The Time Before With Genie
written by: Chris Gee
It’s what I told our hometown cops.
The visit started with, of all things, a standardized test. One morning in May, faculty shuffled us thirty sophomores into the gym, where rows of those foldable student desk-chairs waited—the ones from the 1950s. Mr. Muckman, our social science teacher, mumbled something about verifying academic progress as we sat.
Four hours and three hundred multiple-choice questions later, I walked out massaging a sore writing hand. I would have treated the whole thing as a one-off, except I got called down to Principal Bingle’s office two weeks later. She slipped one arm around me as I walked in and waved a very thick envelope with the other, singing out, “Look what came in the mail for you!”
The half-hug wasn’t creepy, but a little off with her bigger bust pushing against mine and all these fashionable zippers jingling from her business-grade aviator jumpsuit. I rushed to read its cover letter out loud, figuring it would be the quickest way out of there. It explained that I scored off the charts and had secured a week’s worth of accelerated learning, all expenses paid.
“I knew it! I knew it!” cried Principal Bingle, anaconda-hugging me like we won the lottery.” The first time in my twenty years! A day of days!”
My head filled with dread, imagining myself stuck in the middle of a henhouse of eggheads. I was about to dismiss the whole thing when the last line of the cover letter caught my eye: “The Program” would take place at the UNL City Campus—the same college Genie was attending! As the scheme formed, I thanked Principal Bingle for the opportunity of a lifetime.
Sorry about the acronyms! That’s the University of Nebraska at Lincoln. And it’s really Aunty Jeannine, but never, ever call her that. It’s Genie to all—from the priest to the policeman—until the day she dies. Three years had passed since “The Big Fight” between her and Aunty Meg. And if there was any hope of converting an egghead drop into a visit with Genie, I needed Aunty Meg’s permission to go—her being my guardian and all. The situation required tact.
Aunty Meg in her garden—that’s her heaven. So, the next morning, when she came into the kitchen looking like a happy mess, I synced her about the testing win, “The Program,” and the bonus of accelerated learning. She didn’t even wait for my song and dance to finish. Wiping her hands quickly on her overalls, she signed the form and its carbons. Aunty Meg even suggested I say hi to Genie when out there. That sort of blessing almost gave me a heart attack.
Next was figuring out how to break off from the eggheads. I wasn’t stressed about it since I always got my best “Ah-Ha!” moments at church. And, like clockwork, while Father McDoogal dished out heaps and helpings of fire and brimstone, I let my mind wander until one thought kept repeating: impersonate a chaperone.
Carrying on an adult conversation wouldn’t be a problem. I’ve been holding my own with Aunty Meg’s “sisters”—battle-axes from the American Legion Auxiliary—since, like, forever. But I had to look like a chaperone—like I had money but didn’t spend it on clothes. Basically, I needed to look like Aunty Meg.
So, the night before the run, while Aunty Meg was out at her game night, I raided her closet, pulling items that no longer fit her. It’s easier than it sounds since I do all our laundry and know her sizes. I slimmed down pickings for a three-day wash cycle and packed it all into this midnight-blue tote bag I found in the cellar.
And on “the morning of,” I left home before sunrise as I had to catch their bus. I enjoyed the walk in solitude. Well, not really solitude, as all around me in the tall grass, Western Meadowlarks gossiped in ‘pluks.’ A couple of times, my worry engine kicked in—like how would I get home? I shushed the inner voices, choosing to enjoy what might be my last hours of freedom.
The bus driver who opened the door fit my prejudice to a tee—balding, over-fifty, retired guy with “Alan” blazing from his name badge. I cracked into him with lady sass, demanding to see his runsheet as them—insert-explicative—hadn’t mailed mine yet. He fumbled awkwardly to pass over his notes. My eyes stayed on his paperwork for effect while I made him squirm with questions—how many total stops, what time to arrive at Lincoln—that sort of thing. After passing back his clipboard, I sat down behind him, feeling like I had passed the first test. Alan mopped up the sweat from his forehead, then put us on our way.
The bus collected what felt like twenty stops’ worth of geeks. The first real chaperone didn’t step on until Alliance. Each time I introduced myself, it was Janice with a hearing problem. I figured it would be easier to role-play with them yelling that name. Sad to admit, I got a bit punchy with confidence, thinking I could actually pull this off. That all changed when we stopped at Ogalla.
Delores was her name, and—my goodness—was she a piece of work. She pretty much barked like I would the moment she stepped on the bus—where was Petula, her regular, who was I, and all that. I waited for her to finish. Then, keeping eye contact and using as few words as possible, I offered up two choices. We could turn the bus around to pick up Petula, assuming she was still waiting—wherever! That would have Delores explaining to “The Program” our late arrival, probably after dark. Or, she could make do with the chaperones already there.
I could feel a bus-worth of four-eyed geeks staring at us. Delores eventually directed Alan to, “Drive on!” before sitting down with us at the front of the bus. She feigned like I wasn’t there, which was fine by me. It was like that until we picked up our last egghead at Lexington, and Alan yelled back, “No more stops until Lincoln.”
That must have been the clue Delores was waiting for. She started up this “What was your first chaperoning gig?” game. I had to bite my lips to keep from smiling, seeing it as a proper test of my armor. Others shared as expected—camp whatevers, bible school such-and-such.
I went last and shared about working at Mandy’s diner on Friday and Saturday nights. I talked about how folks came from all over and packed the place—locals and tourists, young and old. Keeping customers happy with kitchen and drink orders nears impossible. A near seven-foot trucker might suddenly stumble for the door, bouncing off folks and furniture like a pinball, mumbling about getting back on the road. It takes a gentle, kind spirit to remind him of his better idea: to stay and sober up. Of course, the mulatto Blind Mike might wander in from his travels, being led by his latest bleeding heart. He can play our ragtime piano as easily as breathing and has the whole place singing songs in no time.
We cry when customers have lost and rejoice when they get ahead. Break up fights when needed. Honestly, customers were no different than children.
When I finished, there was total silence between the chaperones. Delores, specifically, looked out the bus window with a thousand-yard stare. The best bit for me? I could tell they believed every word of my fabrication. None of it was mine. Genie would share her horror stories from the diner after each shift. I just re-told it in my own voice, is all.
When Alan cut off the engines, saying we had arrived, he ran off the bus—probably heading for the john. My heart skipped a beat, thinking my role-playing was coming to an end. We all filed off the bus with our bags, some giddy and pointing at the campus buildings. I had a chance to whisper in Delores’ ear, saying I could use a breather since I had “the kids” the longest. She took hold of me with this rushed warrior hug, saying clearly, “… just be back by dinner.” Then she left me behind, leading a column of eggheads like Mother Goose.
Crossing O Street with the tote bag, I gave anyone watching my best “Boss Lady Meeting Her Lawyer” walk. My gut, though, felt like a fuming kaleidoscope of butterflies wanting to break out. Did Genie get my “I’m coming” postcard? Was she still living there? Was she home? Was she awake?
I knocked at her “last known address” and Emily—someone I knew of, but never met—answered the door. Her hazel-to-green eyes burned into me with hard “not buying anything” energy. As I explained who I was, Genie screamed from inside, “Suzie-cat, is that you? OH MY GOD! You wrote you were coming, and you’re here!” She barreled past Emily and picked me up, spinning me around with this moment-in-time bear hug. But I’m bigger both ways since our last visit, and we fell with a crash inside the doorway. That didn’t stop Genie as she kept kissing and hugging me. It all reminded me of the time a puppy had me on the ground, licking me with its happiness.
Emily walked around our giddy-fest and got to work lighting up lavender candles and incense. Genie pulled me back to my feet, calling out the clothes I wore, saying I looked like a mini Aunty Meg. I said she only guessed half the story and shared how I had impersonated a chaperone to get here, rehashing Genie’s barmaid stories as my own to explain my work experience with children. She laughed at all the right places.
Probably not getting our “kin and country humor,” Emily left for the kitchen. That gave Genie the cue to catch me up on three years’ worth of re-tellings. We landed on their second-hand couch with a flop, and she spoke “stream-of-consciousness,” never coming up once for air. I could barely keep up—college majors changed, guys dated, arrests, mosh pit injuries, cash jobs. Her ramblings reminded me of happier times. Go-karting down Old Man Martin’s Hill. Sharing a quilt on Aunty Meg’s porch during a cold morning. Walking barefoot into town for summertime ice cream.
At some point, Emily called us in for Chinese leftovers served on one of those square, brown tables with collapsible legs—the exact, same kind used by old folks playing bridge. Placing a serving on her lap, Genie sat down and put her feet on the table. Then—Lord—the re-tellings! Each of those college ladies tried to outdo the other! I thought I was going to die from laughing hard and, at some point, had to step away before embarrassing myself.
I noticed on the way back from the bathroom, this blown-up photograph—a lavender field at sunrise—hanging on the wall between their bedrooms. Asking about it generally, Genie, with a lit cigarette between her fingers, raised the same arm as if we were in class, confirming it was hers. She said the photo started with following the Grateful Dead. During their Summer ’84 tour, she befriended a photojournalist named Vernon—not the famous one—who gave her a masterclass in leading the moment with a lens.
Genie didn’t follow the tour when it left Nebraska. And over good-bye beers, the idea for the photo shoot came up when Melvin, the oldest in their crew, drunk-challenged Genie to experience the climbs, wild sage, and farms of Grand Valley for herself. Fast forward to her wandering around Palisade and re-telling about the town and its characters—folks I would never meet.
My attention drifted, and I only snapped back when Genie started sobbing—suddenly, uncontrollably. She tried turning her head away, but I saw some rogue tears fall from the corner of the same dark brown eyes I’d only ever seen cry with laughter. In a sort of silent-movie panic, Emily mimed at me, like I knew what to do. I mimed back to shush.
Settled and letting her tears dry on their own, Genie took a finishing drag from her cigarette, then continued: “I ain’t no saint. And when I catch folks sizing me up, using them comes easy. It’s just by then—sleep-deprived, cash-deprived, and all—I was using myself. And having had enough of it, I walked out of town on a whim, following the canals. Carrying a full backpack of camp and camera equipment, well, felt like I was heading to a baptism of pain. It nearly broke me. How relieved was I when I pulled myself over the last hill and literally saw what was in my head since those good-bye beers came to life? The scene at dusk was like a photo negative—purple sky stretching forever, these shadows creeping up like a good night quilt over a perfect field of lavender. It felt electric.”
Telling that story revived Genie. She spoke in great technical detail about setting up for a dawn shoot. Emily, from the kitchen, interrupted with a reminder: Genie’s latest beau, Marty, and his crew were still meeting up for night swims at Oak Lake. I swear, those ladies were out of boring study wear, into “look-at-me” street attire, and packed for a swim in less than ten minutes! I even got a few “How does this look on me?” which really moved me, asking for my opinion and all. Genie even let her hair down—relaxed, brunette curls behind a shag haircut. I think she looked like Ripley from Alien. I hadn’t seen the movie, but I had seen the magazine articles in town.
We walked out the door around seven at night. So giddy from hanging with older girls that I wasn’t paying attention and got the shock of my life when these beefy, hairy man-arms picked me up like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. Another set of man-hands, smelling of sardines, clasped over my mouth and held onto my head. They had me locked in the back of a campus security cruiser before I had my bearings. Genie banged at their car window, but they left her cursing in the street like a sailor.
When the cruiser stopped again, they carried me off like a sloppy rolled-up carpet into some underground laundry room. Delores—the same Delores who requested I be back by dinner—was there. She cracked into me right away! How my shenanigans had put an entire campus into lockdown because they lost a kid. How UNL administrations had to cross-reference my hometown with active students to find where I was hiding. How I both lied to her and let “The Program” down—and so much more!
The way Delores carpet-bombed me with my sins reminded me of a Father McDoogal homily when he really got going. Except hers included personal hurts, so I had enough sense to keep my mouth shut. After wearing herself out and before leaving me alone, she made it clear I would be on the westbound bus first thing in the morning. Dorm students were not happy that they couldn’t access their laundry, giving the posted guards outside the locked door an earful.
Feeling really tired, I pulled toasty clothes from several dryers and made an ugly bed on top of the main folding table. Turned off the lights and settled down for a rest. It felt like a few minutes, but a guy, blaring on a bullhorn, started up about “What do we want? Justice! When do we want it? Now!” Light from the morning sun peppered in through these metal slits wedged between the drop ceiling and cinder brick wall.
The campus guards returned with two female police officers. They seemed more like twins the way their rotundness filled out their uniforms. And, as one said loudly, “We heard all about you, Miss Runna Thing. Time to get back to your pillow,” the metallic glint from their teeth caps set my prejudice—they were street thugs, nothing else. And what seemed like overkill to me, they took great pleasure in locking me up with leg and wrist irons. Think of it! I must have looked like a solo artist from a chain gang. Shuffling me up to street level, we met with a sizable crowd of protesters—two thousand souls easy, chanting and pumping their fists. I wasn’t moving fast enough, so the female officers pretty much picked me up and dragged me across the green. Seeing that, the mob chants turned hostile as they followed.
At the end of T Street, a courtesy van sat open and idling. Between the two female officers, pushing and grabbing at my body parts without apology, they got me belted in and sat on either side of me. I briefly considered asking for my tote bag, but instead started giggling as I realized the ‘getting home’ part of my plan now had a fix. Both officers looked at me like I was nuts.
A campus guard slammed the sliding door shut. I looked out the window nearest the mob and saw guards with nightsticks keeping protesters back. Genie, at the head of the gang, wore the most devious smirk. She had this half-akimbo stance as she tossed an egg to herself, and when our eyes met, she nodded a silent, knowing ‘yes’ before shouting, “Now!”
That mob launched foodstuffs—eggs, flour balls, rice—like missiles, sparing no one in uniform. The driver took off without further instructions. I turned in my seat to watch the diminishing view of us winning.
That had to be the best day of my entire life.
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