Our editor proofed this short fiction from Trish Cook while coming off a wee case of Covid. Not unlike coming off a bad trip—or maybe even a good one—everything a little askew, the world still there but seen through a different lens. In that light, “Just Say Yes” feels even more timely than it did when we first read it a few short weeks ago!
I come to consciousness slowly, multi-colored lights peeking through my eyelids. Must have been those weird-looking mushrooms I ate, despite my new friend’s insistence they were perfectly harmless and would only inspire incredible flow. My bad. I should have known a fire hooper wearing a muumuu and a sombrero might skew a little on the trippy side.
Still, whatever. It’s all part of the experience, right? I’ve promised myself this will be the festival of yes after two years of so many nos. No, you can’t go to the grocery store without being terrified you’ll die from an insidious virus. No, you can’t turn your Zoom video off despite this being the world’s most boring meeting—that obviously could have been an email—ever. No, you can’t have sex anymore, because how are you supposed to meet someone worthy of it during a global pandemic? So here I am, saying yes to everything Burning Man has to offer.
Yes to the skateboard halfpipe despite not having ridden one since junior high. Yes to those glittery snowcones, even though who knows what ingredient is making them glow or if it’s even edible. Yes to riding the art car that used to be a school bus while befriending its passionate Marxist occupants. Yes to salsa dancing lessons set to hard-core screamo. Yes to muumuu man’s mushrooms.
My rebirth as a yes woman is how I got here, I guess, though where “here” is I still have no idea. Back in my normal life, I’d probably be terrified that I am lying on what appears to be an operating table. That giant iridescent “aliens” are talking gobbledygook about me in the corner.
That they’re pointing lasers at my various body parts. But I’m not. I’m just not.
And why would I be? I know what’s happening here. The Burning Man medical team is making sure my mistaken mushroom ingestion doesn’t take an unfortunate toll on my health and force me to evacuate this magical place.
I also know what I have to do: Convince them I’m just fine, thank you very much, and get back out there for some more yes-seeking. I absolutely need to pet that tattooed dog wearing the granny square sweater before this thing is over. Who would pass up an opportunity like that?
I think hard about how to best let them know I’m okay. I decide I’m supposed to meow my request to head out. Whatever they’re whispering about sounds pretty similar to purring, so why not? It’s worth a try.
No dice. One aims a laser at my chest, which effectively sends me right back into a fully prone position. It doesn’t hurt, though, and as a bonus, I’m left with a sour blue raspberry taste on my tongue. Cool trick, I have to admit.
“Awesome! Reminds me of Jolly Ranchers,” I exclaim, trying regular old English on them this time. “And thanks for your help, but I’m good now.”
The head “alien”—maybe this one is the actual doctor in charge—gently pushes me back down on the table with their soft, squishy tentacles. The texture reminds me of the big pile of stress toys I have on my desk back home, the ones that allow me to attend all those unnecessary Zoom meetings without losing my mind. The thought sends me into a fit of giggles, which probably doesn't help my case much.
“Honestly, I’m fine,” I reassure them, smiling and nodding enthusiastically to prove my assertion. They still look rather unsure, laser blue eyes pulsating with worry. These "alien" doctors are making me feel so well-cared for, gratitude shoots through my veins—which then unexpectedly shoots out my fingers, covering the room in what appears to be orange-y liquid sunshine. Instead of being freaked out, I can only think, I always knew humans were capable of so much more!
“Maybe you need a safe word from me?” I ask next, the brainstorm ricocheting like lightning around my mind. “Something that tells you I’m okay to go? Fine, here it is: YES. The meaning of life is YES. Always was, always will be. People just forgot that during Covid. The earth became a planet of no-sayers. The Universe hates that, and she usually doesn’t hate anything!”
The “alien” medics convene in a tight circle, purring louder and louder until the collective sounds reach an ecstatic crescendo. Then they return and stare at me intently until the head one gives a nod to the others. Clearly, my impassioned speech has convinced them I am f-i-n-e fine. They realize there are people with far bigger problems to attend to, like the guy on the ten foot unicycle who just crashed into those giant teapots on stilts. That had to hurt.
Their tentacles begin wrapping around my body, enveloping me in spongy comfort and lifting me off the table. Neon lasers emanate from their eyes, forming a wave of effervescent energy. And all I have to do is simply surf the sour candy rainbow of light back down to camp, where everyone applauds my amazing feat.
All of which goes to prove: Life is a total trip, and it’s definitely one I want to stay on for as long as possible. Especially if the rest of it is anything like this. Welcome to the magical post-pandemic world I think as I joyfully run across the playa with my tattooed, granny-square-sweatered new dog friend.
Just Say Yes