"While the Iron Is Hot" by Donna Vorreyer
While the Iron Is Hot
Jane rested her head on the steering wheel, pressing its heat into her skin. Her phone dinged with another notification, and she threw it into the backseat. The emails had been coming all day. Almost no one in her honors chem classes had passed her exam, and parents laid the blame on her, even though she couldn’t have made the test any easier. It was multiple choice, for God’s sake. One of the questions about the periodic table actually read:
Which does Fe stand for ?
A) Iron
B) Toaster
C) Ferris Wheel
D) Barium.
Five students had chosen Ferris Wheel. Five. And yet words like incompetent and uncaring had been hurled at her all day, threats to have her fired, complaints to her department head and her principal, both of whom just added to the pile-on. She pulled a flask from her bag and took a long pull. There. That would get her home at least. Maybe she and Greg could order a pizza, and...oh, yes. Her day had been so shitty that she had managed to forget that Greg would be gone. Again. A business trip, if you could call what he did business. He played video games for a living. Gone almost every weekend and, on weeknights, when she was home, he was in the living room. “Practicing.” On Twitch all day while she was at work, “creating content,” he told her, when she asked why he couldn’t at least do the laundry. And here she was, getting pummeled for half the amount of money he made. So, no Greg. No pizza.
She squealed out of the parking lot and began her drive out of this neighborhood she could never afford and toward the one where she lived, a good forty minutes away. Somewhere in the middle of her drive, she spotted the lights of a carnival in a mall parking lot. The Ferris wheel, its spokes lit yellow, red, and green, caught her attention first, a confused traffic light of colors chasing in and out toward the center, moving while standing still. This was a dead-on metaphor for her life right now. Stuck. Too afraid to leave her tenured job or her stalled relationship.
What the hell, she thought, swinging the car toward the carnival’s entry. She grabbed her bag and walked, stopping to buy a large blue Slurpee on the midway. She poured some of her flask into the mix, replacing the plastic lid. Next, an exorbitantly priced ticket for the Ferris wheel.
She sipped her impromptu cocktail as she stood in line and people-watched. Eighties rock blared from each ride, and she was a little embarrassed to admit that she knew all of the words to “Sister Christian,” yelling “Motorin!” at the top of her lungs when the chorus arrived, sucking on her Slurpee and not caring who looked. There were two young teens in front of her, but far more interesting was the couple behind her, clearly on a first date. Too much cologne and a little fear-sweat wafted from both of them, and the girl was overdressed, every piece of clothing expensive. She struggled to stand in her heels while admiring the giant panda he held for her, one he had probably blown half a paycheck to earn.
Finally, it was Jane’s turn to board, and the car clanged shut, metallic and jarring as the operator gave it a tug to check the catch. Soon she was drifting up and up until she could see only sky, the late afternoon deepening and bright all at once, all clouds and air and fading sunlight. She took a deep breath and another sip of Slurpee. This was the most relaxed she had been in days. Stopped at the top to let on new passengers, she felt light, in flight, hovering. Whatever it was, it was definitely better than what waited for her on the ground. A weekend full of chores, since Greg wouldn’t do them. Certainly the grocery shopping, since he never left the house to do that, either. Why did she stay with him, anyway? Because he was younger? Because of the sex? It was great for a while, but even that had dwindled. They were basically roommates at this point. Fuck Greg. She was here to forget her shitty day and have some fun.
She swung her sneakers, rocking the car forward and back. Self-soothing, her friend Amy would call it in her counselor voice. Here’s to self-soothing, she thought, taking another straw full of slush. She was sure her lips and tongue were blue. She didn’t care, the vodka doing its job. The wheel started its full cycle, speeding to turn its passengers up to open sky, then down the other side to face the mechanical arms, the backs of other cars, the heads and feet of other riders.
On the fifth or sixth rotation, one black Louboutin with its signature red bottom fell past her to the ground. Frantic whining and reassurances ensued, and as the wheel swung down, Jane saw the operator pick up the shoe and toss it into a cardboard box labeled “Lost N Found.” Despite the drama unfolding in the adjacent car, Jane returned her attention to the workings of the wheel. Free and spinning, a fantasy, then the solder and engine of reality, the gears and cogs that kept things moving. The sky, the fall, the arc again.
She felt water - rain? - but realized it was a tear. Great. Now she was drunk and crying on a Ferris wheel. This was not what weekends were supposed to be. She needed something different. A new job? A new man? A pair of Louboutins? She closed her eyes and tried to imagine a different future. The wheel went around and around, the motion and the booze lulling her into a sort of half-slumber, one filled with both visions of flight and being chased by parents swatting her with copies of the periodic table chanting, “A-U. A-U. A-U.” The symbol for gold. Another answer the students had missed.
A loud sound snapped her awake, the operator clapping in her face. He pulled open the safety bar, his curls backlit by the evening sun like a painting of some Pre-Raphaelite angel. He looked so beautiful that if she were just a bit drunker, she might have leaned forward to kiss him. “Hey - you. Hey, you,” he repeated, not angry, just trying to do his own shitty job. Jane stared at him for a second. Such pretty green eyes. She was probably old enough to be his mom. Or at least his drunken aunt. She mumbled a quick apology and slid off the seat.
Threading her way out through the maze of metal rails, she slurped the remains of her drink to clear her head and tossed her cup into the trash. She leaned to watch the girl’s date rummage through the box as the girl clung to the railing, trying not to let her bare foot touch concrete. Her face contorted in disgust and concern until he emerged with the shoe, cleaned it with his t-shirt and slid it back onto her foot like a prince, receiving a squeal and a hug as he stood. At least someone was having a good night.
Jane smiled and took the flask from her bag for a long pull, camouflage be damned. She stumbled now, fully buzzed, and half-hoped a student would see her, that she’d get fired on some sort of antiquated morals clause. That might be a blessing. Something had to change. The operator stared as she wiped her blue mouth. She raised her flask and shrugged her shoulders. “Cheers!” she said and waved.
Jane wobbled her way toward the main walkway, lined with games of chance and food stalls. She stopped to shoot a water gun at a target to race against the one other person waiting. When she won, she handed over the prize, a purple stuffed hippo, to her teenaged competitor who looked defeated by his loss. But she didn’t leave. She was enjoying the chaos, the anonymity. Besides, she shouldn’t drive just yet - she was too drunk. So she strolled. And she planned how the rest of this Friday night would go. Planning anything further than that seemed impossible.
First she would eat a whole funnel cake with extra powdered sugar. She would soak up the atmosphere, the neon, the hair band music, the ridiculous girl balancing on her expensive heels. She would go home and delete every parent email unanswered and give the students the grades they had earned. Before she sobered up and lost her nerve, she would call Greg and tell him to pack his stuff when he got home. And before she got back into the car, she would take a selfie, the Ferris wheel behind her head a blur of lights, her very own piece of sky.
Donna Vorreyer
Donna Vorreyer is the author of three poetry collections, and her fiction and essay work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cherry Tree, Autofocus Lit, Cease, Cows, Lily Poetry Review, Extract(s), Notes from the Underground UK, and other journals. She is an associate editor for Rhino Poetry, and she hosts the online reading series A Hundred Pitchers of Honey.
Headshot Credit: Jeff Vorreyer
Photo Credit: Staff