Natalie’s voice

Natalie’s voice was like an expensive all-access ticket to the theme park. Not the Backstage Discovery Extravaganza™, mind you — they discontinued that the moment the exuberant little Jimmy from Missouri almost lost his arm — but the slightly less lucrative Hyper Flash Pass™ that you once convinced your dad to get you for your birthday.

Hearing Natalie felt like reliving that Saturday over and over again — the way her intonation rose like a rollercoaster, just to suddenly dip with the rush of excitement; the way her rhythm reminded you of the staccato of train rides at full speed as she was retelling one of her favourite stories; the way her volume would occasionally jump up, against all rules, as if she surprised even herself with what she just said.

It was endlessly fascinating, back when the word “endless” still made perfect sense. But then the day came when you outgrew theme parks, and the day came when you outgrew Natalie. It was a betrayal as swift as it was absolute. Suddenly, everything showed its true colours. Natalie’s voice wasn’t Disney World. It wasn’t even Six Flags. It was a third-rate theme park somewhere at the outskirts of Atlantic City. Her previously sophisticated accent revealed itself as the midway’s cheap intersection of New Jersey and Speech Impediment. Her improperly accented syllables were like paint flakes you could notice falling off even the main attractions. The heavy breaths she cut through sentences with reminded you of grown men wearing outsized orange bunny costumes, always interrupting you, doing nothing to conceal the smell of their stale sweat. And then, the worst infraction: Natalie’s repeated faux pas of saying “faux pas” wrong, just like the pretentious family taking a roundabout way to the parking lot, just so that you couldn’t link their worldly aspirations to the old station wagon with the crooked bumper sticker saying “I’d rather be in Alabama.”

So you never responded to Natalie’s Facebook requests, and kept ignoring her letters. But time and time again, you would play one of her old voicemails, hoping that her drawn out As and Os would bring back all the Pavlovian joy you once felt just hearing the constant whine of the electric bumper cars, your favourite theme park attraction.

Written in 2012.