Free Unnaturally Green by Felicia Ricci Page B

maybe because I knew that the theater and I would become acquainted soon enough. I eyed it as I zipped by, making note of its location, then soldiering on—a latter-day Magellan on a mission of discovery.
    But I am a terrible explorer. A few feet more and I felt the first pang of hunger, soon realizing that every pioneer needs food in her stomach and a manicure on her fingernails. Although not necessarily both at the same time.
    While I rarely get my nails done under normal circumstances, in times of upheaval nothing melts my cares away like money and time-wasting luxuries. While going through one of my breakups with Matt 3.0, I dropped more cash on gossip magazines than groceries, and bought at least six different kinds of sunhats, even though it was winter.
    Mani-pedis reminded me of best friend Becky, so I decided to give her a quick call.
    “Becks?”
    “Son!”
    “Hey, son!”
    “Son, are you gone?”
    “Yeah, son, I’m in San Fran! Can you even believe it?”
    (We call each other “son.” I do not know why.)
    As we chatted, I scanned the nearby blocks, spotting only a Burger King and a fast food place called “Carl’s Jr.” where there was a picture of a hamburger and a star with a smiley face.  I continued past a big plaza that stretched from Wicked ’s theater all the way to the end of the block. On it was a raised patch of grass, enclosed in a low, single-chain suggestion of a fence. On the far end, opposite the grass, was a homely fountain, constructed from blocks of concrete and other right-angled shapes. I crossed the street to this large lot, eager to find somewhere to eat and/or get my nails painted jungle red.
    “So, let’s talk outfits,” said Becky.
    Becky had a Masters in journalism, and was a pro at extracting a ton of information from me in a short amount of time. Only a couple of minutes in and already we were bouncing around ideas for what I should wear the next day, to dazzle everyone with my (feigned) sense of fashion.
    “Actually, I looked in my suitcase,” I said, “and I’m worried I shipped all my good clothes separately, with UPS. All I really have is my travel dress.”
    My travel dress was a black muu-muu that swung loosely from my shoulders, perfect for hiding things beneath it, like small children, or a bad body image.
    “Okay, but make sure you belt it.”
    Becky was right; I looked less like an old lady in a housedress when I belted it.
    By this point I was standing right next to the fountain, getting sprayed with misty city water. On this side of the street, everything seemed darker, dingier, in need of a good scrubbing. A guitar started playing somewhere. I turned toward the sound and noticed a cluster of people singing and swaying behind the patch of grass, swigging from a bottle and sticking out their tongues. One of them, a man, had a metal sword and was sparring with an invisible opponent.
    “What’s wrong?” said Becky. “You got quiet.”
    “Nothing,” I said, “except I just spotted a man sword fighting with the air.”
    “Oh, I should have assumed.”
    As I hustled down the block, Becky asked me whether or not I was nervous about starting Wicked .
    “Obviously, I am nervous,” I said. “I mean I have no idea what I’m doing.”
    “Please, that is so not true,” said Becky, launching into her patented, two-minutes-or-less best friend pep talk.
    As Becky reminded me of my “baller G-dom,” I kept scanning my surroundings, looking for somewhere, anywhere to duck inside. But there were only pawn, sex, and discount shops, like the cheap squares on some depressing, adult-themed Monopoly board. In the next ten minutes, I dodged five different piles of poo, the advances of an old woman wearing one shoe and carrying the other, and a Raggedy Andy-haired man who tipped over every trash can on the sidewalk, singing “London Bridge Is Falling Down.”
    In that same short amount of time, Becky had gotten me to confess my deepest insecurities—most notably