GOOGLE TELLS ME it takes an airplane twelve hours to get from Bangkok to Heathrow.
But it’s been nearly a week, and I still don’t have my luggage. George let me borrow some clothes, and I am super weirded out that they belonged to his dead wife. And they’re all too tight and too long, which made for some really uncomfortable workdays stooping and bending and sorting albums.
Instead of moping, I’m going to pretend my luggage is gone forever. I’ll re-make myself in London. No meds. No helicopter mother. No former wardrobe. No remnants of my previous life. You know what the Beatles did when they got sick of suffocating expectations? They re-birthed themselves and made what Rolling Stone called The Best Album of All Time. I’ve decided that my time in London will be my very own Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
The GPS in my phone narrates directions to a little place called Switcheroo, a thrift store three blocks into the heart of Southwark. The bell dings as I enter and breathe the musk of the secondhand store, hear the low hum of the fluorescent lighting, see the disorganization of the racks. It’s a treasure hunt.
Sometimes the life of clothing interests me as much as the clothing itself. Maybe someone wore this elephant tee on a safari in the Serengeti. I put it down and pick up another. Maybe a boundary-pushing explorer wore this beanie to base camp on Mount Everest. Or maybe—and I gasp when I see it—this faded blue Beatles tee, with the album cover of Help! on the front, was worn by a fan in the street for the 1969 Apple rooftop concert, the last time the Beatles performed live together.
$76 US dollars will get you two shirts, a dress, a cardigan, pajamas, flip-flops, and a pair of jeans in a UK thrift store. I’m feeling pretty satisfied with myself, so I duck into Joy, a women’s clothing store, and buy underwear and socks. They cost almost as much as my Switcheroo loot, but alas. Some things cannot be thrifted.
I meander over to Blackfriar’s Crow, killing time before my afternoon shift at Fox Den.
The pub looks different in full daylight. I press my forehead against the glass, straining to see. This time, the chairs are stacked and the lights are out. The place is a shell of what it was the other night. I cup my hands to block the glare on the glass, and they slide through the morning dew gathered there. My Switcheroo bags slide down to my elbows.
At the very back of the room, a small stage and microphone stand are tucked away. It’s so dark I can barely make it out, but from here it looks exactly like the stage in my dream.
“Closed till lunchtime, love.”
I whirl toward the voice. An older man with a mouthful of tall teeth grins widely at me. The morning brightens around him as my eyes adjust.
“You a singer?” His keys jangle against the glass as he unlocks the door.
“What?” I sway, a little dizzy from the onslaught of sunlight after staring through the dark. “No. Yes. Why?”
“What a strange answer.” He laughs. “You look the part.”
“Uh. Okay.” I shrink back to leave.
“Open mic is Saturday.” He calls as he steps in the door. “If you decide you’re a singer before then, please do come by.”
I’m halfway down the block before it occurs to me that he may have known Pop. I stop and do a dance of indecision. He invited me to sing. In a place that looks like the setting from my dream. A swarm of shivers chase each other down my arms.
What if I’m supposed to sing there Saturday night? I’d only have three days to learn how to play Eleanor Rigby on Patrick’s guitar. Pretty much impossible, since I only know how to play one song fluently (Let It Be), and it wasn’t that song in the dream. I swallow and start walking again, resolve growing with every step.
If Pop insists on laying breadcrumbs right at my feet, I’d be an idiot to ignore them.
