When I came to the Longshoreman’s Hall on Friday night, the crowd seemed a little different. There was a bus parked outside that was painted all sorts of crazy rainbow colors. I bought a ticket, then a smiling man handed me a glass of fruit punch and told me to down it, go into the hall and enjoy the show.
When I got inside, there was this weird tower-like structure in the middle of the room. Some guy with a clipboard demanded to see my ticket, then ran to the back door to yell at somebody in a spacesuit who was letting bikers in the back door. Some people got up on stage and started playing. The songs weren’t like the salsa music that I had grown up on, but something about the groove just made my feet want to dance, so I did. That’s when I saw her.
Long hair was swept back out of her face revealing beautiful eyes made up in rainbow colors swept up into her lashes and eyebrows so they looked like the feathers of a tropical bird. Her dress swept the same colors up in feather-like structures on her shoulders. The way she moved made the whole whirling, dancing scene seem as if it were designed as nothing more than a colorful background to showcase her beauty. She smiled at me and said something, but I couldn’t hear it over the loud music.
She gazed at the far corner of the room as if she was looking at someone, but there was nobody there, just like my mom’s cat used to do. I followed her and saw something strange happen to the wall. It got thin, like a pair of threadbare pants, and you could see through it. She was talking to a figure on the other side who appeared like a silhouette because of the bright light behind him. But it was dark outside! She turned and saw me and the wall returned to normal.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Just a doorway.”
“Who are you?”
“A student.”
“Where at? San Francisco State? City College?” She shook her head.
“You wouldn’t have heard of it yet.”
“What are you studying?”
“History.”
“My grandfather says that history is a bunch of lies told by whoever is in power to keep them in power.” She smiled and my heart melted.
“That’s why I don’t just read about history. I study it directly.”
“What do you have? A time machine?”
“Everybody does,” she said, tapping her temple with her forefinger. “It’s just that most people don’t know how to use it. Or at least they didn’t. The door cracks open tonight. That’s what I came to study. A direct line can be drawn from tonight’s events to the state of anachronic consciousness that has allowed me to appear here tonight.”
“What’s your name?”
“Just call me great-granddaughter.”
When I saw her, two lifetimes later in my grandson’s arms, I recognized her immediately.
Literature in Small Doses 