There was a new road sign on College Street. She was certain it hadn’t been there yesterday, but there it was, forcing any passing car into a right turn from its perch atop a tall post, its faded lettering and the grass around its base suggesting that it had stood there for some time. One of the first things she had learned when she moved to the city was that landmarks were crucial to navigation, so she carefully cataloged the new addition. Then, feeling somewhat annoyed, she allowed it to shepherd her onto Brooks Avenue. Lamps flicked on, painting the street sunset-orange as the last dregs of the real sunset faded from the sky. She wasn’t overly concerned about the detour, certain that she knew her way even if she had to use a few workarounds. Her sense of direction was one of the few things she prided herself on.
As she prepared to make the left turn back onto her original route, a statue she saw out of the corner of her eye made her freeze. Four or five feet tall, it depicted a smiling man with his hand outstretched, holding an apple. His features had been worn off the stone by time and moss. All but the smile. He looked rather lonely standing on the street corner, offering his stone apple to the cars. Funny, she thought, how that statue looked just like the one which she had passed every day on the way to school from her childhood home. Perhaps it really was the same statue, moved by the city as part of some sort of urban reshuffling. In any case, she heartily welcomed the sense of nostalgia which came with seeing a familiar object in an unfamiliar place. It didn’t occur to her that her childhood statue belonged to a different city entirely.
She made the turn, and drove on through the deepening night. Several blocks later, she was greeted by the bright fluorescence of a convenience store. Peeling paper cutouts of manic orange jack-o’-lanterns hung from the front windows even though October had long passed. Someone had painted over a tag on one of the building’s support pillars, leaving an uneven, rectangular, white patch more glaring than the original spray paint. Puzzled, she realized that this store was identical to the one just behind her office building. She had seen a store employee painting that white patch a week ago to cover a set of initials in dripping neon green. The sign on the corner, however, revealed that she was on East Peninsula Street, nearly half a mile away from her office. The store with its blinding lights seemed to have supplanted a seven-story parking garage which had sat in the same place just that morning.
Somewhat unsettled now, she drove on, determined to reach her destination. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the road. If she hadn’t, she might have noticed the green wooden bench sitting incongruously in the middle of a roundabout. She might have caught a glimpse of the fiberglass turtle half submerged in a sandbox, abandoned by children at this time of night, which had migrated from the local elementary school. She might have seen the billboard, advertising a movie from the early nineties, which she had only seen once while speeding along a seemingly endless highway in Illinois. However, she did not look up. She neatly parallel parked in front of her apartment building, and walked up the stairs with her eyes solidly focused downward to avoid being beset by any more stray landmarks. She did not lift her gaze until she was safely within her neatly furnished apartment, which greeted her with the same still-packed moving boxes, now older than her nephew who had been born over a year ago and a thousand miles away. She was not the only inhabitant of the city to find their landmarks gone astray at night, but no one would ever dare discuss it, and most would dismiss their experience as a dream.
In the early hours of the morning, still early enough to qualify as night, the road sign, the statue, the store, and many others scattered throughout the city uprooted themselves. On concrete pillars, wrought iron legs, or stumpy pedestals, they trundled back to their daytime locales, carefully removing any trace of their nocturnal wanderings.
As she prepared to make the left turn back onto her original route, a statue she saw out of the corner of her eye made her freeze. Four or five feet tall, it depicted a smiling man with his hand outstretched, holding an apple. His features had been worn off the stone by time and moss. All but the smile. He looked rather lonely standing on the street corner, offering his stone apple to the cars. Funny, she thought, how that statue looked just like the one which she had passed every day on the way to school from her childhood home. Perhaps it really was the same statue, moved by the city as part of some sort of urban reshuffling. In any case, she heartily welcomed the sense of nostalgia which came with seeing a familiar object in an unfamiliar place. It didn’t occur to her that her childhood statue belonged to a different city entirely.
She made the turn, and drove on through the deepening night. Several blocks later, she was greeted by the bright fluorescence of a convenience store. Peeling paper cutouts of manic orange jack-o’-lanterns hung from the front windows even though October had long passed. Someone had painted over a tag on one of the building’s support pillars, leaving an uneven, rectangular, white patch more glaring than the original spray paint. Puzzled, she realized that this store was identical to the one just behind her office building. She had seen a store employee painting that white patch a week ago to cover a set of initials in dripping neon green. The sign on the corner, however, revealed that she was on East Peninsula Street, nearly half a mile away from her office. The store with its blinding lights seemed to have supplanted a seven-story parking garage which had sat in the same place just that morning.
Somewhat unsettled now, she drove on, determined to reach her destination. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the road. If she hadn’t, she might have noticed the green wooden bench sitting incongruously in the middle of a roundabout. She might have caught a glimpse of the fiberglass turtle half submerged in a sandbox, abandoned by children at this time of night, which had migrated from the local elementary school. She might have seen the billboard, advertising a movie from the early nineties, which she had only seen once while speeding along a seemingly endless highway in Illinois. However, she did not look up. She neatly parallel parked in front of her apartment building, and walked up the stairs with her eyes solidly focused downward to avoid being beset by any more stray landmarks. She did not lift her gaze until she was safely within her neatly furnished apartment, which greeted her with the same still-packed moving boxes, now older than her nephew who had been born over a year ago and a thousand miles away. She was not the only inhabitant of the city to find their landmarks gone astray at night, but no one would ever dare discuss it, and most would dismiss their experience as a dream.
In the early hours of the morning, still early enough to qualify as night, the road sign, the statue, the store, and many others scattered throughout the city uprooted themselves. On concrete pillars, wrought iron legs, or stumpy pedestals, they trundled back to their daytime locales, carefully removing any trace of their nocturnal wanderings.