The Tollbooth Phantom

Sensitive Material note. Mentions of exotic dancing. Implied nudity regarding the job, but no graphic strip scenes or sexual activity. One mention of inappropriate male contact without S.A. mens rea.

Time goes slow when you're sober and everyone else is three sheets to the wind on two-for-one drinks, and even slower when you're taking off your clothes for strangers who tip with leftover change from their discount alcohol. Every Tequila Tuesday I think, this has to be the last one. Tonight is the night, where I’ll walk into Kinky Boots Go-Go Rama, and say my goodbyes to the other dancers. Not that I’d know what to say, they’re more like family then my own at this point. Instead, I zipped up the club's signature thigh-high red latex boots and took the stage like always.

Tapping the GPS screen—“Dang.” My nail catches the glass and pops the crimson acrylic off. Ain’t that a perfect end to the night.

Tapping the GPS again to go home, tells me what I already know.

>ETA: 2:58 a.m<

> 29 minutes / 18 miles <

The pointless exercise has become routine. A late night drive shared with a proper British voice companion for amusement. I’d be home by now if I got dressed and bolted out of Kinky’s once it closed, but talking with the girls after a long night helps to unwind. I watch the ETA flash, hoping that it might skip a minute between blinks. Then I would be sixty seconds closer to having my head on a cool pillow.

My reflection in the rearview mirror shows dark circles that smudged mascara can't hide. “Take me home Nigel,” I shift into reverse.

::See you there, Georgie.::

 I slammed the brakes, on hearing the voice of a middle aged southern woman. The jolt nearly slams my face against the wheel. My head whips from side to side, looking out the windows to see if anyone is waiting for a reaction. The parking lot was empty except for the yellow and red glow of my car lights. 

The voice definitely came from the little device and not outside. Disturbing. The speaker was real, not real-sounding— human, lacking the uncanny rhythm of programmed speech. Weirder still, the GPS used my name, which wasn't a feature of the unit. There was other undeniable proof, but my mind didn't want to admit—I knew the person.

After a moment of confusion, the familiar voice echoed in my head until I could picture the speaker’s face. Mrs. Agnesi. My high school English teacher’s words came through as clear as if I was back in class. This couldn't be a prank. I haven't seen her in a year and no one at Kinky’s knew about her.

No. It's late. I must be hearing things.

To double check, I tap the GPS screen—“Good Lord already!” Another nail flies off into the car somewhere.

Tapping the MENU icon, I then select SETTINGS and choose VOICE from the drop-down list.

>(UK) British— Male<

My favorite option was still selected.

I release the brake, and back up.

The exaggerated pauses of Nigel's synthetic across-the-pond accent returns. ::Routing. Home. Begun::’

I shake my head to rattle away the foolish idea of what I thought I heard, and reach for the radio to pass the time. The dial, ~clicks, and pop music fills the interior, taking me back to the naughts.

A song starts by rhyming ♫ fire and ♫ desire. The classic Backstreet Boys’ song made me laugh. As a teenager, I sang along not realizing how vague the lyrics were. What do you want? What way do you want it? What even is ‘it?’ I chuckle and enter the road. Somewhere along the drive I must have started humming along. By the time my finger started tapping the dash, I was singing a new version to the beat

♫ I, (boyband singer A.J. McLean, )♫

♫ would prefer that you (my romantic partner) ♫

♫ not inform me that you desire (to end our relationship ) ♫

♫ Hereinafter referred to as “that way.” ♫

::Recalculating. Welton Academy.::

Sweet Jesus. The sound of Mrs. Agnesi coming through the navigation, startled me enough to veer into the oncoming lane. Empty at this hour, thank God. 

The GPS display updated with new unwelcomed coordinates.

>ETA: 4:04 a.m.<

> 1 hour 8 minutes / 37 miles <

Ugh. No, I want to go home. How could that even happen? My former high school isn’t saved in my favorites and hasn't been in my recent history since graduation. I take to the shoulder and park, where the snapping metronome of my car’s hazard lights leads my mind to take a needed moment.

This was one of my worst nights at Kinky Boots and it seemed the universe was conspiring against me getting sleep. The job wasn't bad when I started, but a regular can make or break the experience. Tonight, Mr. Johnson had that honor. I got to know him the way I do most of the guests, while making rounds after my first dance of the evening. The most successful dancers use their best assets. I’ve always performed my stage routine while Sweet Home Alabama plays. With the crowd’s eyes on me, I stripped off a southern belle dress, with a high hem and open blouse, until I was only wearing peach-patterned panties.

Once done giving the men a show, I mingle around the room and ham up the southern charm. ‘Evenin’, Sweetheart.’ That always gets them excited. From there, flirting was easy. Most guys would ask if I was from Georgia. I’d explain that my mom named me after where she was born. They’d follow up and question if her name was Georgia too. I’d smile. ‘No Darlin’, she's Virginia, named after where my grandmother was born.’ We’d share a laugh, which felt good. Some of the customers needed that as much as the view. Once the ice was broken, they’d relax, some became so at ease they didn't realize they were mimicking my accent back. That's when the tips got real good.

Tonight, Mr. Johnson got too comfortable. I was dancing to Hit Me Baby One More Time, and this jerk fueled by liquid courage, slapped my ass. The bouncers took him away before he could explain that he was ‘just joking’. Real clever pun. Doesn’t anyone actually listen to the lyrics? As a teen I used to think the song was about suffering and finding meaning. ‘My loneliness….I still believe.’ The music video said otherwise, but I still like to pretend.

With extra caution, I press a thumb to the screen, to keep my remaining nails intact, and re-enter my home address.

>ETA: 3:16 a.m.<

> 24 minutes / 15 miles <

That's better. I accelerate back into the road, faster than before, determined to make it back before anything else odd happens. Half way home, I reached a fork in the road that came with a decision. Take a five minute detour for coffee, to lift my eyelids that were growing heavier with each mile or keep going. I rub my eyes, and drive faster.

To fight the drowsiness, I plan my evening. First, I'll light a candle, so after a shower, my room will be filled with the scent of pear + crushed magnolia. The only thing left to decide is whether I want to write in my journal or meditate before sleep. It’s been two days since I last got my thoughts on paper, but I really need to center myself after this crazy evening. Ultimately, I add both to my agenda.

::Re-aligning.::

For the third time, Mrs. Agnesi’s voice gave me a navigation update and a heart attack. Highway hypnosis, can play tricks. I should have stopped for caffeine.

Realigning? Not Re-calculating? Whatever, I’m one minute away and tomorrow I’ll figure out who could pull off a gag this elaborate.

I flip the blinker for the final turn. All that stands between me, and satin sheets is crossing a bridge into my development. I’m so tired that the thought of jumping from the car to avoid parking jokingly crosses my mind.

What I found around the corner was even crazier than that idea.

A tollbooth beamed a reflection back at me.

A toll!...booth?

The metal box was coated in a blinding neon yellow. A black X slashed from corners of the rectangle, like a crime scene caution tape.

It had been installed on the tiny metal bridge that spanned a stream between the highway and my apartment complex. 

Normally impossible construction to finish in day, but the metal seemed thinner than tinfoil and was covered in dents like a crushed can.

I replayed the last shift through my mind, searching for an explanation to a series of improbable events. Sometimes on the clock, I get buzzed if a customer buys me a shot, but Mr. Johnson's early expulsion meant he wasn't treating. My 0.0 blood alcohol level couldn’t make sense of it either.

Who could have the gall to charge people to reach their driveways. Like hell, I am!.

I roll up to the gate made of a wooden arm, the same type seen at railroad crossings. The board recently painted scarlet, with so much excess paint that it was dripping to the pavement.

When I reached the small guard cubicle it was empty. My fist pounds the horn. ~Beep. Beep.

The ETA flashed three ellipses, either it couldn't sync with the satellite or it was just as confused as me

This time I held the horn down. ~Beeeepppppp

A person stands up, that must have been crouched below the window. All I can see is frizzy brown hair, until they turn to face me.

My gasp nearly chokes me. It’s her. Mrs. Agnesi!

      I whirled into a frenzied panic of trying to cover my revealing outfit. I don't know how her voice is on my navigation or how she became a toll worker, but I can’t let her see me after working at Kinky’s. I'd rather the Pope catch me in the act, then ruin the image a lovely teacher has, that students are innocent children.

After shutting down at Kinky’s I threw on a hoodie and some boxers. I hate getting dressed just to get home and take it all off again. My fingers fumble to connect the zipper and cover my exposed lace bra, before resigning to hold the jacket somewhat closed with large cleavage filled gaps. The back of my hand becomes a napkin to wipe the rogue lipstick off.

Mrs. Agnesi’s eyes might have settled on mine, but the gaze is far beyond me. She extends her arm and opens her mouth.

My back recoiled into the seat ready to cringe at the shock of seeing me.

"ID please." The use of please does little to change the command.

      My former high school teacher stares blank at my puzzled face. At least she looks like my old English professor with a few more greys, except nothing in her expression shows any recognition. I can’t blame her. If I were her, and saw someone with a sticker of a peach by each temple, I wouldn’t think, ‘oh right, that sweet girl who sat in the front row during 4th period.’

She would remember me as the girl who submitted the first class assignment to make her cry. By the look on her face when I got to class, I thought that she had a death in the family and stayed after to ask if she was alright. I was relieved when she told me the reason, but also pissed. “Then why did you give me a B+?” I’ll always remember the pat on the shoulder she gave me. “I’m grading you on a curve against yourself.”

There’s no way she would forget that moment. There's a million questions I want to ask, if it wouldn’t increase the chance of getting recognized. The Five W’s and especially How? How’d she end up here, with her voice in my car as if by some cosmic set up.

The only thing I could do was to hide my wallet, and pray she doesn't see her former student beneath the hair glitter.

I tilt my head, and black hair falls across my face. “I’m sorry. I live here. Can I…pass by please. I promise I’ll have it tomorrow.”

“No ID? Then pay the fine.” She made an expression like a smile that was pretending to be a smile. Her teeth were as gapped as the reputation she had among students. She rarely smiled to avoid the snickers of children who spent their time thinking of mean analogies for how wide the space was; Golden Gate, Grand Canyon, Red Sea, and the geographical list went on.

I kept my eyes to the floor. “How much is it?”

“$475.”

I hand over five singles and wait for a quarter change, wishing she would opened the gate before making any connections about me.

“$470 left.”

“Four hundred bucks! That's insane.” I fail to contain the reaction which might draw attention. There's no way I'm handing over a full night's earnings. Stuck between explaining the situation and getting noticed, I look to back up.

She sees, and answers. “The penalty is adjusted to everyone. A day's pay, for passing. This way, no one can save or borrow to get around the rules.” As she completes the statement, another barrier gate lowers behind my car.

Fuck this. I reach for my phone to call a neighbor. I'm not going to shatter a woman or go broke so I can drive five hundred feet to my door.

The sound of the little stream below the bridge roared like white water rapids.

A fog billowed up covering the ground and car up to the window. From afar, it would look like me and Mrs. Agnesi were floating waist high in clouds.

All the signal bars on my phone vanished.

I began to actually consider passing over my document to get out of the situation, and even practice what to say. ‘Hey, it's me. Georgia. You know, the girl you used to tutor one on one for free after school.’

Her fingers tapped the window, while I sat in the idle care thinking.

There was a toll I was overdue to pay.

Complacency.

The job at Kinky Boots was supposed to be temporary. The money was good, so I ignored the voice inside telling me to find something new. The longer I was there, the more my song writing was limited to creating fake lyrics to techno songs that were played at the Go-Go to give the girls a beat to dance to.

My hand finds the zipper on the side of my thigh-high red latex boot. I unzip the footwear, take them off, and place them on the window shelf of the tollbooth.

After a deep inhale. I addressed my old friend. “Hi, Belle.” I was the only one of her students she let use her first name.

“How?… who told you—” She squinted for the first time, really looked at me. “Georgie?”

I watched the look on her face change from excitement to sad surprise at how I was dressed, as her mind made the connection between the boots and the late hour to figure out what I've been up to. Sad to say, it hasn’t been writing in a college MFA program. I told myself I would get to it one day. One day.

Belle reached for the boots, which pulled up her sleeve. On her wrist was a delicate tattoo, of a caterpillar with butterfly wings.

A permanent mark, inspired by my writing. The B+ poem that made her cry. Had my words moved someone so much? I folded my hands and cleared my throat for a proper recital: 

How doth the little butterfly,

Improve the picnic scene

And flit, too quick, across the sky

With every stained-glass gleam. 

I think Belle held her breath the entire first stanza. Through the second she tugged at her shirt collar as if getting choked up with emotion. 

How hopelessly she flees away,

How bitter beauty stings,

And every net she must outpace,

With untouched dusty wings. 

Seeing her eyes water made it hard to continue with the lump in my throat. She took over the third section. 

Into the metamORphosis

I doubt life is fuller

Forsaken, my green oasis 

Forced from caterpillar. 

In the last part, we held hands and recited together. 

In grass, or leaves, or under moon,

Let my first form be missed,

Then break my wings to fake cocoon

Death by Chrysalis.

A long moment passed, before we wiped our eyes.

She broke the silence. “I still need to see your photo ID, rules are rules.” She laughed, and flashed a gap-toothed smile.

My face lit up as I reached for my wallet.

When I looked back to the booth—was gone. 

All of it. The gate; poof. The stream; quiet. The fog; cleared. 

“Come back.” I called into the night. There was so much I wanted to say. “Please” I yelled. A few minutes with someone who feels the same would mean everything.

~Beep. A car honked behind me, probably confused why I stopped in the middle of an open bridge. From the deepest part of my heart, I hoped that tomorrow she might appear again. Upon finally reaching my driveway, the ETA somehow read 2:58 a.m., even after all that time had passed. The GPS came alive to announce the destination's arrival, in its place, Belle Agnesi’s words replayed. 

::I’m grading you on a scale against yourself.::

Tomorrow I'll drive to Los Angeles and try to make it in the music business like I always wanted. On the way, I'll talk to Belle for hours through the navigation. Once there, maybe I'll meet someone, start a family, and name the child California. Who knows? I might even write a hit song and that brings millions to tears. If not? Well, at least I've helped one.