-I’ve already been listening to stories I know nothing about. University of Arkansas, is that even a thing?
-These people most likely think I’m the kind of person that, if given the chance, says, “Keep Fayetteville Funky!” I’m not.
-I mean I’m not opposed to it; alliteration has been proven time and time again.
-I’m not going to say it in front of them, if that’s what they’re thinking. My self-doubt and irrational anxiety swells throughout my whole body and mind.
-I face the window with my back to the bar. I stand next to a girl I have just met. “So, how much money did you put in there?” Her cigarette flailing wildly in one hand while the other types ferociously on a digital jukebox. I’ve come to learn she works for NPR. She mumbled something back to me, not breaking her furrowed stare at the screen.
-Cool
-What do I do with my hands? One has a beer in it, so I can’t cross my arms. I guess I could put the other… on my hip?
-That’s not cool.
-No one is looking at me.. because everyone is downright staring at me. Outsider! You don’t belong here! Who’s that weird girl and why is she following Jay around?
-This is my second time to Fayetteville, Arkansas. As I drive into the city I already have horrific flashbacks of exhaustion while hungover. I remember being at a party on my initial trip. It was in a backyard full of string lights and wide brim hats, tattoos everywhere, chatter filling the air. It was August, but I have a suspicion that my proficient sweating was my dread of being around trendy people. My hands shook around my PBR tallboy. I like to think that I can start and keep conversations with strangers, but as I’ve come to learn, that’s not true. I thought a cool Tennessean like me would fit right in. I thought Arkansas was not cool.
-It’s super cool.
-I am not.
-”Don’t try and keep up with Jay this time, okay?” My mother is concerned. She never tells me what to do anymore because I don’t listen. “Where did that come from?” I ask. “You don’t want to spend your whole weekend hungover like last time, do you?” she replies.
-I don’t recall telling my mother how hungover I was last time. I must’ve of drunk dialed her when I was trying to keep up with Jay.
-Have you seen this movie? No.
-Do you listen to this band? No
-You’ve seen this right? No.
-It’s Saturday. I spent my previous day driving through the Delta to the Ozarks. I had seen the small towns across the countryside. I read their history etched in their dilapidated buildings and ancient gas stations. But he only cares if I know who Nic Pizzolato and Big Thief are.
-I don’t.
-We’re at Kingfish. A dark and smokey bar surrounded by red hogs (something I came to learn as a razorback. I attempt to make sense of this regional phenomenon, but you’ll be hard-pressed to get me to give any single fuck about sports). My eyes in a constant rotation around the room. It’s actually a great delight. Some would say it’s even…. funky. The vintage beer signs within warmly illuminate the interesting mixture of young and old; college students and the ones that were once in college and never left. Native Arkansans, smoking at the bar, laughing wildly. And then there’s me, standing in the middle, fiddling with the tin foil around my Modelo. I’m holding the bottle as if I’m strangling it; I still for the life of me cannot decide to do with my hands.
-I get a lot of: You’re so lucky, you’re living out the dream, traveling to all these new places and meeting all these new people. But not tonight. And that’s okay. I’m tired of explaining my situation to strangers anyway. Meaningful travel. We all have those dreams of being Jack Kerouac, driving the open road and experiencing those stories for ourselves. But sometimes you get the luck of the draw as an anxiety ridden girl who is still trying to find her place in the world.
-The only person who attempts to talk to me is Mike. He must’ve seen how wholly miserable I looked standing alone in the middle of the room. "Hi I’m Mike” he says as I grab my coat from a booth. I pretend that I didn’t hear him.
-Sorry Mike, gotta go as I rush out into the frigid, Arkansas night.