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"16:57...", Vera mentally whispered, her eyes glued to the clock, impatiently waiting for the shorter hand to hit the 5 fully. Her mug, typically filled with Jip & Janneke Bubbelsap, sat empty on her desk, leaving her without even that small comfort for the remaining three minutes. She glanced around the classroom, searching for a distraction, her eyes landing on her students working through a worksheet she had hastily pulled from the internet. The older woman let out a short, bitter grunt. She wasn’t sure who she despised more, the one who always dressed like a pirate? The loudmouthed megalomaniac with a Napoleon complex? Or the stereotypical blonde who had traumatized her weeks ago with those disturbing and vile cartoons? Vera shuddered at the memory, those images had been seared into her brain no matter how hard she tried to forget them.
Behind a huge ball of poorly dyed ginger hair sat another contender, the last of the Schoppenboer sisters. The autistic one. Vera ranked her a close second on her mental list of most despised students. Always either asleep or lost in her thoughts, and today was no different. The teacher opened her mouth, ready to bark another reprimand, but the school bell cut her off.
“Class dismissed! I want those assignments finished by the next lesson!” she yelled after them, but her words fell on deaf ears as the students vanished, leaving behind a chaotic swirl of dust and scattered papers. With a heavy sigh, Vera gathered her belongings, turned off the lights, and locked the classroom door. For a moment, she debated stopping by her office but quickly dismissed the idea. The risk of running into other teachers was too high, and Vera had no interest in pretending to care about their small talk. They couldn’t stand her anyway, so what’s the point?
Heading to the parking lot, she spotted her trusty car, a dark blue Opel Astra, a graduation gift from her father. It didn’t look as good as it had back then, its once-vibrant paint now faded and dulled by years of neglect. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Vera was greeted by the lingering stench of cigarettes. She inserted the key into the ignition and turned it o-
“WE COULD BUILD A TREE! I DON’T EV—”
“Damn auto start…” Vera mumbled, hurriedly turning the volume down. Her car’s CD player had a peculiar tendency to startle her with loud music whenever the engine turned over. Fixing it would have been easy enough, but she found the randomness amusing, imagining it as a prank to scare potential passengers. The joke, however, was wasted. her only passengers were usually her parents.
Her thoughts drifted to a darker place, but she shook them off and started driving. Monday. That meant drinking night... which was, if she thought about it, everyday, but hey it was something she could look forward to everyday. Vera had a good Routine, a damn good one at that.
1. Come home.
2. Grade papers if absolutely necessary.
3. Drink a glass of wine.
4. Watch TV.
5. Drink another glass.
6. Watch more TV.
7. Drink even more wine.
8. Sleep (optional).
It was the perfect plan. Or at least, it had been six years ago when she first started. Six years of teaching, six years of "just one more drink," six years of settling into a life that felt as gray and lifeless as her car’s paint job. Somewhere along the way, she had become the very thing she despised, a tired, jaded version of herself. A hag. The thought weighed heavily on her as she drove, wondering for a fleeting moment what her younger self would think if she could see her now.
That question could wait for later as Vera arrived at her home. It wasn’t anything big or fancy, nor small and cheap, perfect for a woman in the middle of a midlife crisis. She picked up her bag and made her way to the door. While rummaging through her keyring for the house key, her eyes fell on the dead tulips near the entrance. A wave of confusion hit her. She never bought tulips, so how did they get there? Then it dawned on her. Her mother had gifted them to her when she moved in, and Vera had planted them herself. How long had they been dead? She couldn’t tell. She remembered how she used to carefully dig up the bulbs each season, store them, and replant them in the next. This year, she’d forgotten entirely. Forgotten them, forgotten everything. She sighed, tearing her gaze away from the wilted flowers as she finally found her key.
Unlocking the door, she was again immediately hit by the lingering smell of cigarettes. Vera frowned. She’d quit smoking four months ago, so why did it still cling to everything? Maybe if she cleaned more often, the smell would fade and the place might look better too. Shrugging off her scarf and jacket, she hung them on the coat rack. Her bag and shoes were left by the entrance for convenience tomorrow. Then, without hesitation, she headed straight to the kitchen.
The kitchen was small, with a sink, a fridge, and three cabinets, two below and one mounted on the wall, stuffed with glasses, dishes, and utensils. Vera opened the fridge, hoping to find a bottle of her favorite wine, Wijngoed Wolf. Instead, she was met with a carton of eggs, a pack of salami and butter. She stared, dumbfounded. Hadn’t she bought four bottles on Friday? How was she already out? With an annoyed grunt, she slammed the fridge door and made her way to her bedroom.
Ah, her bedroom. Her sanctuary. Her little kingdom, where she truly ruled over. Her guitar, her baby, lay propped beside her bed. Posters of her idols adorned the walls: Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, and, her greatest love, Nirvana. That Poster, in particular, stood out a treasure from her youth. She remembered the day she got it like it was yesterday.
It had been at a local record store, a few weeks before Kurt Cobain’s tragic death. A poster for a March 24th, 1994, show was displayed in the store’s window. Behind the glass, the studio albums of Nirvana were proudly showcased. Vera had recently gotten her birthday money and could finally afford their new album, In Utero. Rushing inside, she made a beeline for the cassette aisle. To her delight, a single copy of the album lay waiting, untouched. She carefully picked it up and took it to the counter, handing over 45 guilders. But her eyes kept straying to the poster in the window. Summoning her courage, she asked the clerk, “Uhm... do you know where I could buy tickets for the show?”
“Oh! Yeah, sorry dude, but they canceled that one. No worries, though, they said they’d reschedule! Mhm… guess I should take the poster down,” the clerk replied as he reached for the window display. Carefully removing the poster, almost toppling the display in the process, he turned back to her. “Hey, kid, here you go. You’ll enjoy this more than the trash bin.” Vera’s heart leapt as he handed her the rolled-up poster. She couldn’t believe her luck. She’d hit the jackpot. For a brief, exhilarating moment, she imagined the entire band walking into the store to sign her cassette and poster, then taking her away to America to record the first ever Neder-Grunge album together. But it was just a daydream. A beautiful one too good to be true and of course, it was.
Twenty five years later, Vera still thought about it. What if? What if her parents had actually supported her dreams? What if people had taken her seriously? What if?
She shook her head, refusing to linger on the thought. Usually, alcohol would drown those questions, but tonight her usual companion was absent. Lying down on her bed, she suddenly remembered something. "Is it still under there?" she murmured.
Curiosity stirred her into action. Vera bent down and peered beneath the bed. Her gaze landed on an old flannel jacket, three dusty scarves, and four bottles of Wijngoed Wolf. So that’s where they went. She moved aside another flannel shirt and uncovered a small purple box. Pulling it out, she placed it on the bed. The box was wooden, dusty, and adorned with fading Miffy and band stickers. When she opened it, a subtle scent of lavender filled the room. Inside lay a stack of small notebooks filled with sketches and song ideas, her old Walkman, and three VHS tapes. She picked one up and inspected it. Scrawled across the label were the words: MTV April 1994.
“Why not,” she thought. Her VCR was still hooked up to her TV, at least one part of her routine would get done tonight. Sliding the videocassette into the player, she was overcome by a feeling she hadn’t experienced in years, excitement. What songs would it have? What commercials? For a brief moment, Vera let the world around her fade away. It was as if a portal had opened, pulling her back to a simpler, better time. It was the first time in years Vera felt like a teenager again Her guitar practices sometimes gave her a faint echo of this feeling, but this, this was stronger. About twenty minutes into the tape, her eyelids grew heavy. She didn’t fight it. Instead, she let herself drift into sleep, catching the faint lyrics of a song playing in the background as she slipped into dreamland.
Wishing my life away
To another world another day
It's a lonely place to be
There's no more memory for me
Your life is straight
How boring has that to be
That life for me