TRANSCRIPT: Ashley Retzlaff is an English and Theatre teacher who writes a lot of poetry. A scrambling enthusiast who owns more half-filled notebooks than any hoarder could, she creates worlds where reality and hope clash. The miniature worlds she creates lie dormant in the notebooks until brought to life by a reader’s voracious eyes and mind. But you have the power to set the stories free! Set them free!

“How about this pickup line?” She scootches closer to me on the couch decreasing the space between us. She crudely points to her crotch and makes a motion with her open hand and suggests in the slimiest tone she can muster, “Hey girl, everything is in this box.” Then she whispers ironically and adds “Everything…”

I push her back to her proper space on the couch and begin to laugh uncontrollably. I tell her how vulgar she is. And that I’d rather focus on our favorite episode of Parks and Rec currently playing on my old box TV: Season 3, Episode 13.

As we let the TV take up the mood she’s created in the room, I begin to wonder why she’d say something like that to me. My mind begins to wander. It seems like I’m wrapped into watching the Parks and Rec crew get wasted on Tom’s almost deadly concoction: snake juice. A mixture of dangerous liquors that somehow tastes like Kahlua. But, my real focus melts away and I find myself thinking of the best friend of nine years sitting next to me.

With the side of my eye, I can see her knees are pulled in close to her chest. The place where she lets out the occasional, guttural laugh. Her laugh is unapologetically genuine; she makes strong guffaws whenever she hears a worthy joke or a cringey one. When she laughs I see her perfectly, imperfect smile. A unique and strange smile made up only of baby teeth because her adult teeth never came in. Someone else may have been embarrassed by this defect and hid her simultaneously small yet encompassing smile. But not Lena.

Her smile allures anyone in her aura, allowing her natural freckles and green eyes to be noticed. She’s a contemporary Merida from Brave without the Scottish accent. One thought wanders to another as I compare how Lena’s outer appearance parallels her personality.

Lena defines herself as a lipstick lesbian: the kind of woman who men are attracted to at the onset – someone who is conventionally pretty enough to pass as straight. Her appearance can fool them easily but Lena is an honest soul who wouldn’t let a guy hit on her to no avail. Just last week when we were out at the bars with work friends Lena was approached by the most basic man anyone of us had seen. He looked like a Calvin Klein model who walked right out of an advertisement and into our local dive bar: Hemmy’s.

He approached the four of us huddling and standing around a circular table because every other chair in the bar was taken. Squeezing himself in between myself and Lena he looked right at her and suggested, “You know, the drink I’m about to buy you would taste much better if you could drink it sitting down.” Then he gestured over to an unoccupied chair at the bar that was protected by other attractive and well groomed men who could only be his cronies.

Lena didn’t want to lead the poor guy on, probably because she could sense he was pretty enough that people rarely weren’t smitten by his perfectly coiffed hair. “Come on” she began “It’s leg day! I’d much rather stretch my legs after a long run while enjoying a drink with my coworkers.” She gestured to all of us with a reassuring look so we’d understand she wasn’t going to leave our conversation. “But,” she interjected, “my friend Cassie would love a seat. Why don’t you offer her a seat and a drink?”

As soon as my name was uttered I immediately turned cherry Twizzlers’ red and looked down at my hands and my half consumed gin and tonic. Lena lit a spark of hope in my chest with the possibility of a guy being interested in me. Instead, he exited our space with a sarcastic “Thanks, but no thanks” as he went back to his general douchery.

I was simultaneously flattered by and upset at Lena. I thought, couldn’t she understand guys were interested in her because she was the typical beautiful redhead but that attraction didn’t extend to her overly-lanky, dishwater blonde haired friend? I felt compelled to announce “Seriously Lean” it was the nickname she allowed only me to use, “don’t you know I’m vying for the plainest single and 30 award?” She frowned when I added this self-deprecating comment. Lena didn’t tolerate other people being hard on themselves. Especially me.

“Hey spacey!” she calls me back to my reality on the couch. “Are you actually watching this or just existing?” she inquires. “I’m here, I’m here,” I retort. I add the following to make her laugh “Do you honestly think I’m going to miss Ron Swanson dancing with a little top hat on his head?” As I ask the rhetorical question my left hand gestures quickly out to the TV and then draws in just as quickly back on the couch. But instead of landing safely by my side it brushes her knee and a wave of panic and excitement surges through me. I look over to see if it’s a feeling Lena feels too because her body starts to give off a different energy than it did before. Instead of crunching herself up she seems more open and inviting.

“Listen” she adds. “If you’re not going to turn up the heat in this place, you cheapskate, at least you can share your blanket with me.” She scoots over closer to me again and I finally realize I’ve been snuggled up under my chocolate colored fleece blanket this whole time. I comply while responding “Oh sure, steal the skinny girl’s warmth. She clearly has enough fat to keep her warm.” I lift the left side of the blanket up so she can scoot in even closer to me.

We’ve been friends for nine years but Lena is not one for much physical affection. I’ve only given her one hug the entire time I’ve known her and that was at her rat’s funeral: a much sadder occasion than reality might suggest. But now she’s close enough that I can smell her coconut scented body spray. She shows me affection by putting her head on my shoulder and inviting “you hold a lot of warmth for a skinny kid, Cass,” using the nickname only I allow her to call me.

My mind searches for a time when Lena and I talked about our differing sexualities: she was unabashedly attracted to females while I expressed if I found out I was anything other than straight, my parents would have my head on a platter.

I’m watching Leslie Knope and Anne Perkins fight drunkenly on my small box TV screen while my best friend of nine years is snuggled under a blanket next to me. I’m fighting my natural urge to kiss her. To kiss Lena. Because it could ruin who I am and everything my parents have taught me to be.

But before I can overthink the situation too much Lena moves her lips up to my cheek and gives me a quick peck. “You’re my Anne Perkins,” she expresses while putting her head back on my shoulder.

Maybe it was the Parks and Rec episode, maybe it was turning 30 soon, or maybe it was self-discovery, but the next thing I know I argue “No, I’m you’re Ben Wyatt.”

For nine years Lena and I have been friends at work, hang out on the weekends, and communicate in our secret language of Parks and Rec. quotes and inside jokes. So Lena knows what I mean when I stake this claim.

I turn to look at her and her green eyes come closer to mine and then close as I have the best kiss of my life. My chest explodes and a happiness I haven’t felt in 30 years opens inside me. A feeling my parents don’t want for me. Realizing my conflicting emotions Lena makes a joke to ease my tension. “I told you, I’ve got everything in this box. Everything.” And this time she doesn’t need to make a vulgar gesture. I can tell she’s just trying to make this easier on me. And somehow, her bad pick-up line….well.
It worked.

Coco Kasperowicz is a multidisciplinary nerd performer; the brains behind #chaotichighfemme , her social media and YouTube persona, she is also known as THE BODY POSITIVE NERD PRINCESS of Chicago; Lottie a la West. she graduated with a degree in musical theatre from Columbia College Chicago, and has performed in professional theatres across the Chicagoland area

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

Subscribe: RSS | More

TRANSCRIPT: Eliza Marley lives in Rogers Park and spends her time drinking tea by the lake when it’s not closed and watching old horror movies. She is a graduate of Loyola University Chicago’s creative writing program. She is a writer of magic realism and likes to explore the folds in the fabric of reality and how they become see-through if you hold them up to a light.

Something needed to be done about the croaking. The constant noise from beneath Sandy’s window had been driving her insane for days. Sandy’s apartment was bare, possessions still packaged in cardboard boxes, mattress on the floor in a corner. There was nothing to do but lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, and listen to the croaking. She had closed the window already, but the frogs were still there, calling out to anyone who would listen. Sandy started to look for an empty container. 

She had a soup pot buried somewhere, that would be perfect. Or a cassurel tray. But for now, a shoe box that had held CDs would have to do. The frogs had been eggs when Sandy moved in, a few weeks ago. A small cluster, laid too late into the season right into the stagnant water of the small courtyard pond of her building. Sandy figured they would never hatch. But they did, small tadpoles swimming back and forth through the shallow water. Now they were fully grown, stuck in that pond, wading back and forth with nowhere to go. Sandy started to get nervous. 

Sandy had grown up practically out in the woods, suffocated by the long grasses and overbearingly shady trees. It was too noisy, too spread out. Empty and filled at the same time leaving Sandy with a desire for her own little corner of space to fill. The apartment had been perfect until the frogs started. They croaked all the time. She had ignored it for the last few days, focused on her own bare walls and trying to get up the nerve to unpack. It kept her up at night and enough was enough. 

Sandy took the shoe box down to the courtyard. She padded across the gravel and scooped up the frogs. They didn’t even put up a fight. There were five of them, small, probably not getting enough to eat. In the morning she could find somewhere to take them. They would like a nice park, somewhere with more bugs. It was darker than she remembered. The street lights had come on now. The iron gate at the front of the building was creaking and Marrissa would be home soon. 

Sandy wasn’t sure if Marrissa was her real name. The girl looked about Sandy’s age and always came home at night, long brown hair plastered against her head and tired feet shuffling through the gate. She was a waitress, probably. Marrissa lived in the apartment across the courtyard from Sandy. Their ground floor windows were perfectly aligned. Sandy had watched that first night as Marrissa slammed the gate shut loudly and with clinking keys made her way into her own apartment. Lights on, she had disappeared for a minute, before returning in pajama pants with a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. Sandy had watched from her own window while Marrissa hopped around her cluttered apartment, dancing to a song Sandy couldn’t hear. Marrissa had made coffee that night and poured it into a mug before going out of view and turning off the light. Sandy had wondered why Marrissa would brush her teeth before making coffee. But that wasn’t the sort of question Sandy wanted to introduce herself with and neither was explaining why she had a wet box of frogs. Sandy hurried back inside, water already leaking through the shoe box and dampening her sweatshirt. She hurried through the apartment, leaving behind a trail of water all the way to the bathroom. She carefully dumped the frogs into her bathtub and ran the water so they had something to swim in. Looking around at her empty bathroom, Sandy floated the lid of the shoe box in the bathtub so they could float on it. The soggy bottom half she left in the sink. The frogs were quiet now, taking in their new surroundings. Now, Sandy could find her soup pot and take them to a park tomorrow morning. 

A loud sound from the window brought Sandy back out from the bathroom. She peered out and watched as the light of Marrissa’s window came on. There were string lights framing the window and lacy, yellow curtains she always kept open. Sandy could see a framed poster of some people dancing and a white cabinet that had a microwave and coffee maker balanced on top of it. Sandy imagined the rest of her apartment was just as brightly decorated. Marrissa put something into the microwave and then walked back out of view. 

It made Sandy think of the house she had left. It had been creaky and colorful, filled with sun from mismatched windows and brightly painted cabinets. There had been plants and art strewn about. It was always filled with the buzz of chatter or flies in the summer. Now, she sat alone in a fold out chair surrounded by long, blank walls. The plainess had calmed her, a quiet buzz of potential that matched the hum of traffic outside her window at night. But it had quickly become overwhelming, too much space and no sense how to fill it. 

The frogs were croaking again from the bathroom. Sandy sighed and stepped away from the window and went to rustle through the fridge. Her sock dragged through the water left behind, soaking it. There seemed to be more water than she thought. Sandy grabbed an apple and went back to the window. The frogs continued. 

Marrissa was back, shuffling back and forth through the apartment. Sandy opened her window and could hear the rustle of wind through the trees that lined their street but could not hear anything from Marrissa’s window. She wished she could know what the other girl was listening to, what sort of music made her want to dance. Sandy finished the apple and moved to check on the frogs. Stepping back, her already damp sock dragged through the wet floor. This was definitely more water than there had been before. There was now a thin stream making its way across her floor, pooling in the middle of her studio. 

Sandy ran back to the bathroom. Had she left the bathtub running? Did one of the frogs manage to start the shower? The croaking inside the bathroom continued. Sandy pushed against the door but it was stuck. She pushed harder and the door opened, ripping through the vines that had grown over it and letting out a torrent of cold, murky water that splashed over her and into the rest of the apartment. 

Sandy took in the sight before her. There was water in her bathroom but it wasn’t coming from anything Sandy could see. It rose above the toilet and a bit below the sink. Sandy rubbed her wet socks against the ground and felt dirt and sediment instead of the off-white tiles of her floor. On top of the water was a thick layer of green algae. Looking in, it seemed like it had always been there. There were lily pads with roots that swayed in the water. Vines crawled up her walls and hung down from her shower. The frogs were there, a couple swimming through the water. A couple more resting on the lilypads. One was sat on the shoe box lid, floating by slowly. The lid had a small sprout growing out of it. The frogs looked at her impassive, still croaking. 

The marsh stayed put after Sandy closed her eyes. She squeezed them shut, counted to ten slowly, and could still see the roots of the lily pads wading in the water. There was a soft buzzing and Sandy watched a frog shoot out its tongue to catch a beetle flying by. Sandy took a step back, closing the bathroom door against the stream of water and moss flowing out. Enough water had gotten into the apartment to make a shallow pool. Minnows were swimming near her kitchen island. Moss was starting to grow up the sides of her fridge. 

Sandy’s moving boxes had gotten wet and soggy, starting to sag and topple into the shallow water. Sandy reached into one and pulled out a mug, small and blue with a chip on the handle. Sandy took another look at her drowned mattress and the dragonflies that were now circling it. She walked to the front door. 

The cattails were starting to pop up now in clumps. Sandy carefully opened the front door and stepped out into the hall. She peeled off her wet socks and tossed them back inside. They sank in the rising water and Sandy spotted her apple core bobbing along the surface. She quickly closed the door before anything could escape. 

Out in the hall, Sandy did the best to squeeze out the water from her leggings and sweatshirt. The fabric was cold and heavy. Sandy wiped down her hair with her sleeves and made her way down the hall with her mug. She figured it was as good a time as any to have some coffee with a neighbor.

Gaby Fernandez is the Special Events Manager at Otherworld Theatre. She has been an ensemble member since 2018, and loves creating, performing, and discovering new works with such a diverse and unique company. She has been professionally acting since she arrived in Chicago over 4 years ago, and fell in love with the Chicago storefront theatre scene.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

Subscribe: RSS | More