Кatya SCHOKALSKY How I met “Glimmer’s Train” for the first time.
Hi there, Do you know how I found out about your magazine? It’s a story… a funny one. One day I woke up with a strange urge: I desperately wanted to go to Seattle. Why Seattle?! I still don’t know. At that time we already lived in Victoria (BC, Canada) not far from Seattle, but that wish was still not easy to fulfill. First I had to find money to go, second – the reason, why I was going. One has to be able to explain at least to oneself why this or that had to be done. The reason was not hard to find: I have never been to the US and Seattle was the closest and apparently one of the nicest cities in the States. So, I started working on getting cash together. Like it often happens in life, when we are wishing for something and working hard to get it, our wish may suddenly come true. Even though I have to admit, the solution sometimes comes from the most unexpected place, just as with my trip to Seattle. I was walking in downtown, when I ran into an acquaintance of mine and my former neighbor. He mentioned that he was very busy these days as he urgently had to get enough people (sports fans) to fill up a bus that would take him to see Seattle’s Mariners play. He offered to get me to Seattle for free, if I would be able to find the X amount of fans to fill up the empty seats. I did not have any remote idea on who these marines were, but hastily agreed to play the game. Somehow magically I found all the needed bodies to fill up the bus because everyone seemed to know who these mariners were and many wanted to see the game. We left Victoria early in the morning and came to Seattle in the afternoon just half-an-hour or so, before the beginning of the game. My acquaintance was so thrilled to be there, that he decided to top off my free trip to Seattle with a free ticket to see the game. So, I found myself in the middle of the crowd of baseball fans and it felt strange. First – I hate big crowds. Second – I hate organized crowds. Third – I hate “excited-out-of-control” crowds. Fourth – I hate watching other people play sports (I’d rather play the sport myself). Fifth – I’m not a big fan of baseball. I, actually, never heard of that sport (or game) in my life up until that day, when my friend asked me to help him get the fans together. I felt like a worm, that was trying to get to the other side of the highway, but got trapped in the middle, by heavy traffic. I thought I was going to die there. The thought of spending another hour or more in the huge stadium without earplugs (no, I’m not eighty nine, I’m just from a quiet place) in clouds of this sticky-sweet popcorn smell threw me into insouciance and apathy. All the fans from Victoria were gone because all their seats were random and spread around this whole big, great Seahawks stadium that I believe could qualify for an independent country (size wise at least). I felt completely at loss when a great idea lighted up my brains. I would sell my ticket and go for a walk in Seattle while Canadian fans would enjoy the game. The idea was so beautifully brilliant and simple, that I got an immediate inspirational high from it. It felt as though wings grew on my back and I could do anything. I started working with my elbows and soon found myself on the margins of the crowd. There were plenty of people asking for a ticket and I proudly pulled mine from the inside pocket of my jacket and waved it in the air. - Ticket! Ticket for sale! – I yelled with all my might and caught a whole bunch of looks immediately. Strangely the two people who I thought were about to approach me, turned around and looked away. Someone, whom they had seen before me appeared as though out of nowhere, as though by magic. It was a huge cop, erect, straight, with broad shoulders, and a decent size belly. It looked as though he was hiding a school globe, under his baby blue uniform. His face was round and red and he did not look friendly at all. - Ticket for sale… - I repeated addressing him with a quiet voice as he brought his face so close to mine, that I could smell his sweat and his aftershave. - Ma-am, - he was speaking quietly, mostly with one side of the mouth, - it’s a criminal offence, ma-am. You cannot sell tickets here like that. - What’s wrong with selling a ticket? – I wandered forgetting my husband’s advise to never argue with cops and never questions them. - Right now you are committing a criminal offence, ma-am, - he repeated in some strange very threatening half-whisper, - if you have a ticket to the game, you have to go and see the game. A confession: I have a pathological fear of all people in uniform in all countries in which I have lived so far. They intimidate me and make me think, that they know everything about myself better than I do, that they know some dark secrets of mine, that I myself have forgotten about and they can use it against me at any given time. Often, when I see a cop, I start thinking I committed a crime of some sort and for some reason have forgotten about it, but the cop knows everything and is going to bring me to justice. When I see a cop, I start remembering the ice-cream cones I stole from the fridge at the age of six, when my grandmother wasn’t looking, about all those broken dishes I hid in the garbage and never told my mom about, about skipped classes in grade five and within seconds I’m overwhelmed by the guilt. That’s exactly what had happened when this giant cop in his baby blue uniform started talking to me. The words “criminal” and “offence” made the matter only worse. Again I felt small, like a worm and in addition to that – guilty. - Sorry. – I replied. – I didn’t know that. I guess my thick accent helped me to look like an ordinary idiot and the cop removed his face from my “bubble”. - The entrance to the stadium is there, ma-am. – He pointed with his huge shovel hand and folded his play dough arms on his great big belly. Then he took one step back, showing me, that he was not going to move until he sees me go in. So I went. I knew darn well where the entrance to the stadium was, but going through there was not part of my plan and I was not going to give up. Likely the further away from the cop I went, the stronger I felt and before long I spotted two characters that were following me all this time. As cops “charms” faded away and I felt in control again I stopped. The two – one short with kind sorry looking blue eyes and an enormous amount of bright red zits on his face, the other – tall, skinny with a long neck, sunken shoulders and a half-open mouth stepped closer. - How-much-for-the-ticket? – The zitted one asked quickly, almost in one word as though trying to exercise a tongue twister. - Twenty-dollars. – I replied as quickly as he asked without hesitating a moment. I didn’t really know how much I should have charged. I got the ticket for free and had no clue what the price was. I still don’t know why I said twenty. It sounded like a lot of money to me at the time. Firstly because we very recently immigrated to Canada and I wasn’t very comfortable with numbers to do with Canadian or American money. Secondly, I was barely making ends meet at a time and twenty bucks sounded like a whole lot. My short follower made a quick, swift, motion and in a split second the ticket I was holding in my hand appeared in his instead I was holding twenty dollars, American. My business partner vanished into the crowd. The long and skinny one still stood there with his mouth half-open and did not seem to be extremely disappointed with not getting a ticket. I pushed myself out of the crowd, which was becoming thicker and thicker, noisier and noisier by the minute, took some random street and walked away. I felt happy, light, bouncy, scintillant, gleam. Life was good. I spent a wonderful time in Seattle. I saw people throwing huge freshly caught fish in the air in the Fish Market and other people, right next to them, trying to catch it, I saw exotic signs on the office building “No guns allowed on premises” that made me think I was in a movie (some kind of westerner), I had coffee in the original, worlds first Starbacks – cradle of all those beautiful little coffee shops now exciting in every city. I had terrific chats with some local people, who made me feel awesome: they understood my English, which at the time was quite miserable and we had fabulous conversations and laughed a lot. Twenty dollars turned out not to be a real wealth worth of a King’s lifestyle. After a cup of Starbucks coffee, an ice-cream cone and few coins thrown into a hat of young busker, who played guitar in Downtown, I realized that the money was almost gone. I was standing by the entrance of an old book store and decided to pop in before heading back to the bus. I spent some time in the store, enjoying the smell of old books and soft music, I browsed through art section and magazines and in one of the baskets found two issues of your “Glimmer train”. I had just enough money to get both of them and so I did. I enjoyed them a lot and my way back home with the two magazines seemed twice as short as my trip to Seattle. I had them for quite a few years up until we moved into a new home and I lost a whole bunch of things. Maybe it was their time to go. I used them a lot to learn English and now it almost sounds like I can speak it and can even express myself. A few days ago I googled your magazine and found out about the competition of young writers. The deadline was two days away and I decided to translate one of my recent works into English and submit it. My daughter helped me to brush up the text and made sure I wouldn’t spell “kettle” as a “cattle” and “cutie” as a “quite”. It’s been done before. I blessed them submitted them just a few hours before the midnight of November 30. This is despite the fact that I do not like the concept of competition in anything involving creativity. Thank you very much for your magazine. It is truly inspiring and friendly. Katherine Andersen-Schokalsky P.S. When we came to Canada I spoke seven languages, but not English. My first lessons I got in a small Chinese corner store learning the language of the queen by comparing labels on cans of Campbell’s soup. For Canada they are made in two languages – French and English. French I knew and it was not very difficult to gather what the English version meant. My coach in phonetics was a small Chinese man – the owner of the store. That part was not very successful, but that’s a different story. If you would compare the English on Campbell’s canned soup with the English I used to write my stories (spin, carry on) now, you will see the distance your magazine took me through. It’s immense. Thank you and please try to read my stories with a nice can of Campbell soup. Just don’t kid yourself – any canned soup is only good for reading J. Thank you again. Katherine