Let it Go
‘Let it Go’ by James Callan
When Emma decided to eat out by herself, fuel her body with cheap, fried foods and a soda before heading to a film, some CG drivel with animals or cars that spoke in the voice of Billy Crystal or Eddie Murphy, maybe Will Smith, her roommates decided to hold a forum in the living room to discuss her apparent madness, her fall from grace.
It wasn’t about Emma’s daily evening strolls to the local KFC. Everyone, after all, has their vices. It wasn’t about the childlike delight she carried home with her when she came back, enraptured, from a kids’ movie about a gormless truck or a sharp-witted, wise-cracking donkey. Tastes are tastes, and Emma is entitled to her own, just as we all are. What it was about—this hoopla and forum business set up to meticulously dissect their roommate’s shifting disposition—was Emma’s late-night tantrums, her fevered monologues about how life isn’t fair, her demonic reveries about a happy-go-lucky, emerald-hued ogre.
‘The Jolly Green Giant?’ Sarah hazarded to match Emma’s description.
‘Shrek! You brainless fucking cow!’
Emma’s erstwhile sedate demeanour had become yesterday’s news. Her kind smiles, her gentle, airy grace, her reserved way; an egg at the bottom of a canyon, modern art, a Jackson Pollok of calcified shrapnel and egg yolk. The once sturdy foundation of her calm persona, her bedrock of tranquillity, had recently been reduced to rubble; Emma’s roommates, crushed bodies beneath wasted ruins left in her angry wake. Now, almost a different person entirely, Emma has transformed into a zero tolerance, short-fused, big-red-button-and-KAPOW! kind of roommate.
Don’t press that button. Thing is, it was hard not to press.
‘Okay, okay… Shrek.’
‘Bitch.’ And then the echo of a slammed door, Sarah’s jaw on the floor, her wide eyes exchanging unspoken conversations with Meg and Tracy, who were stone statues on a sofa, petrified and mute.
Last week they converged sans Emma. They exchanged theories in a hushed whisper about how and why Emma was acting so strange, so volatile. They only had the time it would take for Emma to shit to gossip and plan. They only knew they had the time it would take for Emma to shit because when she walked to the bathroom she turned around at the door, cleared her throat to command attention, farted, and announced loud and proud ‘Numero two, ladies.’ She held up two fingers and smiled, like an anime character giving the peace symbol or an elated young woman stoked to take a dump. ‘And it’s a big one.’
It was Meg who said they should swap the strong coffee beans with decaf. Maybe it would bring the old Emma back. Maybe it would take the razor-sharp edge off of her venomous bite. So later that evening, when Emma was taking a shower, Tracy emptied out the bag of espresso into a Tupperware square and stashed it away, filled the hollow high-octane bag with the newly bought decaf blend that Sarah had run out to get that afternoon, and that was that. The roomies hugged each other and squealed in mischievous delight.
They had to explain to Emma when she suddenly appeared, wet hair wrapped in a towel, that their excitement was founded on their newly obtained knowledge that Bridget Jones’s Diary had got the green light for an upcoming fourth instalment. The lie flew out of Meg’s mouth like a flock of pale doves, not quite white lies but something like that. She did her best in a pinch. She was banking on the low probability that Emma would fact check the news about the romcom’s fourth and final chapter.
‘It’s going to be the best one yet,’ Sarah laid it on thick.
Emma let her wet towel fall to the floor. ‘You guys suck.’ She plopped herself, lengthwise, to occupy the whole of the three-seater sofa. I’m going to watch Shrek Forever After.’
The next morning, the roomies sans Emma, surreptitiously elbowed each other as the latter sipped at her piping hot decaf brew. Throughout the day, coffee after coffee, Emma was hostile and horrible throughout. It was no different the next day, the day after that. Rude remarks, scathing words, and a whole lot of Pixar and Dreamworks flicks. The decaf, it would seem, had little effect. The mellow beverages had functioned as a placebo, Emma’s mind telling her that with each sip she was getting hyped up with liquid stimulant. Emma, out of her mind, perused the walk-in closet, getting ready for her big night out, a bucket of fried chicken and a ticket to the re-screening of Frozen.
‘Later, bitches,’ then she was down the hall, gone.
Meg clawed at the kitchen counter, then took a deep breath. ‘Let it go, let it go…’
Emma strolled beneath the marmalade light of streetlamps. Block after block, she was seared in neon hues, assaulted by flashing storefronts. Emma bathed in the additional white light of a full moon, which may be the cause of her lunacy. But no, she was batshit loopy seven days a week, throughout all the phases of the moon, be it waxing, waning, whatever.
Her Dolce and Gabbana heels were an odd choice. An impractical one. At the KFC, her Gucci bag and Armani dress were more out of place than a Big Mac. At the re-screening, popcorn and Milk Duds got friendly with the fried chicken, overplayed songs echoed in the dim-lit cavernous hall, and Emma was looking fancier than a Disney princess. Even the projectionist had noticed.
In the projection room, a seance expert, a voodoo fanatic, a black magic, mystic king feeds film to the reel. He breathes deep of his Newport, savours the cooling menthol, and whispers out in a smoky vapour words of an ancient tongue, a dark, forgotten incantation. The heady waft of haze swirls in the room, caresses the length of film as it spins in determined circles to entertain several dozen children, their parents, and one very well-dressed lady.
On screen, snowmen dance and sing. Elsa, garbed in winter finery, shines in minty, cool hues, colours shared with a pack of Newports. Emma watches, bedazzled. Through tears, she smiles. She strains against an invading, foreign force. She hears strange words, deciphers hypnotic music, faintly, through a barrage of chirpy mezzo-soprano.
Emma, for a fleeting moment, remembers that she hates the film she has gone out of her way to pay for and sit through at a re-screening. She recalls that the song she now hums along to is one that used to make her cringe. Even now she still harbours hatred for it. Her love for this song is like a rusty razor blade scraped hard against the grain.
She burps and tastes fried chicken, the sap of Sprite. Emma remembers, not long ago, how she was vegan, how she was mostly sugar free. She trembles, loses the fight, and sings along, louder than the nine-year-old by her side. She upends the last of the Milk Duds, the ones stubbornly clinging to the bottom of the box. She lets the caramel coat her molars, her incisors. She smears it, like peanut butter, across her two front teeth. She plans to book another ticket for tomorrow’s show. She will treat herself to a bucket of KFC. She will wear her most expensive, beautiful clothes.
As the song comes to a close, Emma is filled with tremendous joy. She submits to the tidal wave of pleasure that comes with watching her very favourite film. She allows the current to carry her far out into a warm depth of euphoria.
The projectionist stamps out the stubby butt of his delicious Newport. He smiles and nods. He knows, she has let it go.
James Callan grew up in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He lives on the Kāpiti Coast, New Zealand on a small farm with his wife, Rachel, and his little boy, Finn. He has never been to Greece, but has a frequent, recurring dream of standing in the long shadow of the Parthenon, a blood-red sun bloated on the horizon. Spiritually open minded, he considers cats and trees to fringe on the divine, nothing more sacred than a feline balancing high up on lofty branches. He loves movies (don’t we all), including, but not limited to, Home Alone, Jurassic Park, and When Harry Met Sally.
