Writing in Kentucky by Ula Bitinaitis

Writing in Kentucky by Ula Bitinaitis

A collection of poems (?) and events I wanted to write down after my trip to Kentucky for the VRC (Vex Robotics Competition) World Championship. Some of these were written immediately after I experienced said events, and some were written as recollections on the plane ride back. I liked how rushed I was writing these after I experienced them, so they’re only edited/revised for grammar or curse words.

There’s been a lot of running on this trip. I think, to the guy I'm following, it's considered walking. And I thought I was a fast walker! How am I supposed to keep up with someone who got accepted to West Point? We’re looking for team numbers in the sea of pits in this disorganized venue, but I don’t know which numbers we’re searching for, because the guy I’m with talks so softly, which is pretty ironic considering he got accepted to West Point. I watch silently at hands being shaken and discussions about strategies and alliances, and it’s a sea of blurred numbers so I simply smile, and my thighs kind of hurt from speed-walking, but the rush is liberating.

——

We promised to go to Kentucky Kingdom rain or shine today, and we’re on the stairs for a rollercoaster ride.

“Do you have any boys you like in school, Ula?”

How am I supposed to answer that?

I pretend to give it thought, and I respond with “No, not anyone.”

The girls agree, and it smells like wet nature, and I try and sway on my feet to see if the wooden planks below creak, but I hear nothing.

“So... not even any in your year?”

——

It’s later now, and it’s probably like 10:00 pm, and I say "probably" because I haven’t checked since I’m sprinting across the park to meet the 10:00 pm curfew.

I wish I was gutsy enough to write this as I was running, but I’m glad I didn’t because I’m currently a sweaty mess. I want to take pictures of the rides at night because the red and blue light pouring onto the trees and shops and the golden ones that dot the merry-go-round look beautiful. I did so earlier around 8:00 pm when we were running less, and I tried to get the camera to blur the lights, like what you would see while crying, or the magical second after rubbing your eyes hard, or what I think sparkly tears would look like because the invisible clowns in this park scared the angels so badly (????????), but my phone’s camera lens doesn’t have the same image in its head that I do. The others are running so fast ahead of me, and I suck at sports, especially long distance running, and I angrily wonder to myself, aren’t robotics kids not supposed to be good at athletics? As I’m writing this now, I just remembered Julia does cross country.

——

I keep hearing my name everywhere. Is “Ula” breathed in all places, in crowds, in car engines, in air conditioning, or am I just self-centered?

——

I’m hungry, something something food truck description. I forget the name of the truck, but the sign on it said “Best Food in Kentucky”, just like the other thousand food trucks.

I’m far behind the line, and the sun feels hot, but I see a pretty lady taking all the orders, and smoked pork smoke hits my face hard. She’s not sweating, I think, even with all this smog. She has an incredibly thin nose, black eyeliner, and dark hair. Small, colorful tattoos cover her arms, and I recognize one from a video game, a tiny blue fairy, and I think I see scars, but my eyes don’t stay there long enough to find out. You would’ve expected her to have a more northeastern accent with such a city appearance, but the same southern drawl soon appears again, “What would you like to order, ma’am?” Ma’am, missus, lil’ momma, darling.

The next day, I came for lunch a second time. “What would you like to order?”, she says again, and they’re out of chicken, so I ask for pork sliders. “Cindy, right? I remember you from yesterday!," she says after, and I light up. “I asked if your name was Sydney instead, that’s why.” I didn’t pick a good English name to take orders with, because it still gets confused and misspelled, but this time it’s okay. I smile, and while I’m waiting for my food, I look at the whiteboard menu on the side, the same one with “Smoked chicken sliders” poorly wiped off, and three names are listed under “Servers”. I see the only feminine name, “Tabitha”.

——

I’m running through the airport to A15 with a belt in my hand.

It’s sweet because it has a heart on its buckle, but it’s not so sweet right now, because it’s slipping from my grip like a bouncing snake, and my purse is falling too, and so is my bag and my chrome book because I was the last one out of TSA.

 

(Some of the lights I was talking about at the amusement park.)