagel round two was officially over, as well as my academic team sentimentality. The nostalgia was awful, like eating yogurt after brushing your teeth or finding a more satisfying morsel in the fridge after eating a full dinner already. I brushed the crumbs off the plastic tabletop, deposited my green plate near the trash can, and fingered the yellow walls on the way to the bathroom.

I was confronted with my own wild appearance in the small mirror, my tangled hair and uneven eyeliner betraying my hectic morning. I didn’t look old—I was only 19—but creeping throughout this food joint like a bone groaning stranger, I felt a thousand years old. I applied fuchsia lip liner, which I considered racy when 17, in front of this very mirror so many months ago. I piled my locks into many a messy, unbecoming ponytails as well, my many bumps and rumples loading on the cuteness to my already “adorable” frame (or so I was always told). I patted down my under eye concealer, practiced my non-photogenic smiles in this cramped, sterilely yellow space. Wondered how to act and make myself less dorky or uncomfortable than I truly was. And now? I couldn’t care less if people laughed at my misplaced hair or unending Star Wars references. I was old but still incredibly young and alive, realizing this place, this Paneras on Starkey Road, meant so much more than just $1.29 bagels plus tax and after school socializing. It meant freedom, chipped nail polish, secret stealing of lemonade when I just ordered water, second derivatives, and gossip about blond hair and Lexus’. But all that, it was over now, dead, dead, and dead.