The Crazy Lady in the Polka Dot Tie

The Drink Shop hid on the corner of two remote streets of Old Town Alexandria, its worn, painted brick often going by unnoticed. Its wooden door displayed a little sign reading ‘OPEN’, barely hiding the peeling lavender paint underneath. A message was painted on the window outside, artfully curled on the tail of each letter: There’s a story in every bottle.

It wasn’t a place Maisie had expected to go, but her clothes had soaked all the way through, her curls clinging to her neck. Anything was better than lingering out in the cold rain. The aged floor creaked as she stepped inside, drinking in the room with her eyes. It was small, with rows and rows of shelves lined with bottles, each unique in shape and size. She moved forward, leaving a clean line as she traced her pinky along a row of dusty glass bottles. Looking up, she saw that the back wall was cluttered with so many different clocks, Maisie wondered if the brick structure behind it was even there. The room was seemingly empty of anyone but herself, silence littered with an ocean of ticking. She stepped closer to a clock with an intricate wooden frame and swirled carvings surrounding it. Beside it was a clean, white face with a tail rocking back and forth. Each of these clocks were hand crafted, special in design, no two looking exactly alike, or even telling the same time.

“Like them?”

Maisie jumped, not hearing the person approach.

“I’ve collected them for years.”

Spinning on her heels, she turned to face the woman. A black fedora contained a mass of brown curls that framed her round, freckled cheeks. Though her face was young, her large, round eyes were haunted by dark circles below and lines around the corners much too deep. Yet they still lit up a brilliant emerald, closely resembling Maisie’s. The woman didn’t look at her, instead stared past at the dozens and dozens of clocks. Without saying a word, the stranger brushed past Maisie’s shoulder and touched one of the glass faces, leaning in close to the numbers. “I can’t seem to find the right one…” She muttered to herself.

Maisie blinked at her, so intrigued with the clocks. “I’m sorry?”

The woman suddenly jumped up and turned, as if the voice had snapped her back to reality. “Oh, hello,” she flashed a charming smile, straightening her polka-dotted tie and extending her left hand. “And who are you?”

“Maisie.”

“Maisie,” the woman repeated, pressing her lips together, feeling the word on her tongue. “Interesting name. I haven’t heard it in a while. Short for Margaret?”

A nod. “And you are?”

The woman waved the question away. “Oh, my name doesn’t matter. I’ve been searching for it. Although I have heard ‘That Witch’, ‘Curly’, and ‘The Crazy Lady in the Polka-dot Tie.’” She considered her statement. “Actually, I quite like that last one.”

“Searching for it?”

“Why yes, isn’t that what I just said?”

“What do you mean, you’re searching? Don’t you have one?”

The woman shrugged. “I guess I used to. I don’t know, it’s been too long.” Without any chance to respond, she dashed to one of the wooden shelves and picked a tall, slender bottle containing a translucent green liquid. “Have you tried this one? I haven’t yet. Tell me how it goes.”

Maisie stood, baffled, at the woman’s statement, and watched as she placed it back on the shelf and moved a row behind her to instead select a shorter, pink bottle.

“Never mind, chose this drink. It’s much prettier, dontcha think?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “But what exactly is this? What’s in those bottles?”

The woman placed the glass bottle back on the shelf and laughed. “Didn’t you read the painting in the window? I hope so, I worked very hard on it.”

“Yes…”

“Then you know! There’s a story in every bottle.”

Maisie took a step forward and clasped an intricate glass bottle with a liquid that swirled with silver and gold specks. “I thought that just meant each flavour was unique.”

“Well, yes, of course. Each drink would naturally have a different flavour.” Noticing that she still didn’t understand, the woman plucked a third bottle off the top shelf and removed the cork. It was short yet slender, and a pink liquid bubbled inside. She held it out, letting the air around them smell sweet, like candy. “Try for yourself.”

Maisie lifted the bottle, hesitant.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” the woman shrugged, yet her eyes burned with anticipation.

Curious, she tilted the small glass bottle upwards, letting the liquid slide down her throat, a mixture of sweet and sour.

“See you later,” the woman winked.

Her voice was like an echo, an echo so distant in empty space that Maisie could barely grasp it as she fell, fell. But before she could float away in endless space, her sneakers filled with water and cold drops ran down her head, washing away the dizziness.

There was a honk and she jumped out of the way as a sleek, red car with a white top roared by. Maisie looked up, shielding her eyes with her hand and squinting through the downpour. The road was lined with colourful brick buildings complete with diners, ice cream parlours, mechanic shops. The Drink Shop was nowhere in sight, yet the pink bottle was still in her grasp. As she gazed at the shiny shops and vibrant cars, it was clear that she wasn’t in Old Town Alexandria anymore.

A shiver washed over her arms and she suddenly was aware of her t-shirt sticking to her back. She eyed the diner across the street. Its bricks were painted yellow, and a white awning shielded the sidewalk beneath it. Eager to get out of the rain, she slid beneath the awning and peered inside the window. It was open, empty except for a round-shouldered man mopping the black-and-white checkered floor.

Maisie gently pushed the door open and was greeted with a bell clink and crisp air. The man had stopped and looked up at her, obviously noting her untimely and drenched clothing. He carried the mop behind the counter and began washing his hands. “Hello, Curly,” he said, face full of amusement as he eyed her hair. Lining the walls were red, plastic booths with wiped tables in between them. A jukebox stood in the corner, waiting to be played.

“Hi…” she slowly approached the counter, perching on one of the black stools. “Where am I?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Why, Miller’s Diner.”

“Thanks. Okay. And, uh, what year is this?” It was an odd question. Yet it seemed the right thing to ask.

“I think you drank too much last night,” he said, sliding over some fries. “It’s 1951, of course.” Of course.

She took a fry and placed it in between her teeth. It felt exceptionally warm compared to the cool air inside and her rain-soaked jeans. “Sorry to be asking you so much, but have you, by any chance, seen a woman with brown curly hair, maybe wearing a polka-dot tie?”

The man pursed his lips, thinking to himself. “The only woman I know with a tie like that is that crazy lady two blocks down. I don’t believe she has curly hair though.”

She jumped up from her seat and began heading for the door. “Thank you so much for everything.” The man nodded his head with a polite smile, and she rushed outside.

Greeted by the frigid rain once again, Maisie squinted her eyes and hurried down the street as fast as she could, keeping a lookout for any sign of the building. It felt like an eternity before she found the little shop with lavender paint. It looked exactly the same as it did when she had entered earlier, identical peeling door and fancy lettering on the window. Rushing inside, she looked frantically around the room before she finally found the woman perched upon a ladder, staring intently into one of the clock faces.

“Hey!” She exclaimed. The woman gasped, startled, but upon seeing Maisie she grinned and climbed down the latter.

“Oh, hello!” she said, extending her left hand.

Maisie froze, staring into those wide, green eyes. Except that was the only familiar thing about her. Instead of the brown curls, straight blonde locks fell into her eyes despite trying to push it behind her ear. “Are you...still the shop owner?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You look different.”

Her extended arm faltered as she looked down at herself. “Do I?” She raised her hand again and grinned. “Well then, you know me. Who are you?”

Maisie’s heart raced. The woman didn’t recognize her. Could she remember their first encounter? “Maisie.”

“Maisie, interesting name.”

“Why is it interesting?”

“I’m not sure,” the woman’s eyes sparkled as she twirled on her heels and made her way to one of the shelves. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“I want an explanation. I want to know how I am now standing nearly seventy years in the past.”

“Well, certainly if you’re here, you’ve had a drink.”

“Yes.”

“Like the sign says, there’s a story in every bottle. Quite literally. This is the one you’re in right now.”

Maisie raced to the window and watched as the rain had begun to slow, allowing a curtain of sunlight to illuminate the buildings. “Well, give me a bottle that will take me back.” The woman nodded, wandering down the shelves until she found a spot where she seemed satisfied. Crouching down, she lifted a slender bottle with a black liquid inside.

“Try this.”

Without giving a moment to think, Maisie snatched the bottle from her outstretched hand and tipped it back.

“See you later.”

She blinked the sunlight out of her eyes. A wave of heat washed over her, her clothes finally beginning to dry. Once the white spots vanished from her eyelids, she couldn’t see the brightly coloured cars or buildings. But it was no Old Town Alexandria either. Her veins pulsed through her as she looked around in a panic. Tall, glass buildings loomed over the white streets, casting a colourful array of light along the pathway. The sidewalk was filled with people, eyes glued to translucent screens hovering around their heads. Beneath the lively chatter of friends through screens was a faint humming sound emitted from the street. A metallic bus flew by, not rolling, but hovering at least a foot off the ground. She kicked the edge of the path, frustrated, then held back a cry as she remembered her shoes were not made of steel.

Maisie shook out her hands and stepped onto the sidewalk, pacing in a circle. All she needed to do was find The Drink Shop. Then, hopefully, she could find the way home. She approached a person on the bench nearest to her, a teenager with clean cut black hair and round glasses. Her face was buried in an article scrolling down the screen in front of her, reading “YEAR 4067” at the top.

“Excuse me,” Maisie said, rubbing her sweaty hands on her jeans. No response. “Hello?”

With a sigh, she looked up.

“Have you seen The Drink Shop? It’s small, probably lavender.”

The girl shook her head no, and immediately turned back to her screen.

Year 4067...Maisie’s mind repeated as she raced down the street, asking anyone, anyone, if they had seen the shop or the woman with the polka dotted tie. Frustrated, she raked her trembling fingers into her curls. Except, they didn’t feel like curls. She leaned towards a building towering before her and glanced at her reflection. The person staring back at her was not herself. Her eyes, wide and green, remained the same, only her hair was now scarlet, straight instead of curly. Cheekbones carved her face of the usual plump cheeks. She hesitantly touched her soft skin, backing away from the building. She turned and bolted.

Her heels ached as they slammed into the hot concrete. Her lungs were fire and the city around her suddenly seemed as if it were closing in. Maisie just ran, ran and didn’t stop until a flash of purple caught her eye. She halted, nearly toppling over. As she turned, slowly, she found the shop, hidden in the shadows, wedged between two nylon buildings. The door groaned as it was shoved open.

“You!” her voice drowned into the ocean of ticking. “It’s me. Maisie.”

The woman, now sporting a blue pixie cut, tore her attention away from a platinum clock on the wall.

“Maisie! I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

“Give me the right bottle. I just want to go home!”

Slowly, she lowered her head and stared into a wooden clock face. “As do I.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, Maisie. I’m afraid I don’t know what the right bottle is.”

Her fingertips turned white into her palms. “You don’t know? But you gave me the drink in the first place!”

The woman paused, not taking her eyes away from the clock.

“Yes, I did.” Her voice was slow now, soft. Almost regretful. “But I think...I just remembered my name.”

But Maisie barely heard her, already rushing down the shelves, frantically trying to find a bottle that could be the right one.

“You know why I collect all these clocks?” The woman paused for a response, but seeing there wouldn’t be one, she continued. “They’re to document all the places I’ve been. I have been searching for my home for centuries. I believe I might have made it there once, but it had been so long that I didn’t even realize. I don’t even know where home is anymore.”

Maisie clasped a simple, brown bottle in her hand. “Look. I’m sorry you could never find your way home, but I still can find mine.”

She shook her head. “Wait, Maisie, don’t you see-”

But it was too late. The lost girl had vanished from the shop, off to explore the world. The woman straightened her tie and glided past the rows and rows of wooden shelves. Maisie would never find her way home, at least not for centuries. By then, the world she knew would be gone. The woman spun on her heels, goosebumps traveling down her arms. How nice it felt to recognize her own name again, how it sparked a new sense of hope. That one day, she will find that charming town in Alexandria and embrace the rain, ignoring the little lavender shop on the corner. That now she had a permanent title to erase all the others.

That Witch. Curly. The Crazy Lady in the Polka-dot Tie.

Maisie.