Peppermint Twist
I am a toddler, standing in the living room of my parent’s house, and I am dancing. I am wearing those turquoise cat pajamas, the ones with the big pink cat on the front of the shirt and the matching bottoms, my fat little fingers splayed wide. My father, in a natty sweater, has taken up the usual position of fathers in my family - holding the camera, out of shot. He has put on a CD, and I am bouncing on my toes, grinning toothily, pushing my floppy bangs out of my face. The music playing is energetic and springy, with a lot of high hat, a bright guitar solo, and goofy lyrics. It’s the Peppermint Twist.
I am a school-aged child, taking a flight with my mother to visit family. The airport is that strange bone grey, a colour, I have always assumed, chosen specifically to depress travellers as much as possible. Families are moving together in loose bundles, and my mother grips my hand as we weave between them. There are businessmen in sloppy grey suits and bad shoes, hurrying around people importantly, and backpackers with all their worldly goods hoisted onto their shoulders, and a volleyball team, all leggy teens with excitable faces and sweatshirts emblazoned with something like 'PANTHERS’, lugging duffel bags and ignoring their coaches. This is the usual crush of people, all moving inexorably to the strange flat seats of the gates, waiting in lines, sighing, shifting their bags. Harassed flight attendants corrall that crush into their seats, pained and patient smiles plastered on their faces as they demonstrate how to put on seatbelts and reminding everyone not to smoke. My mother pulls a pack of gum out of her purse and offers me a piece.
“For the air pressure,” she explains, taking her own piece. “To keep your ears from popping.”
I take my stick of gum, and chew it cheerfully. It’s peppermint.
I am a teenager, squashed into a booth with my friends. We are drinking cheap soda and questionable pizza at a chain restaurant, boisterous and excitable because we are unsupervised, grown-up enough to go out on our own. We are wearing too much eyeliner and not enough layers for Winnipeg in late winter, but somehow we don’t feel the cold. I am nervous when the waiter comes around, shy about my braces, and rehearse my order in my head. We trade slices of gooey, cheesy pizza and talk over each other, about boys and clothes as though we know. When the bill comes, we test the patience of the waiter as we argue about splitting, or having multiple bills, struggling to do math on our napkins in the heady, distant days before smart phones. We shrug into our coats and stumble out, clambering into the backseat of someone's mom’s van, still babbling. My best friend reaches into her pocket with a conspiratorial look and pulls out an overflowing handful of candy she grabbed from the bowl at the hostess stand. She hands me one. It’s peppermint.
I am an anxious twenty-something, chewing my cheek. I am waiting for the interview to begin, pressing my fingernails into my palms, and trying not to look as frightened as I feel. I am wearing that dress and that blazer, the ones I always wear for interviews, and those shoes, too - the ‘one hour’ shoes, as I think of them, as in, I can comfortably wear them for one hour, and no more. A young woman arrives, with a kind face and an empty mug. She tells me that my interviewer is late, but on his way, and offers me something to drink - coffee, perhaps? I do not drink coffee: it smells delicious, and tastes like wet, dirty carpet. I ask if she has tea. She has, and bustles off without another word. She returns just as quickly, with a steaming mug in her hand. I sip this tea throughout the interview, and it steadies my nerves. It’s peppermint.
Jennifer