Normally, getting out of bed in the morning feels like oppression. Sleep beckons, I go and earn wages, and the news is filled with political lies and reports of casualties from bombings. Men make me feel objectified and my clothes don’t fit right, but yesterday, something strange happened.
A shaft of light was perfectly aligned with my eyes through a crack in my curtains precisely 3 minutes before the annoying wail of my alarm clock could begin. I clicked off the alarm and pulled myself out of bed. I breathed in, stretching my arms up over my head until my veins were so filled with oxygen that the little hairs on my toes stood up like budding flower stems. I left the house, noticing that someone had swept and mopped the lobby, clearing away several months of cat piss stains and dust and overall neglect. Now, the tile pattern was showing through and I could see that someone had had etched their initials into one of the tiles: E loves O it said. When I left the house, a handsome man who had long hair tied back in a ponytail caught me staring at him and he flirtatiously smiled back. I couldn’t help but notice his stylish boots. For the first time since my twenties, I felt awake to the possibility of finding my true love via chance. This is normally something I’d wave off like a stupid cliché, but yesterday was really odd. At work, I laughed out loud so boisterously with my students that the accountant shouted at us to stop. Then, noticing it was me, he apologized. Don’t worry, I explained, we’re just in a lesson. He sauntered away obediently, which caused us to laugh even louder.
On my break, I checked the news and found out that Sweden had decided to divest from all fossil fuels. Later, when I was sitting at a café, waiting for my cappuccino, the most precious street cat chose my lap to sit on. When the cappuccino came to me, the barista had artfully ornamented my milk froth with the shape of not only a heart, but also a star. Suspicions of a parallel universe started to creep into my head and then when I ran into my neighbor who is also my ex-boyfriend on the street, he told me that he finally got a raise and was promoted to manager at his job. At last, he could afford to purchase European quality weed from Nisantasi. I couldn’t help but be filled with happiness for him and I swaggered towards my apartment with zero resistance. There were no worries or doubts to set me back and as the Galata Tower came into view, I felt something even more curious. Even though I stubbornly refused to believe in it, a slight glimmer of hope danced before my eyes, tempting me to embrace it.
Now, I’m trying to figure out what happened, since such optimism must obviously be mistaken. In old feudal societies, for instance, kings would declare holidays like Carnival for celebration as a release valve for the growing dissent of the ignorant masses. The people were temporarily offered a lapse in order and the opportunity to cross-dress or role play. For a day, peasants became kings and queens, beggars became benefactors, and gay men and women became women and men. Music filled the streets and dark alleyways were transformed into royal halls. The king would open the floodgates and thirsty people would come rushing with empty cups and jugs to lavish in the abundance that was normally reserved for the aristocracy. Never mind the firm grip steadily poised to shut the valve at a moment’s notice.
Perhaps yesterday was a holiday designed especially for me, brought by an unseen agent that controls me. For lack of a better word, we can say the ghost of my great Aunt Agnes did it. If the ghost of my great Aunt Agnes did it, this means that perhaps she’ll do it again. Perhaps she’ll increase the frequency of Carnival from once every few months to once every few days. So, I’ve come up with a plan. I decided to review all of the details from yesterday, and to preserve some of the elements from that day to remind the ghost of Aunt Agnes to do whatever she did, again. I’ve collected a sampling of weed from Nisantasi, a few coins to symbolize money, the image of a heart and a star, some cat fur and coffee grinds, a map of Sweden, a pay stub printed by my accountant and a few of my own toe hairs. With these objects, I have created a shrine out of a stylish boot that hangs on my wall where the shaft of light comes into my room in the morning. Now, I patiently await my next wave of optimism.
Let’s skip forward in time.
After a week of waiting, I’ve gotten so drunk that I’m accidentally smiling at the man whose pinky finger has latched itself around mine and he asks for my phone number. I start to doubt that any of this is real, and in fact I don’t want it to be real. I had been mildly amused, deferentially interested, but with a sudden snap, the pendulum swings and I slip into my old, crusty personage. His face looks old, and I’m reminded of my own wasted youth. A thin smile spreads across my lips and I whisper into the man’s ear, “nothing is what it seems.” A distant bell tolls striking midnight and Cinderella notices her indulgences start to fade, knowing that a man at a bar is still a man with a dick under the influence of patriarchy. I’m filled with a dizzying sensation not wanting to default to pessimism.
I’m filled with the sensation that this man and I are spinning like two spokes of a wheel. We’re threatened by the prospect of being cast away by centrifugal force. We’re trying desperately to keep our bond so that we don’t fly out and crash into the walls. The momentum of spinning causes the pressure to mount, but the grip of our hands at the center of the vortex keeps us united. The grip of hands clutching each other with equal strength keeps us sane, calmly chatting in broken Turkish. But suddenly, the bond snaps and his hand reaches to my waist and my pessimistic side tells me this is trespassing. It dawns on me that this is not a man who would understand my devotional boot shrine to the ghost of great Aunt Agnes.
“I have to go home,” I declare. I never did give him my phone number.
The next day, I’m trying to decide whether to be an optimist or a pessimist for the rest of my life. I’m almost equally divided. Nevertheless, I want to choose one or the other. Leave it to chance, I decide. So, I toss a coin, and I’m watching as its two sides are turning on an axis. Who knows if heads will fall face down to let tails seize the reigns or if tails will falter only to let heads gaze to the heavens. Perhaps it is not about the landing, but the perpetual motion of spinning sides, alternating in rhythm for all eternity. Then I blink and the coin drops to the tile of my bathroom floor. It lands on its side, which causes it to roll swiftly to the drain, only to drop into oblivion through the broken grate. Gravity stole my coin.
Editor’s Note: Yesterday in Istanbul was submitted and accepted for publication some months ago and does not reflect more recent events.
Erica Eller is a teacher and writer living abroad in Istanbul. She is the original creator of the Hazel Reading Series which is still held monthly in San Francisco. Her writing has previously been published in Everyday Genius and The Otolith.
