Facing the Guillotine, Chapter 1
Facing the Guillotine, Chapter 1
A Peek at a Book in Progress
"So, a few miles from where I grew up, there's this town that was founded by carnival workers." One of the guys in the lecture hall uttered a hushed whoa. Maureen chuckled nervously. "I know, right?" Her gaze flicked to Professor Ullman. The gray-haired academic nodded once, urging Maureen to continue. Maureen cleared her throat. "It's called Leadville, and it was established in the early 1900s by Josiah Miller. It's got a population of 300, most of whom are descended from carnival workers. The center of town has a bunch of the old carnival equipment on display, but none of it is in use, and the town doesn't see much tourist traffic. None, really. The townsfolk keep all of it up to preserve their heritage. A lot of them are old timers, so I guess that's important to them."
Professor Ullman cleared his throat. Maureen glanced his way, and he made a subtle but noticeable hand motion, indicating for her to get on with it.
"Right. Anyway. My project for this semester is about people's attachment to the past, and how that attachment influences our present and, perhaps, impedes our future progress. To back this up, er… to illustrate this, I'll talk about Leadville's years of economic depression and the population's general lack of a formal education." She looked at Ullman—he was pokerfaced—then looked forward at the mountain of faces watching her. "Thank you."
Advanced Anthropology let out at ten 'til noon, and Maureen met Charlee in the student lounge. Charlee looked like their usual extravagant self, with a hot pink mohawk, glittery gold blouse, and black leather pants that had stars running up the sides of each leg. They were sitting on a sofa by the window with their laptop balanced between their knees. When they saw Maureen, their eyes brightened. "Sup, girl?"
Maureen slumped onto the sofa beside Charlee. "Oh, not much. Just pretty sure I choked when telling the class about the Leadville project."
"Puh-leeze, I'm sure you killed it."
"If by 'it,' you mean any hope of Ullman taking me seriously."
"You are way too hard on yourself, girlie."
She offered Charlee a wry smile then took out her tablet. Her to-do list was already open, a big white rectangle with way too much text on it and not nearly enough of it crossed out. She sighed and read through it once more to make sure she hadn't forgotten to add anything. Her gaze stopped on the last item: Visit Leadville. She turned again to Charlee.
"Are you sure you don't want to come with me?"
"Pshaw, I love you, but no way. All the research I could ever need is right here." They tapped the side of their monitor. "You may like the field reporter stuff, but not me."
Maureen's brow furrowed. "But you're a journalism major."
"And you're looking at the future of journalism. You need to get with the times, girlfriend!"
"You make me sound like one of the subjects of my project."
"If the shoe fits…"
"Oh, shut up," she said and gave Charlee a gentle shove.
In retaliation, Charlee tickled the space between Maureen's ribcage and left hip. Maureen yelped, then covered her mouth. Some of the other students in the lounge glanced over at the two of them. Maureen uttered an apology, but Charlee snickered and got Maureen laughing too.
Back at her studio apartment near campus, Maureen scrolled the socials and watched with more than a little jealousy as friends and acquaintances prepared to go to the coast for Spring Break. That simply wasn't in the cards for her this year. Ullman was the head of the Anthropology Department at the university. This was too big a project for her to fumble, and the only time she could realistically take to drive back home so she'd be close enough to Leadville was next week. Plus, at least it would give her a chance to visit her parents, and maybe she'd even get to bang out a rough draft of the project while there. She often did her best work when she had enough uninterrupted time to herself.
She opened her to-do list document on her phone. Pack a bag still wasn't crossed off and neither were any of the items nested underneath. She made herself close out of her socials and get up from the office chair she'd moved into the apartment from her room back home. Even though everyone's vacation prep photos gave her major FOMO, there was a strange comfort in remaining seated and scrolling that she was hesitant to surrender for work. But the work wasn't going to do itself.
That was one of her dad's sayings, and she carried it with her when she went off to university. It helped her, most of the time, as did making lists.
She rose from the couch and slipped her phone in her pocket. She grabbed everything she knew off the top of her head that she needed: phone and phone charger; wallet; laptop and laptop charger; several outfits and undergarments; toothbrush and toothpaste; and hairbrush. After she laid all the items out on her full-size bed, she checked them against her list, crossing them out as she found them. Once that was done, she used the list to grab everything she'd forgotten: deodorant; makeup; hair ties and berets; her razor and spare blades; and an extra pair of shoes.
Depending on the doctor, she had either ADHD or OCD. Her mother fluctuated between saying she was meticulous, particular, or hyper-focused, while her dad either said she was a perfectionist or a neurotic depending on how he was feeling about himself (she'd inherited most of these issues or traits from him).
With everything she needed laid out on the bed, she checked her list again just to be sure, then she pulled her valise from the closet and loaded it up. She put some water in the tea kettle and turned on the stove. While it heated, she moved the valise and her purse to the wall beside the front door. Once the kettle whistled, she poured the boiling water into a mug with a bag of chamomile tea. The tea would help her sleep because it reminded her of getting put to bed as a little girl. It soothed her nerves and made her think about her mother tucking her in, putting a hood around her head with a blanket and staring out her window at the dark woods behind her house until she went to sleep.
She sat in her chair again, sipping the tea and purposefully not looking at her phone. She knew the blue light was bad for falling asleep and she didn't fully trust the blue light filter to protect her. Instead, she read over the local interest book about her county that she'd bought a couple of years ago. It had a very short but compelling blurb about Leadville.
As you travel north on the Interstate, you wouldn't know it by looking, but you'll pass by the town of Leadville. Founded by a group carnival workers in 1913, it has a population of less than 300, and to this day, you can visit and see equipment from carnivals past on display in the center of town. Don't stay too long, though. The people of Leadville like their privacy. They even own a good section of the surrounding woods and have refused to sell to developers who have hoped to put in shopping centers or housing developments over the past century. You might say the locals are stuck in the past, but they like it that way.
You need to get with the times, girlfriend.
Charlee's words echoed in Maureen's head. The words on the page started to run together. Maureen set down the book and headed to bed. Despite the excitement for her trip, she fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. She dreamed of driving down a foggy, tree-lined stretch of the Interstate. Her car was the only one on the highway. Through the trees on the opposite side, multicolored lights flickered and flashed. The car stereo played blips and sirens of games and the metallic whirring of rides. A tinny voice declared: "Come and see a helpless victim face the guillotine. Can't make it to the Grand Guignol, the Oregon coast has got you covered. Come to the theater of blood and gore and witness a live execution by a genuine medieval device passed down through the generations and stained with the blood of witches and heretics. It's a visual terror you cannot unsee, ladies and gentlemen, and you don't want to miss it."
Someone leaned on their horn Maureen snapped awake. She was behind the wheel on the Interstate. It was an overcast day, but the fog was gone, and she was far from the only car on the road.
She swerved back into her lane. A big, beat-up pickup truck pulled up alongside her. A girl with bleach blonde hair stuck her head out the passenger window and flipped Maureen the bird. Her face was twisted into a mask of demonic rage.
Maureen faced forward as the truck passed her, the bleach blonde's hand still sticking out the window and making the obscene gesture. Maureen gulped and flexed her hands on the wheel. She glanced into the rearview and saw her valise stacked onto the backseat. It was the next day, and she was on the road. Her mind filled in the blanks, giving her memories she didn't yet trust. Sleeping through the night, putting coffee in a to-go cup this morning, loading up the car, and heading out. True enough, the coffee cup was in the center console's cup holder, the valise was in the back, and she was driving. The radio was on, playing something jazzy and not the sounds of any carnival.
Get with the times indeed.
She was likely still tired, must have tossed and turned the night before. She couldn't recall checking her Fitbit to see how she slept, and she didn't want to look while she was driving and risk pissing off another fellow traveler, so she assumed that must be it. Such a dramatic loss of time wasn't on any list of symptoms she'd seen for either of her disorders, though, which made it all the more alarming.
I'm just tired, she reiterated to herself.
She took a generous sip from the now lukewarm coffee, blinked, and locked her eyes on the road. She considered pulling over, but she didn't want to delay further. She figured her parents would want to take some time to visit with her, and she hoped she could get the majority of that out of the way on her first day back. Her parents were great and all, but she had come back mainly so she could work on her project. Though she'd told them this, she imagined they would overlook her boundaries so they could spend all the time with her that they could. It was only because they loved her, of course, but that didn't make it any less intrusive or annoying.
As she drove down the part of the Interstate that she knew went past Leadville, she listened for breaks in the broadcast jazz music and looked for something of the town to show through the woods. The jazz played on, uninterrupted through her stereo, and the thick, darkness of the woods stood impenetrable by any phantom carnival light. She checked the GPS: half an hour, and she'd be home. Tomorrow morning, or perhaps later this evening, she would take the first of many trips to Leadville.