I used to perceive life in realistic ways with past, present, and future unable to meet in the same place. I should confess that my teenage dreams did not stand the attack of maturity, but that day spent in an airport I opened my heart to beautiful strangers and freed my still existing inner child. Maybe I achieved enlightenment, maybe I got blessed or went mad, but that was the most crucial point of my life.
Tired of rainy and murky Edinburgh and missing sunny Los Angeles, I was waiting for my long-expected flight in a comfy seat 42 in the airport I have never visited before. The reason for coming back home after graduation was that a few days ago I got a new job in a fancy fashion magazine for teenagers. The concept of writing for young girls to shape their perception of personal appearance seemed a little bit scary, but I could not help laughing about this. “Welcome back to the childhood you have never had,”— was my constantly repeating thought.
Always focused on music, Chinese tea, and skateboarding, I was not much into contemporary glance and glamour, not sophisticated enough to meet my standards. Meanwhile, this local kind of Vogue was paying so deliriously much, that just a few months there would let me stop chasing rainbows. I would finally afford the finest vinyl DJ basics: a couple of turntables, a proper mixer, and earphones (Farrugia 43). Nuts about my future purchases, I posted an Instagram story related to the position I had got: a popular picture of a tiny cat surrounded by a friendly pack of dogs. “Going to meet the needs of the young and the desperate without being killed by them,” — I wrote on the image. Suddenly Elijah, a boy I had never seen, answered my story.
“Hello, Helen, are you going to work in a bar?” he asked.
“Hi, Elijah! No, I will write about girls’ psychology and fashion goals,” was my reply.
“Not interesting enough, I would recommend you to publish my story of success,” noticed Elijah.
“Success? In what field? What exactly are you doing?” I asked just to kill the time.
“Well, I have a tea shop of my own. Then, I am a professional skater and train kids, but my main passion of life is vinyl DJing,” the boy quickly enumerated.
“Holly-guacamole! I am saving money to buy relevant turntables and to start practicing from the very basics,” I nearly shouted aloud.
“Maybe too straightforward but I would like to give you some tea and then to teach you,” unexpectedly proposed Elijah.
“Much into this but right now I am in Edinburgh Airport going to LA,” I mirthlessly answered.
“This is not a problem, I swear. Look behind,” he completely unforeseeably texted.
Excessively thin, tall, and pale, with long pitch-black hair and coward turquoise eyes he looked diabolically handsome. The only unpleasant feature of his was his greedy smile of an old smoker with yellow, wonky, sharp, and dangerous teeth. He had no luggage, just a backpack with tens or even hundreds of sorts of tea.
A few minutes later we were drinking some perfect Chinese tea that I had never tried before. A few sips and the location started to transform dramatically: Edinburgh Airport had lost its new seats, small shops, and coffee spots. The place was welcoming jungles with ramble lianas, graceful fir-tress, and violet lilacs I had intended to draw at the age of five. There was no one left with registration counters turned into caves, escalators converted into waterfalls, and windows shape-shifted to mirrors. I was to feel frightened, but I had never been so calm before.
Maybe we spent days there, maybe just hours, but we thoroughly discussed the topics of maturity, education, romantic relations, connection with parents, friendship, and careers. Then, we came to the major topic — music and vinyl DJing. When I told Elijah that, in my humble opinion, music exists only when played, he smiled and waved. Something changed again, and the airport transformed into the school I had studied at.
This establishment was a huge, soulless four-storey building with dirty windows and pupils who were more focused on the financial and social positions of their parents than on education. Fortunately, there were only two of us left with professional turntables, a mixer, earphones, and boxes full of vinyl discs sorted according to their genre and speed. I could not believe my eyes: the pearls of hardcore, happy hardcore, jungle, disco, hip-hop, and house were at our disposal (Farrugia 50). Elijah started teaching me with Frankie Knuckles’ “Rain Falls”, some eternity after I was able to get the rhythm and catch the beat. The moment I finally got on good terms with turntables and a cross fader-equipped DJ mixer, was marked by the appearance of Mary.
“My name is Mary, I have taught Elijah the ropes of DJing and I would like to monitor your progress as well,” she sighed.
“Hi, I am Helen, it is so nice to meet you, Elijah has told me so much about you,” I bashfully answered.
“Predictable of him, but you should not waste your time on useless talks, just watch the way I am scratching,” Mary smiled.
I had never seen such a gentle performance: she was touching vinyl discs extremely tenderly, as if they were made of glass. The turning discs, in their turn, responded to her touches with appreciation. She made no mistakes, and the tunes were in harmony whatever genre she chose. I was spell-bound by Mary’s movements, and the manner of her scratching, but suddenly she disappeared together with turntables, a mixer, earphones, vinyl discs, and the school. There were just me and Elijah left in the middle of nowhere, a dark and stuffy room, that was gradually broadening. I realized we were in his tea shop: small, messy, full of different people, excessively eclectic, and completely hand-made. Hardly had Elijah given me my cup, when an angry girl ran into the place.
“Hello, Polly, want some poison or a couple of my blood?” he venomously stared at a small blonde that could be easily taken for my younger sister.
“So toxic of him! I am his ex-girlfriend, that’s why I have to be treated this way” Polly wither him with a look.
“I am just playing my role to help Helen,” sighed Elijah.
“What do you mean?” I wondered been completely lost.
“Have not you noticed that we met at the airport, it turned into jungle, then, into our school, and now into my tea-shop?” he sneered.
“Well, I do not mind strange things are happening, I mind why do I stay calm and take everything for granted,” I tried to defend myself.
“Have not you guessed? You are still in Edinburgh Airport. There have been no jungle, no Mary, no music, no tea, no Polly,” he sneered again.
“What about you? Are you real?,” I asked.
“I am the ghost of your childhood, vinyls and tea shops were fashionable years ago, when you were a toddler. Contemporary people cannot evaluate them properly, but you are not of the same stock, meanwhile, you are going to sell yourself and write for them! It breaks my heart, and, when you posted your story, I decided to show you the future you can have. The one I might have had, but…” he abruptly stopped.
“But what?” I asked completely unable to move, stressed and exhausted.
“I went to this airport, chose seat 42, and dissolved forever to craft my personal world and to wait for someone with the same interests,” he literally cried.
“May be you follow me and help me not to forget about my real dreams?” I decided to calm him down.
“So nice of you,” Elijah smiled.
While waiting for the plane, I abdicated my job offer and found vinyl courses in LA. Then, I found a place and sponsors to start my tea shop. Accidentally, I realized that everyone in the airport was staring at me. The reason for this was the aeriality of my dear friend Elijah who decided to be seen by me only.
The events showed me that realistic, non-realist, and surrealistic can be united in the same place, with no past, present, and future. Such an intercrossing shaped my mind and freed me from the shackles of the past. Then, this miracle got me back on track and liven my existing inner child up in the straight sense of the word.
Work Cited
Farrugia, Rebekah. “Tracking the DJs: Vinyl Records, Work, and the Debate over New Technologies.” Journal of Popular Music Studies, vol. 31, no. 1, 2019, pp. 41-52.