Turtle Balloons
“The Part of Dorothy’s Fever Dream that Went Untold” by Thad DeVassie
I have to rescue my daughter from the school’s “hug and go” zone so I wait in a traffic jam and inhale exhaust fumes; I lay my head against the window and watch clouds take the shape of cauliflower. Old women in Hi-Vis vests wave stop signs for kiddos half the size of their backpacks. These ladies are the modern day Charons ferrying young souls across a concrete river – the rest of us wear cheap smiles, waiting for the go-ahead to drive up and greet their lanky teachers.
When she’s finally in the car, my daughter insists on getting a balloon.
“Mary had a balloon today,” she says as if that’s all that needs to be said on the subject. She repeats it again.
“You can have a balloon,” I relent. I change lanes and take a left toward the town’s fair. “But first you need to tell me what you learned about today.”
“Balloons,” she replies.
“What about them?”
“I want one.” And that settles it. I have to hand it to her, she knows how to keep her message focused. She is not susceptible to the ordinary detractors – she’s way too clever for that. And despite this current fixation on balloons, she also loves turtles and she has a turtle backpack which is purple and pink. Her shoes have a shimmering gloss of aquamarine – decorated with mermaids, rainbow fish, and of course, turtles.
I notice it before we even pull up to the curb – hundreds of balloons tethered to a metal cart. An elderly man stands proudly, taking dirty fivers from the crowd. My daughter, bless her, has already spotted a cute pink balloon with turtles all over it.
I almost sideswipe a Chevy Silverado as I blitz into the open parking space. A nearby meter maid doesn’t hesitate. I haven’t even put the car into park when he sticks a ticket to my window and turns the other way to avoid confrontation. The fee is $150. I nearly rip the thing in half.
“I wasn’t even parked! $150 is absurd.”
I charge up to the guy, but he doesn’t even acknowledge me.
Meanwhile, my daughter lets herself out of the passenger door and wanders over to the old man with the balloons. He greets her with a big smile, asking where her parents are.
“It’s just my dad,” she says, pointing me out.
The meter maid turns to me – he’s middle aged with a belly like a giant blueberry. He’s at least a half of a foot taller and peers down at me from his perch.
“This is ridiculous. I was just stopping to get my daughter a balloon.”
I think of more to say (my shrinking bank account, our perpetually empty refrigerator, my thyroid issues), but it all evaporates on my tongue.
Instead, I wave the ticket at him like it’s diseased.
The man holds an electronic printer in his hand. He pushes his wire rim glasses to his scrawny, raisin eyes. He scrolls up to read the newly-minted receipt.
He is slow to begin talking.
“I think I have a solution for you.” My daughter runs to my side and asks for money. I take hold of her hand and promise her to wait just a few more moments.
“The census is coming up. There is a loophole to get out of any parking citation.”
I blink.
“I’ve taken from a very reliable source that if you dress yourself like a black bear, full costume and everything, and you spend your nights rooting through your neighbor’s dumpsters, and you get yourself on a strict diet of berries and salmon, and you eat a great deal of food in the fall, and you go to sleep for a long time over the winter; if you travel on all fours to Berthoud Falls and sit on the boulders at the mouths of the waterfalls and the white water rapids, if you swipe at the fish who leap into the air, and you stare into the cool expanse of the mountain night sky and reflect on your place in the universe, see your sketches in the stars, and you hide away in cool, dark caves and care for your young, you can indicate on the census that you are a bear, not a human. Bears can’t get parking tickets after all.”
He winks and blows me a kiss, then he turns around and prints off another ticket for the next car in line.
I imagine, briefly, falling on all fours and shoveling little fruits in my mouth. I imagine standing at the entrance of a cave warding off enemies. I look at my daughter and my eyes burn.
In the sky, there are thick clouds turning black and green. I give my daughter a five dollar bill for her new balloon.
About the Author
Stephen Mirabito is an English teacher working in Denver, Colorado. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Colored Lens, Constellations Magazine, and Bright Flash Literary Review. He is currently a candidate of the University of Denver’s UCOL Professional Creative Writing program. You can find more of his work on Instagram @stephen.mirabito_writer.
about the artist
Thad DeVassie is a writer/painter who creates from the outskirts of growing midwestern city. He is the author of three chapbooks with words finding homes recently in Gone Lawn, HAD, Hex, Scaffold, The Citron Review, The Prose Poem, Vast Chasm, and others. His paintings have appeared in Pithead Chapel, Phoebe, Hayden's Ferry Review, and Salt Hill, among others. Much like his written work that spans from CNF to absurdist flash fiction and prose poetry, his artwork straddles a spectrum with a similar aesthetic. You can find his work at www.thaddevassie.com.