RE: The Tale of the Magic Mushrooms
*This is an account of the roughly 30 minutes I spent "reading" in Hyde Park.
London was not supposed to be this hot, especially not in September. Don't get me wrong, I was enjoying the warm weather, but the wardrobe I had packed for my six-month stay was appropriate for the Fall/Winter period I was expecting. The promised 89 degrees Fahrenheit high for the day had sent me and my black jumpsuit into hiding, corraled in the corner of a coffee shop off the high street where we hoped it would be cool. Despite my best efforts, the white flowers that adorned the cotton fabric still darkened to damp cream as I toiled over a project on my computer and peered at passersby through the open door. As I worked, the fingers of my left hand absentmindedly played in the puddle that formed in the wood grain of my table over the course of my stay as the iced matcha at its center changed from emerald to mint green.
I have all but forgotten about the drink when the three-hour timer I'd set sounds through my headphones, signaling a predicted decline in the temperature now showing on my iPhone screen. It is only a few degrees cooler than it had been when I wandered in, searching in vain for a place that offered the rare trifecta of central air, caffeine and free Wi-Fi. But, I had a set agenda for the day, and since I am the one who created it in the first place and the sole person affected by its completion, I think it’s best to ensure it is properly completed.
Somewhat begrudgingly, I round up my electronics, stow them in my denim tote bag, and stand slowly, stretching and trying my best to nonchalantly peel my garment from the handful of places it clings to my skin. As I abandon my table to the gaggle of teenage girls who have been openly eyeing it for the past several minutes, I drain the last of my latte from its sweating plastic cup and perch it on the edge of the overflowing recycling. Forcing the diluted drink down my throat, I linger momentarily in the cafe's doorway as I fish my sunglasses from my bag's outer pocket. With a preemptive inhale, I step out into the direct sun once again.
Pedestrians skirt their way around me as I get my bearings. The remainder of my day has been set aside to read My Roommate Is A Vampire by Jenna Levine, a recently released romance novel and the next book I have chosen for The FMC Bookshelf, a list of books that correlates with author interviews on my blog–meaning I need to read it within the next few days, so I have time to come up with the questions. I passed an entrance to Hyde Park not too far from here, where I had planned to consume the first few chapters, but I can't remember the direction I had been walking.
"You should be able to figure this out. You know this area." I huff under my breath as my head rotates on an uncertain swivel.
Annoyingly, my quickly dampening hairline forces me to admit defeat sooner than I would have liked (otherwise, I totally would have figured it out). I punch the famous landmark into one of the map apps on my phone and hastily scan the suggested directions.
Across the street. A quarter of a mile to my left.
That's exactly what I was thinking.
Before I slide my phone back into my pocket, I resume Come Back...Be Here (Taylor's Version) from where it had paused a few minutes earlier. It may feel like Lover outside, but as Starbucks is once again stocking Pumpkin Spice syrup, it is officially Red season.
Heatwaves rise from the asphalt, washing double-decker buses, black cabs and bicycles in a mirage-like filter as I cross the street in front of them to become a small drop on the constant stream of people that flood in and out of the park's entryway. I'm tossed gently by the sentient tide, my five-foot height rendering me temporarily unable to see anything beyond graphic tee logos, sweat-stained sports bras, and fully unbuttoned linen shirts. Eventually, the sea gives way to a cement river, which guides me between two green expanses.
In the early afternoon, the Southwest section of Hyde Park is perfectly crowded. Small groups of people are dotted here and there, chatting in the shade from nearby trees. Picnics are in their final stages. Readers lounge alone, fully immersed in their individual tales. A football coach encourages his team of eight to ten-year-olds through drills as their parents watch happily from lawn chairs on the sidelines. I venture to the nearest open space, eager to settle in.
My bag drops to the ground with a soft thump as I fall next to it, rolling onto my stomach and pulling out my iPad. While I wait for my ebook to load, I survey the small plot of land I have chosen. While it is nothing special, I'm overjoyed to find a troop of small mushrooms a few inches from my head. As the novel still hasn't opened, I take the course many millennials would and locate my phone, removing my sunglasses and repositioning to snap a selfie–something needs to be used for scale, and I'm having a more than decent hair day–and share my discovery on Instagram. The photo uploads as the novel’s cover brightens my bigger screen, so I push myself into a criss-cross position and exchange one electronic for the other.
I've not even finished the first paragraph before I'm distracted by a repetitive movement in my peripheral vision. I flick my eyes toward it and find a man waving to get my attention. He's tall, likely in his mid-to-late twenties, with long dark hair that has been pulled into a ponytail. Without meaning to, I break the number one rule of venturing out into the world as a single or lone woman. I make eye contact with the stranger. Immediately, a giant grin takes over his face.
"Sorry to bother you," he opens pleasantly, his voice is in a higher register and only holds a slight British lilt, "but would you happen to know where I can get an iced coffee?"
I stare blankly up at him as I deduce a number of things. For starters, I can still see Kensington High Street. Less than 500 feet away are multiple establishments that serve the drink he claims to be searching for. His apparent lack of knowledge of that fact makes me reassess the situation. As he has now moved closer, I notice how unkempt he is. His hair, while "styled," needs to be brushed, the bottom hem of his khaki cargo shorts is frayed, and the neckline of his red t-shirt has seen better days. His facial hair is shorn but not groomed, and the sole of one of his sandals is covered in duct tape. Like the professional that I am, I complete this reconnaissance in less than 2.5 milliseconds and immediately wish my nose had stayed firmly in my book. But, as there is nothing I can do but continue the interaction, I smile politely in return.
"If you go out that gate behind you," I respond with a gesture that I'm hoping conveys both the direction and my enthusiasm for him follow it, "there's plenty of places in either direction." At this point, I could pull the tape off his shoe if I wanted.
"Brilliant, thanks."
My good deed of the day done, I nod and quickly return to my novel, silently praying he continues on his quest. Unfortunately, the shadow he is casting across my page doesn't retreat.
"I hope you don't mind me saying, but you are absolutely ethereal." My brown eyes flit to his for a fraction of a second as I murmur my gratitude and return to my story, trying to ride that fine line of polite rejection that I hope will safely and swiftly end this encounter. However, reading body language is not my new friend's strong suit. I stop myself from outwardly groaning as he squats and unshoulders his backpack.
As he settles onto the grass next to me, he sticks out his hand, "I'm Christian."
With rule number one already undone, I follow the emergency steps to rule number two: Do not answer any personal questions truthfully.
"Jocelyn," I answer with a slight sigh.
"Jocelyn." He repeats a few times, rolling my fake identity around in his mouth, emphasizing the various syllables. The repetition sets me on edge. My internal alarm bells begin to sway back and forth with the passing breeze. "Where in The States are you from?"
"New York," I lie, and then, to clear up any confusion, I add, "My husband and I are visiting for a few days. He left to get us ice cream a few minutes ago."
Christian shakes his head. "I should have known one as beautiful as you would already be wed."
"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news," I hum contently, "Have a nice day. Enjoy your coffee."
As Christian shifts, I return to my book. I'm halfway through congratulating myself for my convincing performance when he falls back on his wrists. I feel my eyes widen, terrified he's about to ask to see a photograph or some other sort of evidence that I cannot conjure.
"Tell me," he says, plucking grass out of the dirt by the handful, "if we were to live in a fantasy world and you were not already spoken for by another, would I have a chance at winning your affections?"
Oh, how I love being a woman.
Based on his diction and word choice, I'm starting to believe Christian may already think we exist in a fictional realm. I am now at a crossroads. If I say no, he may get up and go away, but he might also start questioning me as to why or get aggressive. If I say yes, he will have gotten as close to what he wanted from this interaction as my fake marital status will allow, meaning he could leave, but he may also take my affirmation as an invitation to stay. Luckily, I am saved by having to answer when he cries out with glee.
"Magic mushrooms!" He exclaims, snatching the entire cluster of tiny fungi in one swoop of his palm. "Do you want to split them?"
"Oh, no. I'm good." I assure him, eyes trained on the stems that still clung to their roots. As Christian shoves them into one of his pockets, it dawns on me that he might not be completely sober right now. "Well," I press on, swallowing to moisten my throat," it was nice to meet you. I should get back to my book."
As if eager to prove my suspicion, he smiles, "I promise I'll go in just a minute, but has anyone ever told you about the battles between the angels, demons and the statues that move?"
Immediately, my new acquaintance launches into an incoherent rant about faith, spirituality, aliens and other inhuman beings. I have no choice but to sit in seemingly rapt attention, partially listening to what could very well be the trippy retelling of a Doctor Who episode I haven't seen while pretending Ryan Gosling is singing Push in front of me instead to cope. As I don't want to be stuck here for four hours or for it to be discovered that I am not actually waiting for an ice-cream-bearing significant other (I mean, I am, but I don't expect him to walk into my life in the next five to ten minutes), I interrupt with as much force as I can muster, "Thank you, but I need to get back to my book."
"Ok, I'll go. But let me make sure you understand. It's important." Horrified, I watch the man beside me take a deep breath, preparing to start his monologue again.
"I promise. I get it," I try. The words sound more like a plea than I want them to. "I'm glad you told me."
Satisfied, Christian winks at me, temporarily covering one of his blown-out pupils, and stands. "Make sure you follow me on Instagram in case we ever end up in a fantasy world where you do not have a husband."
"I don't have social media, sorry." The lie is out of my mouth before I have time to think of it.
"A shame," the stranger frowns, "we must count on fate to bring us together again. Until then." He finishes his statement with a slight bow and finally spins on his heel, the duct tape on his shoe collecting more grass in the process.
Gratefully, I watch him go, count to sixty once he is out of my eyeline, then quickly gather my things and head in the opposite direction. I can read about vampires somewhere else, or maybe, if Christian is right, I'll meet one next time I decide to talk to a statue.
I hope you enjoyed my little story. I had fun telling it through this rough draft of a short story. If you have ever received unwanted attention while reading, allow me to offer you the same advice a friend sent me in the form of a comic.
<3,
Sydney
