Can-Can Wonderland

What does that even mean? When I thought of the can-can I thought of the scandalous scarlet skirts whipping back and forth on stage showcasing ebony heels and a little bit of leg. I thought red and I thought black and that made me think of sin. Wonderland is where Alice and the Mad Hatter live – down the rabbit hole. So, Can-Can Wonderland? It was a hybrid that perhaps, arguably, never should be.

I made it my business to say yes to pretty much everything these days. There weren’t enough self-help books, self-care and #breakup TikTok advice videos to make me feel better but there was one common thread amongst all advice: don’t stop moving. Keep going. Going where, I wasn’t sure. It sounded to me like I had to choose myself even when I didn’t feel like I was myself. I was more akin to an echo attempting to find the end-point of wherever echoes died.

So, anyway, when Taylor told me she wanted to go to Can-Can Wonderland, I said yes. She told me it was a vintage arcade with a self-serve taproom. It sounded eccentric, weird, off, and exactly what I might need. I learned that is what I had to do – the “might need” because for the past month I’d been floating, drowning, hung in suspension of never knowing what I needed or wanted at any point during the day or night.

I always liked arcades. My family went to some, sparingly, and it was always my Dad and I or my sister and I having the greatest amount of fun – comparing ticket quantity and shooting scores. I never got a lot of tickets so my prizes were always limited to stale tootsie rolls or cheap pens that ran out after a week. I never minded, though. It was never about winning.

From there though, I made a mistake.

I made it our thing. Me and you. I didn’t think of you when I said yes, but it was when I entered and it was the ping-ball chimes.

Funny, isn’t it? The chimes yanked me so far from myself that I forgot how to exhale. A punch to the gut. A split to the skull. I kept staring at the machine. The lights, flashing – vibrant yellows, blues, and reds. Primary colors whirling like a pain-inducing kaleidoscope. It was the lights, too. Everywhere.

The ski-ball machine.

The balls hit the beat-up plastic rims and I imagined it’s sound similar to a gunshot.

“Should we get a drink?” Taylor stared at me, a quizzical brow raised, confused at my fixation. Tearing my gaze away felt like ripping off my own eyelids.

I tug a smile up to my mouth, “Yes, let’s go, I need a drink.”

I said that often since that day in September. I need a drink. I never really did, though. The drink just felt like it was a distracting company, but it never was. Not truly. If anything, it made me sink into myself further – my own personal quicksand.

We made it to the self-serve tap area. They all looked yummy. Of course, the first thing I noticed was Wild State Cider – a cidery in Duluth, Minnesota.

Happy Birthday to this beautiful woman, the Instagram post said. August 2021.

My grin slipped off – melted wax dripping on the floor. Go away.

“What are you getting?”

I thought about it. Pineapple Coconut was the cider’s flavor. It did sound good. I’ll be damned if I let this pain steal a good cider from me. Take my heart, soul, and purpose maybe but not my damn cider. “That one,” I pointed.

“Looks good,” was all she said and turned the corner to glance at further options.

“Yeah,” I sighed under my breath, “It does.”

Pac-Man didn’t work. Thank God. His ghost knelt over me as I jammed the machine’s knobs attempting to get it to work. We played a racing game, I sucked, of course. You’re not a bad driver, his voice snaked through each aggressive turn of the wheel, you’d make a scary race-car driver though.

The game ended. “Want to go again?” She asked.

“No,” I said and stood up. “Let’s try something else.”

We tried shooting games at Taylor’s request. A knot gripped my jugular. A band was playing in the background and the dusty warehouse-now-arcade got louder. Yeah, sounds fun, I said. I threw back the rest of my cider and took up the plastic gun. Maybe this would feel good. I tried to summon hate, rage, and violence in me like a spell. I am not a witch though, regardless of Tarot card decks piled underneath my bed, waiting for their turn at telling me what he’s feeling right now – what he’s doing – perhaps who he’s with. I stopped drawing them because they all indicated he was happy. Relieved. There was travel and even a third party. The slut. I shot my plastic gun, and it brought the pixelated t-rex down.

“Nice!” Taylor exclaimed.

One of our “team members” er, “squad” members – a man, ran in front of my shot and I killed him. The game yelled at me.

“Oh, I killed our dude,” I said remorsefully.

Taylor laughed, “He was an idiot running out in front of the stupid dinosaur like that.”

“True,” I adjusted the pseudo-gun to my shoulder, aimed it forward - straight as an arrow. I focused on the targets, eyes squinting at the screen. “Fuck men.”

My fingers hurt after a bit. It was a never-ending quest and we kept having to save our squad members. They were getting gobbled up by the dinosaurs in one swoop and we had to shoot at their mouths. I got tired of saving people I didn’t know. They sure as hell didn’t save us and my screaming HP bar.

I looked around and I saw them all. All the couples, all the nervous girls and the horny boys. All the women with their man - rings on their fingers. I forced myself through the rest of the game and I felt her eyes on me.

“Want to sit down? Eat something, maybe?”

“Yeah, my fingers fucking hurt.” She laughed. I forced a small smile. We went to the food counter and lo-and-behold. She snuck a glance at me and cleared her throat.

In ginormous letters, blinking, lit up like a city, in magenta, read: Sebastian’s Café.

I huffed and bit my tongue. She noticed. I noticed she noticed. I looked around – got angry. “There’s so many fucking couples here.”

“Oh, please,” she groaned. “You’re just hypersensitive about it right now. There’s plenty of other people with friends, too.”

A part of me flared. Hypersensitive. I blinked and it was gone. I tried to pay attention other than the couples I saw. The rest were married couples and children. I saw a few guy groups. No girls. I sighed, told her she was right and ordered.

We ended up talking about it. I found myself drifting to the topic, even when I didn’t want to. He was possessing me, like he was forcing space for himself even gone.

“I can’t hate him,” I told her quietly, in-between bites of my $20 garlic cheese curds served in a red-gingham paper bowl. “I tried. I thought it would be easier. It is easier. But I can’t.”

“You shouldn’t,” she told me, “Hate takes up so much energy. You feel it in your gut, in your heart, it just sinks into you and it destroys you.”

“Then why is everyone telling me I should? Honestly, I have a right too. But I don’t and it feels – worse.”

“Because you had to leave someone you’re still in love with. That isn’t easy, Abby. It’s not going to be for a while. It’s the mindset in response to it that matters.” She took a big bite of her chicken tenders.

He’d have ordered chicken tenders, I thought. They were his go-to greasy food for arcades and bars. I made fun of him all the time for it – called him a child.

I stuffed my face with cheese-curds. “I need to be sedated.”

We left, shortly thereafter, when I felt the familiar buzz of cider in my system. I fumbled through our last game: Dance Dance Revolution. That one felt good. My mom and I played it constantly when I was young. We’d sweat, compete, laugh. This game was solely mine and I won. I always won at this game.

She asked me if I wanted to try the brewery right next door. My heart lurched against my ribcage. Fucking breweries. His godfather owned a brewery in the Twin Cities. It was our second home. It was where he pushed me up against a wall and swore he wanted me. Hot beer breath against more beer breath. I always said not here, are you crazy? And he’d whisper, coyly, your place? It’s where he made me a flight of beer – my first ever beer and told me to find one I liked. I gagged on darker beer and he commented how he thought the way my face scrunched in disgust was cute.

I glared at the shape of the brewery, drunkenness spitting the memories. I imagined my non-sober alter-ego as a whip, snapping me into thoughts and adventures like a wild horse. I suddenly was on a mission. I was on a mission to reclaim everything he stole. First, the cider. Then, the games.

Now, beer. Yes, beer. I didn’t even like beer. I puffed out my chest. I pointed at the building and wobbled a bit. Taylor laughed. Yes, I do want another drink. Give me a beer.

I wanted to tell you about Can Can Wonderland. I knew what beer you’d get. I could hear you in my head when I played shooter games and my aim was always slightly off: hold it closer to your shoulder – look out! I knew you’d buy popcorn at the counter and pay for us to play mini-golf that sat in the center. I could imagine the kiss you’d give on my forehead when I lost at an arcade game, I could feel your lips smile on it as you chuckled softly and said: Love you.

The drunkenness had faded at some point, the more my body melted into the couch of Black Slack Brewery. My eyes found their resting place on the plants that swung in the air. The vibrant green. I decided I liked that color – I loved it.

No, I didn’t finish my beer. I wasn’t even close. It was 11 p.m.

“I don’t know about you but I’m tired,” I told her.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Me too.”

I pulled over before I made it home and collapsed into a collective succession of breathless sobs. Olivia Rodrigo blasted on my speakers, and I smacked the wheel so many times I bruised my hand. Welts of purple, black, and blue smeared across it. I blame Rodrigo’s “the grudge”. I’m still seeking for compensation.

I screamed in my car. It was raining and dark and I thought about driving past your apartment for a split second in my agony.

I wanted to do this with you, I cried into my passenger-less 2006 Chrysler Pacifica. A dent in the front end from an accident you were with me for. Babe, all I want to do is tell you about this place. I want you to be here, I want you to go with me next time if there is a next time and I want you with me. Everyone is telling me I deserve better, that I’ll get better but what if I don’t want better what if I just want you?

But you don’t want me. You weren’t there. You didn’t order the hazy IPA, you didn’t beat my ass at the zombie apocalypse game, you didn’t buy popcorn or kiss me or smile at me or wear your green button-up with a white t-shirt underneath, I didn’t hear you and you didn’t tell me you loved me.

You weren’t anywhere but everywhere. You were right next to me the entire night and although I could never hate you, I did hate what you did to me – at Can Can Wonderland of all places. I never truly understood pain until nostalgia decided to make an entrance.

Is this what healing is? Breaking? Sobbing in the imagination, killing yourself with nostalgia, throttling phantom memories? Maybe this is it.

Maybe I keep going out, I keep seeing you, I keep hearing you and crying afterwards and I keep doing things and going places until eventually – hopefully – maybe I’ll stop looking for you entirely. Maybe I’ll do it so often that it’ll just be me playing Zombie Apocalypse and I won’t even notice anything or anyone else.

Maybe one day you’ll become vintage and I won’t even think of you until I go to places like this. A supple revisitation to the past everyone will forget about until it’s too far behind you. Maybe that’s where you’ll stay. Maybe this is where I let you go. Maybe this is where I let us go. But maybe it’s not today.