Robert Jordan in Nicaragua

Transcription

Coe Review
Volume 34
Coe Review • 2004 • masthead
EDITOR
Nick Barnes
MANAGING EDITOR
Corey Davis
FICTION EDITOR
Jen Streck
POETRY EDITOR
Aliza Fones
MANUSCRIPT READERS
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David Johnson • William Kabel • Melissa Kalensky
Andy Keiser • Liz Nicklos • Brian Nigg
Alice Obrecht • Andrea Olson • Shannon Osborn
Adam Owen • Sean Pearl • Lin Prisbey
Kim Schnurr • Becky Stockel • Kim Walsh
FACULTY ADVISOR
Charles Aukema
Correspondence and subscriptions should be addressed to Coe Review;
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invite submissions of fiction and poetry, which must be received between
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Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
S. K. Sedlacek
1971
1
Alan Britt
Summer Night
Spanish Wine in Early Summer
2
6
K. Kvashay-Boyle
King Kong
7
Glenn Sheldon
Midwest Weather
36
John Azrak
blue on blue
37
Joe Mills
The Banks of the Sava
curse of the cretaceous
an elegy
38
55
56
Virginia Chase Sutton
The Miracle of My Father’s Cock
What Brings You to Del Amo Hospital?
Doors
Sex
57
59
63
65
Michael Amundson
Phermone Cocktails and a Kangaroo Pugilist
68
Judi A. Rypma
Gluttony
109
Donna Pucciani
Leonid Meteor Shower November 19, 2002
111
Emily Renaud
Photograph:
112
Alice Obrecht
Simulacra Silhouettes
113
William Jolliff
Night Flight Over Water
If I Could Dream Like William Butler Yeats
121
122
ZZ Packer
Geese
123
Carl Auerbach
The Last Neanderthal
142
Sharon Doyle
They're Spun from Transparent Silk--
143
Becky Stockel
driving towards nothing
144
Mitchell Metz
Avatar
174
Nathan Nass
13 Days in a Rice Chest
Nocturnes on Cassette
175
176
Liz Nicklos
Good Girl
177
Arthur Gottlieb
Conversion
Duelists
192
193
Pippa Coulter Abston
Res Ipsa Loquitur
194
Kyle Fargen
The Pocket Rocket Man
195
Stef Carter
found (in chuck aukema's class)
178
David Thornbrugh
The Patience of a Dog
201
TC Boyle
Me Cago En La Leche (Robert Jordan in Nicaragua)
202
Noel Conneely
Beggars
Galway Sligo Bus
213
214
Nick Barnes
Manolo
215
Dale Haake
The Crocus
223
Contributor Notes
cover digital graphic by Erin Cahill
The complete texts of all 34 volumes of
Coe Review are online at
http://japicx.coe.edu/coereview/
224
1971 • S. K. Sedlacek
1971
• S. K. Sedlacek
her eyes,
empty like knotholes in the fence,
gaze backwards
into a tossed bouquet
of tie-died mantras
as sandalwood scents the air
with the deep purple sound
of a sweet child in time
as naked toddlers
plop brown-berry bottoms
on the ocean’s sand
with plump fingers splayed
and knead frothy grit
into seaside castles
while bare-breasted mothers
suckle egalitarian notions
and weave flowers
in their hair.
1
Summer Night • Alan Britt
Summer Night
• Alan Britt
1.
Summer exhales fireflies.
The half-moon drifts
in a charcoal sea.
Bite marks
on the moon's torso
are testimonials
for each time
she bobbed below the surface
like a saint without feet.
At 9:34 PM a neighbor
sweeps his porch
with a short stubby broom.
The moon sinks
behind a cloud.
Fireflies are lost.
The street lamp
raises a fist
of ice
when a dead moon rolls by
in the empty bed
of a pick-up truck.
2.
Air conditioners surround
the garden,
where the cabbages
are fast asleep
and the beets
receive
in-laws
2
from the grave.
One block away
a single locust emerges.
3.
The moon is a ground hog
living beneath
our white shed.
She dines on white egg shells,
Antiguan coffee grounds.
Suddenly the creepers
with their long-legged chatter
call back and forth
across yellow hedges,
across the traffic
and air-conditioners,
across the impossible bones,
across railroad tracks
and political myths,
across the illuminated
bodies of Native Americans,
Afro-Americans,
Asian-Americans,
and, of course,
those blasted Irish
with their interminable shame
and beautiful persistence,
also, Greek-Americans
and French roots
clanging below
the green hurricanes
of Baton Rouge
whose swamps
and ancient alligators
include witches inside
the straw-colored bellies
of those dreaming reptiles!
3
4.
The cab driver is really nervous
when he pulls
into the yard.
It seems the moon
has given birth
to a clutch
sprawled
all over his backseat.
The cab driver is summoned
on his radio.
He begins drinking white wine
and dipping shrimp
into the humidity
of this summer night.
5.
Unfortunately, the paperwork
required for the recent wave
of deaths
is overwhelming
and I am unable
to assist the cab driver
in any fashion.
More neighbors arrive;
they are not
the moon's undertakers
so they pretend
not to notice
the cab driver
drunk from exhaust
or even his cab
illuminated by its
clutch of infant moons.
Such is the strange
behavior of neighbors.
4
6.
In any event
a car door closes
like a clam shell,
cicadas roar
through the forests
of the night
and a giant spruce
whose head rises
above the sky's ashes
is looking for her husband
last seen strolling
through darkness
with the half-moon.
5
Spanish Wine in Early Summer • Alan Britt
Spanish Wine in Early Summer
• Alan Britt
This Spanish wine
has all the dryness
of rattlesnake skin
abandoned between the forked thoughts
of an Arizona moon.
Moon
tinged
with bruises
on one side.
If this wine
truly is a snake
then it has silk scales
and the warmth
of a deep kiss
pressed by a complete stranger
against the lips of last night's dream.
This wine wears a loose fitting robe
while she writes
of loneliness
on pages made from parchment
and pearls
in her adolescent diary.
6
King Kong • K. Kvashay-Boyle
King Kong
• K. Kvashay-Boyle
ere there is a lurid lushness in the folds and leaves of
foliage, unmistakably lurid, damp and primal and
writhing with life, inviting and forgiving, yes, all of those things,
and that is exactly why Craig likes it here shaded in the flourishing undergrowth, relaxing, thinking nothing, feeling virile and
expansive and strong, and this scene would be absolutely perfect,
all of it, perfect, except for one lovely thing. She steps on the
twigs and they crack. She pulls on the fruit and it falls. She
opens her mouth and out pops fact after fact. Craig reaches to
smooth a bent Visalia frond, holds it in his hand, and as she talks
he feels the velvety silk of leaf against skin.
“Well the fact is, even in this country, reproductive success
is falsely cut short, you know? Like by these weird cultural rituals, right?” She is excited. Grass pokes up from beneath her.
She is holding Darwin’s Dreamscape in her hands, with a finger suggestively inserted between the lips of the book so the pages fold
around the finger like water around a rock in a stream. By ‘cultural rituals,’ Craig knows what she means. She means sexually
exclusive pair bonds: one male to one female. She means the
unnatural monogamous relationship, the myth of the passive
female, the attempt to halt unbearable evolutionary urges to
spread the seed and spread it far and wide. Yes, he knows just
exactly what she means. She means marriage. She means science.
“Baby, baby,” Craig makes his voice deep and he swings
Elvis hips, “drop the book and kiss me, please.” He’s knows
what’s coming. Some outlandish statistic on the puny testicle size
of gorillas. Some fun-filled fact on hermaphroditic slugs. To tell
the truth Craig doesn’t want science here with him on his plot of
dirt. In the garden he squirts her feet with the hose. She smiles
H
7
and ignores him. With the water on the feet he means leave me
alone. He means don’t crack through this green with that voice
of yours. And unless it’s science in a bikini today, unless today
Leigh wants to toss that book of hers down in the dirt and start
acting like the animalistic Darwinette she claims to be, well
unless all that’s finally and righteously true, today Craig wants to
hear none of it. He already knows all about it, twice, three times,
a hundred times over.
“No, but listen, Craig, seriously.”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” he laughs, “I got it. I hear you. Reproductive success. So what else’s new?” They have the books on
the shelf. He knows the drill. The revised theories on sexual
selection. The studies on sperm competition, with footnotes and
endnotes and asterisks for exceptions. The mountainous piles of
papers that surround the slippers on her side of the bed, with
their rigid tables and graphs and cross-referenced facts all
announce some starling new thing, some outlandishly true
exception to the rule every other uninformed sucker in town
plays by. Or at least thinks he plays by. Sarah Hrdy, PhD. Patty
Gowaty, PhD. Sexual Dialectics. Sexually antagonistic co-evolution. Concealed ovulation. Continuous receptivity. The thing of
it is, a guy could go on in his life and he could just not know
about all this stuff. He could be like the jokers in the delivery
room who believe with all their hearts that women are made
yielding, coy, and unfathomable. Unconcerned with the extrapair copulation. Naturally monogamous. Uninterested in range
and variety. Which, Craig knows as well as the published
researchers he and Leigh read about every month in Evolution
Today, is entirely untrue. What Craig can’t quite get is how this
information works in real life. How it works, for instance,
between himself and Leigh. Because as far as he can tell, it
doesn’t do much for them. This enlightenment. It doesn’t seem
much like Leigh has anything at all in common with the amorous
apes and their constant swollen vulvas, their insatiable appetites,
8
their manhandling of the males. And oh yes, it has to be seen to
be believed but Craig’s sat in on lectures and watched x-rated
classroom slides. These Bonobo chimps? They do sex while
manhandling. Oh they do it swinging, upside down, two to one,
three to five, male to male, more and more, while eating, while
shrieking, while their foremothers look on in encouragement,
when they meet, when they’re upset, when it’s time for bed and
when breakfast is brought out. Leigh, if you want to know the
truth, does the dishes. Not always, but she does them. She sips
tea in bed. She likes quiet movies and books about—well yes,
books about these perverse animalistic ménage tens, but also she
reads the books about Catherine and Heathcliff, the prim unconsummated yearnings between married types and their farmhands,
the warm-your-heart weepers she sniffles over when Craig takes
her to the beach. And what he’s been thinking, lately, is that
there must be some sort of angle, some way for all this to equal
something more, well, something more wild than the very nice
relations he and Leigh exchange in the bedroom. Bi-weekly.
With much love and tender care.
She steps unknowingly on a bud. She slaps quickly at a
mosquito on her arm. Her feet are bare. The dirt is black. She
stretches to hold a branch away from her face. Craig looks at the
hopeful outstretched limbs of the sycamore, he looks at the oak.
He splashes them both. “Well, so what I was thinking is that—
listen, Craig, this is serious, and I mean, if you don’t feel—well, I
don’t know. If you don’t feel good about this then we’ll just forget it, okay?” Craig listens and he knows that there is a deep
untapped potential in his body, a latent marbled vein of desire
running through him. “Okay,” she says, “if you wanted to, what
we could do is we could take up a residency in Uganda, and we
could apply for the Parish grant, you know, which I think I could
get, and we could study the cyclical mating habits of the Red
Fern Twit!”
Now did that sound like what Craig wanted to do?
9
No. It did not.
•
The party that night is far from swank, you’d have to be
deaf and blind and half dead to call it swank and even then you’d
have to be a mild-mannered academic too. The lobby’s as overlit as an operating room, presumably so that everyone can get a
nice long look at the scuffed tweed lounge chairs and cheese platters, and on top of it all there’s the location: they titter around
directly across from Shariff Lecture Hall for godssake—you
know, just in case one of them gets suddenly stuck by an idea so
profound she has to race over and give her speech in front of the
pulpit—and even this early on in the evening, even at this dismal
an affair, Craig is party people and already drunk. He stands surveying the room, its dreary fake plants, its tattered Research Initiative banner, the proud pyramid of cheap plastic cups by the
punch bowl, and he’s spoken at superhuman length on the Great
Tit with Professor Pricilla Richter’s camp of devoted bird watchers, he’s altruistically offered his two cents on Cooperative Hunting with Elizabeth Relles, and guess what? He’s burned out, he
is, he wants to get Leigh and leave here and go some place else
where there’s music and dancing and no heed paid to proper bibliographic citation. He’s burned out and by the time Tim Munro,
one on an endless list of Leigh’s most treasured professors,
ambles excitedly over to share his unique perspective on Bush
Meat Consumption Among Indigenous Peoples, Craig feels just
about ready to punch him in the throat.
“Well, Craig, what can I say? Bet you didn’t think this old
dog had it in him, but as I’m sure you’re well aware, the data is in,
yes sir, Leigh’s told you, am I right?” Stale breath, eyes askew,
and by god, the stench of the cheese. “Yup, all that’s left now is
configuration of statistics. And what a fine bunch of statistics
they are, young man, really fascinating percentages—don’t get
me started on the implications here.”
While Professor Tim Munro, with his voice like a distant
10
weedwhacker, buzzes on and on about pros and cons and percentages and industrialization, Craig absently watches Leigh work
the room. And she works it like a pro. Craig watches Leigh lean
over to whisper authoritatively in the ear of another scientist and
then he watches the two of them burst into schoolgirl giggles.
Craig sips at his vodka punch. The other scientist is very attractive. Dark flashing eyes, thick hair, all that, and soon enough
Craig’s mind is wandering; he’s thinking about what they need
from the grocery store, the nonfat milk, the pork chops, the pink
daisy razor packs, teriyaki chicken legs, lean hamburger patties,
breakfast links, bacon, ground beef, and as the items parade
across his mind he can see the sexy painted fingers of the checkout girl, clutching each item briefly, then scanning and bagging
and smiling at Craig and he can see it all as clearly as if he’s
replaying a movie. All the while, Tim Munro keeps right on talking without even pausing for breath and Craig keeps right on
watching the women, Leigh, Elizabeth, and the rest of them,
Shiva, Jodi, the wives and girlfriends, the tenured professors and
the research assistants, all of them with their degrees and their
field work and their video footage.
The thing is, Craig thinks bitterly, in this room, amongst all
these people with all this talk of bloody red meat and randy
females and sexual aggression, in the end it’s still nothing but
name-tags and hems below the knee. If someone could come up
with a theory—like this bit about the wanderlust in the lusty
female heart that all these articles go on and on about—well then
why in the world wouldn’t a woman like any of these women test
out her own theory in practice? In the men’s room? Right now?
Leigh is ridiculously faithful but with these types it’s all about the
theory. It’s all about framework, the research. And suddenly,
staring out at all of these prim women, a funny idea pops right
into Craig’s mind as if an apple out of the air hit him on the head.
He stands very still, and lets the essence of the idea wash over
him. No, he thinks, no, not in a million years. Unless, of
11
course... well, but no. Craig looks out at the crowd of data-hungry women, socio-biologists, geneticists, evolutionary psychologists. But the thing is, he thinks, you never know. Maybe. Just
maybe. Craig excuses himself, he stands for a while fingering the
fake plastic shrubbery, gets another drink, and an hour later he
approaches Leigh.
“You wouldn’t believe,” he says, “what Tim Munro was
telling me.”
“Hmm?” she says. “Too much shoptalk?”
“Never mind, no, it’s nothing.” He looks nonchalantly
away and waits for Leigh to lean in. “Well, it’s just that,” he stirs
his drink with his finger, “well, oh, I guess as a concept it doesn’t
have much bearing on real life, you know? It’s too bizarre. Forget I mentioned it.”
“Tim did you say? Tim Munro?”
“It’s nothing. Really. I don’t mean to shake things up.
How’s Elizabeth doing?”
“Well, as far as I know, Craig, he’s very thorough. Professor Munro? His reputation is solid fieldwork.”
“Yeah,” says Craig, “Yeah, you wouldn’t believe the things
he was saying, though. The nerve of some of these science types,
your own colleagues, sweetheart, it’s just so far-fetched.” The delicate scowl as she looks up at Craig is priceless. He shakes his
head. “What he thinks women are after? Leigh, honey, if you ask
me it just violates basic human nature.”
“Oh please, you’re really not being fair.” Leigh leans in
close enough for Craig to smell her shampoo and she glances
over at Professor Munro, who is at that exact moment explaining
something surely filthy to a group of grad students that involves
his hands over his head, as if he’s tipping a top hat. “And please
don’t say human nature here unless you’re joking because you
know as well as anyone what a sham that is, I mean Craig, we
have our customs but—”
“No, no, no: the question is do you want to be unfaithful?
12
To stray?”
“If I wanted to I would have.” She looks back at Tim
Munro.
“You see. Me neither. I was right all along.”
“Yes, but—”
“Nope, case closed. This theory stuff just doesn’t hold
up.”
“Okay,” Leigh says to Craig, “are you talking about—”
“No listen,” says Craig and as he gets to the gem of it, he
feels the excitement burn in his throat, “what I’m talking about is
the little deal Mister Munro and his lovely wife have worked out,
one which I’m sure you, my dear, would have no interest in.” He
sips his drink. He tries to hold his face still. The thing to do,
Craig knows, is plant the seed. And that’s it. Just plant. And
wait. “As a matter of fact,” he says, “I’m not even going to mention it. Frankly these types of ‘advanced scientific principles’ are
just a little perverse for my taste. I don’t know why we’re even
standing here having this conversation.”
“Perverse, did you say?” Leigh looks up in ready defense
of any extremist attitude such an expert might hold. Because, of
course, the radical text in her head is The Excess of the Amorous Ape
or Optimal Mating Habits of the Matriarchies or whatever. All this,
you see, despite her personal habits. All this despite the strict
loyalty she advocates and practices, and Craig, at this point, wants
to whoop out laughing, he wants to shout gotcha, he wants to
reach out and slap Shiva across her ample backside, but he knows
better than that, he’s a smooth operator, and all that betrays him
is the sparkle in his eye.
•
Craig and Leigh go home later and watch television. On
The Nature Show a peacock uses his elaborate tail feathers to
entice a mate. Craig and Leigh make love. Craig thinks about the
supermarket checkout clerk and the tiny furious breasts standing
out proud and braless against her shirt. Leigh thinks about wal13
ruses defending their turf.
•
A small pile of weeds, crabgrass spikelets and kudzu seed
twitch in the breeze. On hands and knees Craig yanks at the dirt.
Divots of Miracle-Gro deep in the soil. Dig just a little. If it
were someone else, okay, a different time in his life, well, the
solution would be simple. Because come on, as great as Leigh is,
five years with one brand is some kind of commitment. When
the hollow is deep enough Craig takes the broken eggshells, carefully preserved from a week of breakfasts, and lets them crunch.
He sets them in sparingly, with a generous layer of rich dirt
between each new deposit. He burps every layer, patting gently
at the soil. And yes, if the situation were different, a different
girlfriend maybe, he could do it without regrets, he knows from
experience. You see, something like that doesn’t bother a guy
like Craig. But Leigh, on the other hand, she’s a woman of high
moral standards. And he couldn’t do a thing like that to her.
Cheat. Lie. Sneak. No way. He moves to the tree, tugs up a
dandelion shoot and out pops a whole clump of moist earth.
Take the well-tred path and she might find out. Leigh’s a smart
lady. He deepens out the hole. Sticks in seeds, Miracle-Gro, eggshells. Plus they’ve always been so open and honest with each
other, which is not something Craig would knowingly give up.
But come on, a person needs a little variety in life, right? It’s only
natural.
Take Traci: viable, approachable, and ripe with sensuality.
Craig feels the wet soil crumble through his fingers and he pictures Traci guarding the food at the end of the conveyer belt with
her cheerful nametag and her come-hither-stare. He relives last
week’s breathy exchange, how she always remembers his name
and how she stresses it over the abundance of bananas and cherries and boxed eggs—which by the way, she opens up to check,
very thoughtful, thorough girl—and how her little square teeth
shine when she laughs at his jokes.
14
“Do you need anything, honey?” Craig says when he
comes in with gloves in his hands and dirt on his knees. “From
the store?”
•
“Okay,” Leigh smiles and shakes her head in giddy disgust.
“Cheat on your lover?” Craig sets down his magazine. Their bed
is a topographical map, jutting hilltops and knees, the smooth
spread of a relaxed thigh, and the lime cotton sheets running
over all of Leigh like prairie grass. She displays an elaborate
cover and points with exaggeration, as if it’s a cereal commercial,
at a woman whose flowing hair cascades down the bulging hulk
of her lover. “Like you said before? Ask the question—and I
don’t just mean fantasy—I mean really ask the question and
guess what: you’ve got the answer.”
She goes back to the novel, she turns the page and lets out
a gasp of mock scandal. Craig snuggles up next to her.
“Oh I know,” he says, “absolutely, I agree. But just think:
what if the question weren’t even the issue? Right, sweetheart?
Because isn’t that what you’re really saying?”
“Hmm?” Leigh answers without looking up.
“Well, I don’t know. Sounds to me like you’ve been thinking about what Professor Munro and his wife do.”
Over the lip of the book she smiles at him. “Did he really
say all that? How’d he put it?”
“I swear to god.”
“Can you believe that?” She stares down at her novel, and
as Craig looks back to the magazine, from the corner of his eye
he sees her shake her head, and Craig isn’t exactly counting but
it’s not two minutes later that she lays her book in her lap, spine
up. “Well, so what exactly did he say?”
“Just like I said. Maximize their reproductive success.”
“They have affairs.”
“Well, no, god you’re so harsh sometimes, baby, that’s not
how he put it at all—he said that they both knew and agreed. It
15
was like a contract.”
“Yeah, sure, but reproductive success, I mean what? Was
he really about to raise some other guy’s kid? If she got pregnant?”
“Well, I think as a couple they were more interested in, how
did you put it, lack of restriction. As a concept. So that they
could behave like in a way that’s more in tune with, um, I think
he said with what our bodies are designed for?”
“Yeah. Well, yeah, I can see that.”
“Yeah, he said you would.”
“Oh, no way. Gross, Craig, you didn’t say you guys were
talking about me.” She pauses to consider something, then
scrunches her face and smiles in disbelief. “But he did, though?
He said me?”
Now, if Professor Munro were attractive at all, even just the
tiniest bit, Craig knew, this bait wouldn’t work. But as it was the
great scientist, with his crooked nose and slumped lips, his bad
breath, loose skin and slipped disk, was elderly, pudgy, and
entirely repulsive. So Craig went right ahead. “Said you were an
‘astute observer of the primate’s honestly expressed sexuality.’”
“An honestly expressed sexuality.” Her face takes on a kind
of transfixed serenity when she discusses her research into evolutionary theory and that’s just the way her face looks now, as she
repeats the words.
“It’s natural he said.”
“Yeah well, but a little dangerous, don’t you think?”
Craig shrugs noncommittally, “Beats me.” He picks up his
magazine and cracks it open. He flips the pages. “How long
have those two been married, anyway?”
Leigh looks over at him and she closes up her book and
puts it on the table. “Wow.” She reaches for her tea. “An honestly expressed sexuality, huh?” She sips and stares into the cup.
“But just in behavior, though, no consequences. They use contraceptives.”
16
“Yeah, that was my understanding of it.”
“Those two seem awfully happy. I just wouldn’t suspect
something like that.”
“You know? It worked out for them. Maybe it’s the, I
don’t know, the dropped pretense or something. According to
this, of course”—he holds up the article, Symmetry and Sexual
Attractiveness—“it’s just the way our libidos have adapted.”
“Well, yes, of course, but wouldn’t it drive you crazy? To
know your partner’s out running wild? I mean, come on, who
would really want that?”
Craig thinks about crushing the crisp starch of Traci’s
pressed uniform. He thinks about tugging her hair out of its
high ponytail and smelling it. Burying his face in it. Feeling it on
his chest.
“I don’t know, honey, how much it’s an issue of what someone wants. I think it’s more—well let’s see, how did Professor
Munro put it? Acknowledging our natural behavioral potential.”
Leigh shakes her head in wonder.
“It’s really just that simple. I mean, it really is.” Leigh looks
at Craig, and he can see the awe, the enthusiasm of science working away, clicking in her brain, variables and facts sliding into all
the appropriate slots. “God. That Professor Munro,” she says,
“he’s a genius of risk. Do you realize this? What a risk that is? A
pretty big professional risk, Craig.” Leigh covers her face and
laughs. “God, Maggie! He and Maggie! Can you even imagine?”
Craig laughs too and lies back against the pillow with practiced nonchalance. “Yeah, how on Earth would you set a thing
like that up?” he says. “The parameters, I mean? Logistics.”
Leigh sticks her finger in the tea to dunk the bag. She licks
the finger. It’s just the tiniest pause, and then: “He didn’t say
anything about that?”
Outside, the plants feel the dirt. The flowers have already
closed their faces to the thick dark night. Leigh holds the tea cup
with both hands and when she looks at Craig he can’t look away.
17
He has to time it. He has to be sure it’s right.
“Well, actually,” he says and he leans up on one elbow and
he pauses long enough to flash Leigh his most charming look.
His most vulnerable, trustworthy look. Then, as a co-conspirator, Craig smiles wide, and so does she. He shrugs. He takes his
time. In the end, the two of them write up the contract in just
under three hours. The signatures, snug like that, stacked
together on the page, are like a couple of sleeping cocoons, yes.
But let me tell you, there is a supercharge in that room. In their
excitement they take out the whiskey and sip little sips. They discuss hypotheticals and set parameters and it gets to a point where
the voltage in that room could set a forest on fire. Neither can
believe the other’s audacity, their collective illicit secret. The sex
is fantastic. For breakfast, they each eat more than their usual
share. They have bacon with their sausage. They laugh at the
funnies. They sing in the shower.
•
There are of course all sorts of looks a woman gives a man.
At the bank, the teller, a busty Chicana, all but winks. The girls
waiting for the bus seem each to offer up the seats beside them,
but it’s the redhead who smiles and Craig notes it with a special
relish. And the idea of it all, the true idea the way that he’s read
about it in Leigh’s books, starts to tickle him pink. He knows
about how the most viable is the female who has successfully
reproduced once: she’s veteran, fertile, and can endure the physical trials of gestation. Young mothers, their toddlers swaying on
strollers, are suddenly irresistible. Sexy divorcées seem to linger
in every doorway on his block. Everywhere Craig looks the
world is blooming with female possibility.
The thing is, it’s not about living with no rules. The new
phase in the primary relationship is by trial arrangement only,
and will proceed for three months of experimentation time,
effective immediately, he knows as much. Protection must
always be worn, regardless of the circumstances. Obviously.
18
Tests would be taken. Every six months. And yes, Leigh has full
permission to use any information about this situation in any
book on animal behavior that she might someday write, with the
understanding of course that all names be changed. And regardless of whatever goes on when they’re out by the time they get
home there’s no telling, no hints, lips sealed—because really, if
it’s flaunted who wouldn’t get jealous? The rules, ask Craig, are
okay by him. The plan is just about a perfect one. Because there
is something he knows, something he hasn’t let on about.
See, Craig and Leigh, they’ve been together five years now,
and Craig knows Leigh pretty well. He’s overheard her hushed
girls-only-conversations, he’s seen what she writes in her diary.
She’s a sexual person, sure, but the thing about Leigh is that she’s
a one-man woman. There is such a type, you know. And she’s
embarrassed. She needs to feel comfortable. She takes a long
time. For Leigh, Craig knows, three months is nothing. The two
of them dated for a full three months at least before they ever so
much as necked with abandon. But here, this way it’s perfect
because Leigh can have her titillation, she can have her audacity,
and it’ll be just like the daily thrill she gets at the zoo when she
watches those captive Bonobos charge. Vicarious. Dangerous.
And thrilling. Yes. But what’s the appeal, really? The appeal is
the possibility. That we came from that, that we’re still, underneath it all, like that. We don’t have to do the things they do to
prove it. Possibility, permission, the promise of adventure, it’s
everything.
At three-thirty, when Traci’s shift starts, Craig slips on a
clean t-shirt, cool, but not too much like he’s trying. Sort of
wind-blown hair. He dresses as if there’s some woman in the
room watching him, and he plays his music loud in the car and
when he walks up to the automatic doors they open with what
seems like a special flourish he’s forgotten to note every other
day of his life.
He makes his selection carefully: thick steak. Sweet red
19
grapes. Chocolate. Spearmint gum. Plain chapstick. One lotto
ticket for luck. And pulpless Tropicana orange juice for all the
promise of morning that it holds.
Waiting in line, listening to Traci’s scanner beep, he can see
her with her barrettes and her earrings, and he feels already
proud of himself. It’s all foreplay. This consistent intensity.
Craig knows it’s best like this when there’s anticipation. He
knows just what he’ll say, he’s rehearsed it, he’s ready. Her uniform, today, looks especially crisp. Fresh-pressed. A little tight.
He’ll just say it outright. He’ll ask for next week, though, so she
can have time to get excited about it. And he’ll be sure not to
come back in until after, so she can build up some hope and he
should do something extra, flowers. Daisies. For the first date.
He knows how it will go, how she’ll laugh, how she’ll flush pink,
how she’ll note the steak and wonder why he finally chose today
of all days. When he gets to her he looks her straight in the eye.
He stands as tall as he can. He uses his deep voice.
The scanner beeps. She blinks twice. “Oh. Greg. Thank
you so much for asking, and I’m flattered, I really am.” She
laughs. “That’s so sweet.” She smiles and he pictures the place
he’ll take her: Diego’s, on Oceanside, for oysters and beer, intimate, dark and they have booths there, good music on Fridays.
Her pink lips. Her tiny hands. “But I, well—here’s the thing.
Okay, listen, Greg, the thing is, I’m afraid I have to say no. Okay?
I’m sorry. But please believe me when I say how flattered I am
because I really am and you really are a nice guy.”
The magazine racks say space invasion. Elvis lives. The
lights flicker bright and brighter. The total is clearly displayed.
Sixteen twenty-seven. At first he thinks he’s misheard and then
she has to say paper or plastic and she seems embarrassed for
him. And he wants to ask why. He wants to try again. It happens so fast. When he leaves it feels as if he’s left his wallet, but
he checks and he hasn’t. He opens up the chocolate and eats it
all right there in the parking lot. He finds out later why it is,
20
though. He sees Traci downtown one day. She doesn’t even
have short hair but she’s kissing another girl. On the cheek, yeah,
but you could tell. No wonder. Fine. But with the teller it isn’t
as nice.
“Sorry,” she says flatly. “Did you still want your withdrawal?”
“That’s it?” Craig throws up his hands. “You don’t have to
even think about it?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mister Etalon.”
“You’re married, that’s why.”
“It’s not your business.”
This he was not expecting. With Traci it was some sort of
fluke, but this? This teller’s smiled at him before, he knows it. A
special sort of smile. Not just any smile. Craig stands there
blankly, considering his options. Maybe do they want it worded
some other way? He looks back at the woman behind the plexiglass and starts again, he tries to start again, but she sighs and
interrupts him before he’s even half-way through his description
of the restaurant he’s selected, just for her, with lighting to complement her tone, and oysters on the half-shell, fresh and salty,
the Martinis that she wouldn’t believe, the Martinis that would
just blow her mind.
“Look, I’m not married, I just don’t want a date with you
and that’s the end of the conversation. Now unless you have
some business here with the bank?”
•
Leigh’s dream is Jordan’s face extra close. Jordan’s face
inches from her face straight on filling up everything she can see
and then sliding sideways, tilting full-frame until, inches away, he
is sideways. He must be lying down. Where she can get him.
Where she can touch him, and have him. He must be.
•
After the teller, Craig drives to Kinley’s Record Emporium
and he decides that the first stranger to smile at him will be the
21
one. Then he decides to try the first woman he can see wearing
red. Then it’s the shortest skirt. The most obviously dyed hair.
The employee of the month. He’s out of fucking luck. It’s his
shoes, his clothes, his teeth—is there something in his teeth? By
the time he drives home, with the radio off, five miles over the
limit, no dinner in his stomach and the good food gone bad in
the trunk, Craig is in no mood to find the house empty.
Which is, of course, exactly what he finds.
There is a little note. With a heart. Sushi with the girls, it says.
Craig crumples the little note into a little ball and he throws it on
the floor. He orders a pizza.
In the garden, something has knocked over the bird-feeder.
A raccoon? A cat?
On television they show the Lotto billboards around town.
It’s a giant jackpot. Millions and millions of dollars. The pizza,
with its stingy cheese and sparse toppings, it just isn’t very good.
It just isn’t good enough.
•
Vicious systems exist, but it’s sort of ingenious too, the
checks and the balances that are all set up. Take, for instance, the
very earliest moments of the African spotted hyena’s existence.
They’re born, they break free from the sac, and fight each other
to the death. That’s what they do. First thing ever in life. It
really is amazing. And in other ways, too. Because at first, for
years, the researchers—and well, yes, it’s true they were all male
researchers, and it’s an implausible, enormous misunderstanding,
but the fact is, they just didn’t know how to categorize them.
They didn’t understand. How on earth, these earnest researchers
thought, could there exist self-perpetuation in a species that is
entirely homosexual? Well, testosterone does funny things to a
female when it’s present like that in such high doses, muscle tone,
aggression, and suffice it to say the clitoral shaft has to be seen to
be believed. Leigh sits in her parked car and carefully, in the rearview mirror, she brushes on mascara. Tentative strokes. Or
22
maybe believed isn’t the word for what it is you see. Would a guy
like Craig be able to understand it if he saw it with no description, with just his own binoculared eyes? Or would Craig check
marks on graph paper and set out on a never-ending-hunt for
what must be the most elusive female ever to meet the match of
safari science? Leigh is pretty sure she knows. She can picture
him and it isn’t so much a failing as it is just a mindset. With the
endowments of Ms Hyena, it may be more accurate to say she
has to be imagined to be believed. Maybe it’s the seeing that
mixes people up.
Leigh checks the time. Twelve-twenty. She doesn’t want to
get there too early. She brought a book just in case. She checks
the time again and then she checks her hair, shaking it out and
fluffing it up. When she finds Jordan’s old phone number in her
keepsake box, it’s a tattered sheet of notebook paper. It’s an artifact from a foreign land of boyfriends past, a concrete detail to
ground her somewhere in the swirl of her memory’s fluctuating
lust. When she thinks of what Jordan was like, she knows how
he will squeeze her neck and lick her wrists. She knows just
which movies to discuss. She knows that he will always stand up
to get sugar for her tea. She sits in the car and she opens up her
purse. She takes the well-worn scrap of paper out again and she
holds the phone number in her hands. She looks at his blocky
handwriting. The big J, the strong N.
She remembers well the damp sweat against her cheek
when Omar clutched at her in undergraduate heartbreak on the
dance floor, she revisits high school with visions of the track
team in mini-shorts hurling themselves over those high wooden
barriers, and reminisces, one might even say regularly, about the
perfect tempo of Jordan’s sophomore hips, his sloppy kisses, his
drummer’s arms. But you have to understand, that’s all perfectly
normal, and what’s more it’s in the past. All things considered,
she felt that this experiment she and Craig were embarking upon
was a noble one, a notch on her belt, a medal on her lapel. It was
23
thrilling to put the science to the test. It was open-minded.
Avant-garde. And the truth of it was, she felt proud of Craig for
his unorthodoxy, his generosity of spirit, his relentless pursuit of
knowledge, and especially for what she knew full well all of this
required: his full deep faith in the security and foundation of
their relationship. After all, what good is a loyalty born of
restriction? If anyone had bothered to ask Leigh, that’s what she
would say. She has it planned out. But she doesn’t want him to
think anything bad like she’s using him or something, so she
decides not to tell Jordan outright. She touches the steering
wheel. Maybe if she just doesn’t bring it up at all.
She puts the paper away, gets out of the car, and when they
sit together for lunch Leigh sizes him up, searching for symmetry
in the lines of his ear lobes and in the creases of his laugh lines.
And it’s there. It is. The strong jaw, the cleft chin. It’s there, all
of it and more.
•
Gianne is a sure thing. Okay. Enough is enough. Gianne’s
been after Craig for years. A sure thing, because he remembers
clearly kissing her at a party, and he remembers every time since
how boldly she compliments his taste. In music, in books and in
anything else that ever comes up whenever they find themselves
again at the same sort of dimly lit, late night events. It’s been a
full three years since that kiss, yes, and they were both quite
drunk, yes, but he and Leigh ran into Gianne just two months
ago, and at the time he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but
Gianne told Leigh that Craig was “quite a catch,” and she said it
with a low-cut shirt and Craig standing right there listening.
Gianne accepts with no questions asked. Okay. Which is a
good sign, definitely. On their first date, after flattery and smiles
and a fancy forty-five dollar dinner, after brushing knuckles in
the snack bag which rests only inches from her bosom, Craig
boldly grazes his hand against Gianne’s heavy left breast during
the love scene at the Cineplex and she stands abruptly in the the24
ater, spilling popcorn in her wake. But instead of taking Craig
home to ravish, she calls a taxi on her tiny phone and deserts the
scene without even waiting to find out how it ends up on the big
screen for Leo and Kate.
•
In the bathroom mirror Leigh stares at her morning self.
Women cloud their true faces every morning under concealer
and powder and lipstick, with moisturizer and toner and oxy 10.
At the same time, a sink away, men clear their faces from shadow
as the razor blade scrapes away their only hope of disguise,
increasing exposure. Women get perms. Men go bald.
When it’s early Leigh looks smaller, less well-defined. She
brushes her teeth and lets the foam dribble down her chin.
Leigh knows things. She looks at herself. She knows things she
doesn’t quite let on about.
For instance, Leigh knows that in evolutionary terms there
is such a thing as antagonism. You see, what’s good for the
goose is not necessarily what’s good for the gander. Obvious,
maybe, but a thing to think about. A thing to take advantage of.
Because what’s really the point of this open evolutionary behavior if there isn’t something at stake? Some sort of sperm competition or something, at least. She brushes her tongue. She
brushes the roof of her mouth. Women don’t need the urge for
babies, that’s not the way it works. All you have to want is the
sex, and the rest—well, it just happens for you one way or the
other. And Leigh’s no different, she doesn’t think she’s any different, but what she wouldn’t mind is just finding out. You
know. Which one it is. Who’s the better match for her particular
genes. It’s just a thing she’s wondering. It would be crazy, she
knows, to do sex without protection.
Then again, she understands something that maybe Craig
isn’t clear on: an increment in the swiftness of the gazelle is a
blow to the lion. It’s simple. It’s true. She spits. She rinses the
sink. She feels faster. She feels invincible. And for no reason at
25
all in the mirror she flexes both arms like a superhero.
In the kitchen, clean-shaven Craig cooks breakfast. Cracks
the eggs, saves the shells. When Leigh walks down the stairs he’s
got the newspaper spread out across the table and he’s checking
the numbers against it.
Craig plays the lotto. Up to five tickets at a time. Maximizes his chance. Leigh jokes that the lotto is a self-imposed tax
on people who are too stupid to grasp odds, a whole community
who choose to punish themselves for failing the world’s math
test. People like Craig. Who lose every week just to lose again
the next.
She sits down. She takes the plate he hands her. She eats
the eggs he’s scrambled.
“I was thinking,” she says. “Have you ever thought about,
you know, babies, ever? Like us having some?”
“What? Now?” Craig looks up from the newspaper. “Are
you crazy, what are you talking about this for?”
“Well, I don’t know, maybe we should just—” she waves
her hands vaguely around the kitchen, “forget all this. You know,
we could go to Uganda. Like I said. The Red Fern Twit, Craig. I
wanted to do that, you know. I’m serious about that.” And yes,
it’s a test, but she doesn’t so much mean it as one until the hopeful words are already hanging in the kitchen air.
“Uganda? Are you out of your mind? You’re asking me
now to go to Uganda? Jesus Christ, Leigh, what’s the deal, here?
Huh?”
“Fine,” she says. “Fine. Real nice of you, Craig, you know.
Sorry I asked.” She stands up and puts on the kettle. She thinks
of Jordan’s scent, she thinks of the place on her waist where Jordan held her down. With that arm. She reaches around and tries
to recreate it. She smiles. She hums. She checks her watch,
straightens her skirt, and Craig is watching her. Suddenly he sets
down the paper. She looks at him, with his pathetic stack of
lucky picks, the tension in his shoulders, those soggy scrambled
26
eggs.
“You’re pregnant, that’s it, right? Am I right?”
Leigh rolls her eyes. “No, tell me, Craig: how exactly could
I be?”
“What, I don’t know, you stopping by the sperm bank on
your way home from work or something?”
“That’s disgusting, Craig, and you know it.” Leigh rinses
her cup in the sink and sighs. Typical. “I just was bringing up
some suggestions, okay? You don’t have to be so nasty.” But
when she looks back at Craig he looks so utterly defeated that in
a sudden panic of condolence she reaches for polite, for interested-in-his-interests, for the vacuum that will suck the dead air
out of the conversation and re-inflate it with banter. Friendly
banter. Lover’s banter. “Look, I meant more like hypothetically,” she says. “Mainly you know, I was just thinking out loud.
It’s a dumb idea. Forget it.” She tries to think of something else
to say. “How’s the plants? Begonias, right? The begonias?
Sweetheart? How’s it going with that?”
She looks at Craig. It’s not that Jordan’s better, it’s just that
he’s newer. And not so uptight. And he does the thing with the
sugar for the tea. He pulls out the chair for her before she sits
down. He makes her feel sexy. And plus, she thinks, I mean,
what would I do if Craig died? Or if something bad should happen to him? It would be crazy, yes she knows, to do sex without
protection. Crazy. Destructive. There’s Craig sitting there like
that. It would be crazy, she thinks. And already she regrets it.
•
The fact of the matter is, evolution and sexual selection and
primal urges happen. It’s not like not knowing makes it not happen. And so for Leigh there is no forty-five dollar dinner. There
is no darkened Cineplex, no spilled popcorn. What there is for
Jordan and Leigh is energetic heterosexual copulation. Extrapair copulation. Primal screaming copulation. Legs in the air,
discarded clothing thrown with abandon and fierce untamed
27
mating, wild outrageous lunch-break coitus, lock-the-bathroomdoor and park-in-secluded-spots sex. But also there is more.
“Aw come on,” he slips into the booth, “we’ve been doing
nothing but these lunchy diners—Leigh, you gotta let me take
you out someplace nice for a change. Friday night, huh, someplace like where we could grab a bottle of wine, what do you
say?” Jordan talks and Leigh watches his thick hair, his straight
teeth.
“It’s just that I’m busy. With work. Ow, no, I’m serious—
please, Jordie,” says Leigh, and she leans in to sniff his clean man
scent, “tell me you respect the hours I put in, jesus I used to hate
that about you.” When he reaches over and sets his effective
hand on top of hers, Leigh can’t help but note the well-shaped
joints, the unvarying proportion of those muscular, sturdy hands.
I’m a one-man woman, she thinks, I am, it’s just that I want to try
this out and see.
“You can’t, huh? Well. Maybe,” Jordan arcs a brow,
“maybe next week if you’re not too busy, maybe you could pencil
me in, huh? Make me more than an afterthought?”
She ought to start carrying the heavy data-books around
with her, make it more feasible. Craig is so different. Not so
indignant. But then when Jordan orders his club sandwich with
panache, Leigh thinks Yes, just like that. In a diner in the future
my handsome kids could order food in just that way, with just
that tone, that lilt, that cozy hospitality. And then Jordan, with
that hand, squeezes her knee under the table and it’s all over. She
slides closer to him. She smells him. She wants her hands in his
hair.
“Another thing,” she says, “that used to drive me nuts.”
“What’s that?”
“The flirting with the waitress, yeah.”
“Really? Huh, not so much the nicest compliment I’ve ever
gotten, you know.”
Jordan shifts in his seat and Leigh knows there’s no point in
28
resisting, and it’s all she can do to avoid burying her face in the
scent underneath his arm. “And you still smoke,” she says.
“People hate that.”
“Vicious today, huh? Think I don’t notice your nasty habits?”
“Okay, and what time is it because you’re always late.”
“Okay,” Jordan grabs her wrist, “completely irresponsible.”
“What? Please.”
“How behind are you,” he bites his lip, “that you work
weekends. Right?”
Leigh feels her cheeks go hot. She looks at Jordan. She
looks at his hand on her wrist. “Also,” she says, “your terrible
posture.”
He smiles. The other hand is on her knee, just as it would
be in any romance novel of hers. His shirt stretches tight across
sturdy eager shoulders that are so different from Craig’s, shoulders that are underneath that shirt just like the brawny shoulders
embossed on any front cover.
“Christ,” Jordan says, “I’m tempted to just take the afternoon off again, huh?” He smiles. “Yeah? Shall we? Hey, I
mean, I’m tempted, I really am, this crazy schedule it seems like
it’ll be June before you’ve got anything other than lunch dates
available for a smoker like me, huh?” He squeezes tighter before
he lets go of her wrist and Leigh feels the blood pump under her
skin.
The waitress brings out their drinks and Leigh watches her
give gorgeous Jordan the once-over. Jordan smiles and Leigh
knows this experiment she and Craig have embarked upon is not
a rationalization. It is not an excuse to get away with it. That’s
not how evolutionary theory works. Like it or not, sexual selection is just the explanation for how it already is. Why we already
are this way that we so irrevocably are.
“Hey come on, you don’t want to slip outside, Jordie?
Have a quick smoke?”
29
“Leigh,” Jordan pats her thigh, “you’re going to have to ask
nicer than that.”
Like it or not, the body does tricky things on your behalf.
To engage in autoerotic sex play, to jill-off, masturbate, pet the
kitty, diddle the skittle—it’s all a secret weapon, and Leigh knows
it. Maybe if you take a new lover, for instance, one like Jordan
for instance, with his broad flat chest and his narrow muscular
waist, well then maybe you might be more prone, in his immediate absence, to go on a solo run. On the off days. The days
when he’s not available. Just because you want to. You’re compelled to. It seems innocuous enough, but what that does is it
arms the womb with the deadly forces of vaginal secretions,
more deadly than an ordinary man might imagine. The vulva,
inviting as it may be, is not a hospitable place for the male’s procreative offerings. Leigh knows as much. That’s why they come
in alkaline ejaculate, and by the millions.
Acidic, lethal, and abundant, when the masturbated cervix
trembles and dips in orgasmic spasms it is these natural secretions that are sucked deeply up and which then wait to disarm
and pulverize whatever unsuspecting ejaculate later enters the
scene. Leigh watches Jordan fiddle with his watch. She wants
him to be done eating. She wants to leave with him. She feels his
thigh against her thigh. Like if for instance on one of those selfgratification days maybe your usual partner should enter the
scene and have his hopeful, earnest ejaculation effectively immobilized? Well, then the natural, spontaneous cycle of desire is acting for you as birth control. But situation-specific birth control.
Stacking odds in favor of the new lover. With whom—on nonmasturbatory days—you maybe experience similarly timed,
incredibly intense climax. During which the dipping spasms of
the cervix dunk into and carry up his seed. That is if you were,
on one of those days, to happen to engage in natural, unprotected copulation, of course. People are built for this sort of
thing.
30
•
So she starts pulling new moves in bed and Craig can’t
believe it. The last time, he found the manual with Picasso’s
nude on the cover, but this time, hey his confidence is low, it’s a
touchy subject, and he’s not so sure. The decision to follow her
is maybe a bad decision. It’s maybe a decision made in the thick
haste of the moment. But it’s what has to be done. Here is the
salt and the pepper. The frying pan hisses. He throws the one
with red in the yolk down the drain. He puts the kettle on the
stove. The thing is, she’s never home late, and as far as Craig can
tell, she doesn’t plan anything out of the ordinary. Unless it’s
someone at work. Unless her construct is so elaborate that she
writes nonsense in her daily planner.
He calls in sick to the office—food poisoning—and he
waits around the block for Leigh’s car to coast out onto the street
and turn left and enter the onramp. Then he has to wait for
some other cars to go first so it isn’t so obvious.
There was one time he thought she maybe had a date. He
wants to just ask. But she doesn’t ever ask him anything. It
must’ve gone badly. She doesn’t seem in the least bit concerned.
Which must mean that there’s nothing going on. Because if
there were, well then she would be jealous, then she’d be thinking
he’s doing the same. He pulls out on to their street. He holds
back behind the pickup. He keeps her in his sights. Research lab
today, observations tomorrow, he knows, he checked so even if
he loses her for a second it’s okay, it’s no big deal. Neither of
them has mentioned the experiment since they signed the papers.
Leigh’s underwear drawer doesn’t look any better stocked. Her
diary is nowhere to be found. She gets on the freeway. She’s
three cars ahead. He changes lanes. Does she want me to marry
her, Craig thinks, is that it? Fine, he thinks. I’ll ask her. I’ll
marry her. Fine by me, done deal.
But what he sees when he follows her is not what he wants
to see. What he sees even from across the street is a flush rising
31
up Leigh’s throat and coloring her cheeks. He sees a tall, stylishly
dressed and surely well-endowed man meet her outside the
research labs for lunch and then he sees that there is no Wednesday yoga class at six-thirty. Six-thirty comes and goes and her
lone car sits like a lost sock in the lab’s lot 4C and Craig follows
them both packed in together in the man’s shiny red truck. The
tall man drives a truck. The tall man touches her skin. He talks
inches from her ear, he makes her blush. What’s worse, they go
to the travel store and come out with shopping bags bulging full
of things Craig can’t see.
Uganda! Jesus Christ, thinks Craig, I have to act fast.
They climb into the car and Craig follows them. Craig
thinks about killing them. They stop only once, for milkshakes,
like this is some kind of a joke. Women are built to be promiscuous. So are men, but it’s no big deal, everyone knows about that.
With women it’s like a secret. With everything going on inside
where no one can see what happens. But there are pros and cons
to every system, Craig knows as much. There are fertility clinics
everywhere. Probably one in this town. I’ll look it up, he thinks,
if she leaves me I’ll go there. I’ll fill out the forms. I’ll spread my
seed, my genes will propagate and then we’ll see what’s fair.
Then we’ll see who wins.
From three cars behind he follows them. Leigh. And that
man. Together. SAT scores? Hobbies? Height, weight, coloring. History of heart disease? Favorite foods? Craig pictures the
faceless hordes of fertility-seeking women reviewing his sheets,
scanning his scores, measuring his dick and passing him on, only
just one contestant, only just one in a stack of twenty, fifty, and
hundred or more. But he knows he’s got what it takes. He
knows that there is an inequality. A female failing. A score one
for the home team. He envisions his private resources, an army
just waiting in the wings, and for every woman who says no
thanks, he has inside himself millions more to compensate. He is
filled with more of himself than he could ever possibly use. He
32
imagines it and he sits in his car outside of the research lab long
after Leigh’s Honda has left hugging the curves of the lot behind
the truck of her tall man in his fancy well-cut suit. Which is bad,
yes. A low point. Yes.
And the next day’s even worse. It’s true. Because the next
day—observation day—Craig lurks like an assassin in the crowds
at Leigh’s workplace, just to discover the extent of it. I mean
does this guy come for her every day, or what? Hold her hand in
the enclosure? Feel her up while she charts data? Suckle her toes
over their mutual joy at punctuated equilibrium? Craig doesn’t
even use the family pass they share, no he buys his anonymous
ticket for full price and he loses her as she passes through security clearance, but he’s visited before, he figures where to slip
between the buildings, how to climb past the fake moats, and
how to watch from far away. He knows where she sits. He has
his binoculars in case he needs them. He has come prepared.
What he discovers is this: a woman is an animal.
It might not be clear at first but that is a fact.
Leigh sits still with her clipboard, crouching just inside the
enclosure checking off things on her chart like who grooms who
and how often and under what circumstances. Craig knows as
much. She’s shown him her weekly forms often enough. He’s
even walked past here before, on the public tour, but what he
hadn’t noticed before, and what he notices now, is the sheer animal stench of them, all these hairy, hooting apes, swaying
together under San Diego’s pathetic attempt at jungle trees and
cavorting and copulating and grinning and stinking. As he settles
in Craig feels enveloped in the stench like a tent zipped up
behind him. Surrounded with leaves of camouflage Craig tries to
let the greenery and the concrete of the zoo calm him down—
get it together, he thinks, just relax, no one can see you—but
when he touches the unforgiving ground the dirt’s packed tight
and it wafts up into the air and into his dry mouth and becomes
just another part of the thick living smell of them.
33
He envisions the tall man touching Leigh in the back of the
truck and there’s that and then there’s the meaty thick fur stench
and he wants to heave. This has to stop, he thinks, I have to stop
this. All the while he has the ring in his pocket and the checkbook balance to prove it’s deadly seriousness. He pictures the
way her face looked. He has the black velvet box with the ring
inside and whatever else pours out when he opens up that box
for her tonight, the ring inside is pure undistilled hope. It can be
taken care of fair and square, he thinks, and we can move on
from this and get married and be normal and no one will ever
have to know. Uganda, he thinks, you never know what Uganda
might be like. He peeks over the bushes at Leigh and like it or
not there it all is in all its glory spread out right before his very
eyes.
It is the sex. The sex is happening.
In person it is so much faster. My god, the smell. All Craig
had ever seen were the slides. He’d only ever read about it.
When he’d taken the tour they’d been grazing or something but
Jesus Christ they weren’t doing this. They weren’t eating bugs
from each other’s heads and smearing wet sticky fruit on their
overlarge handlike feet and rolling on their backs in autoerotic
acts that involve all the apparent ecstasy fruit offers to those who
use it well and without shame. But here they are doing it all now,
right in front of him, this unsettling sex in the flesh right here in
front of his hidden, stooping self, here they are without shame
engaged in the sex act not twenty feet from Leigh and her clipboard, rolling together like that right there, face to face, arms
clasped, rumps swinging wildly in focused concentration.
Wheezing. Hollering. Straining. For Craig the most deeply
upsetting aspect is the sweet shit smell. In his mouth. The static
warmth in that salty dank scent as it settles in around him, and in
his lungs and in his nose and his mouth the stink blooms. G-G
rubbing, groin to groin, females together, sliding past each other
and clutching at each other and sharing food while they’re at it,
34
sliding past each other not leisurely, no, at a frantic hundred beats
a second, so fast so that it’s like they’re joined together at that
sticky pink fleshy mound and struggling in a blur of motion to
break free. Standing there proudly on two legs they’re like cavemen, not like apes, not like magazine articles. It is a violence of
the senses. Those sexual swellings. Naked, bulbous and shining
pinker than bubblegum. The grotesque grinning lips they pull
away to reveal sharp overlarge teeth is clearly a warning, clear as
any Craig has ever seen. The shrieking and the putrid reeking
warm rotten-dog stench. The electric crackle in the air. The
enormous hands, the over-long arms. And here’s Leigh, in the
middle of it probably thinking of that tall bastard in the fancy
suit. Here is Leigh, with these apes all calling out to her and to
each other, hooting and panting like pornographic foreigners or
seals or tribesmen with sharpened sticks and jackals howling at
the moon.
And she doesn’t notice. She doesn’t care. In a trembling
unnerved panic of alarm, from in his small dirty hiding place
Craig stares out across the enclosure at Leigh. She hears them.
She sees them. And like an animal without shame she is at home
amongst them.
35
Midwest Weather • Glenn Sheldon
Midwest Weather
• Glenn Sheldon
1.
The aftermath of a storm is more after than math.
After the calendar starts anew, again,
we must never forget chasing pages of our diaries
across land flattened by slow glaciers.
2.
Another tornado warning:
sirens that aren't the sirens
of German poetry.
We rush to the basement
where we have been hiding
boxes we may never unpack.
Do any contain love letters?
3.
The weathervane spins around and around.
Winds are monogamous only after
they become echoes anyone can ignore.
Look, a flying horse--but where
is its rider? Or who the puppet?
The windows rattle but never break,
unlike theocracies.
4.
Snow in spring: a wedding dress
worn long after the wolves have gone home
to darknesses just outside of city limits.
Wet snow, tears failing to become pearls.
36
blue on blue • John Azrak
blue on blue
• John Azrak
qfter Ruth Stone
an asiatic dayflower,
pollock's blue poles,
the blue clay on cape cod.
tibet's milk-blue roofs,
a ming vase,
the blue balls after
the grind of a slow dance.
the blue-tiled mosques of isfahan,
the lovers' blue bedspread,
the anti-christ's blue turban.
the blue spot on the lower
back of newborn asian babies,
oregon's crater lake.
miles davis's kind of blue,
the protective blue string syrians tie
around the necks of their animals.
the blue beads sewn on iranian childrens'
clothing to ward off evil spirits.
the blue of robins' eggs,
picasso's woman with blue hands,
the baby born with a hole in her heart.
maya blue, blue grass, blue tourmaline,
arabian desert rain,
glacier ice.
the mother's pale blue eyes,
the daughter's pale blue eyes.
37
The Banks of the Sava • Joe Mills
The Banks of the Sava
• Joe Mills
t was a beautiful, clear night in late May. The day had
been disgustingly humid, as the early summer sun had
started to fire up after several days of rain. But the night was a
bit cooler and decidedly bearable. The four longhaired Americans were on their way down the street. They walked with the
cocky swagger of young men looking for fun in another country.
Individually, they could not be easily singled out as foreigners,
but together they stuck out like a sore thumb. Neil was trying
not to stick out. He wanted to be noticed as little as possible. He
was wearing the green ring-t-shirt that he had bought because it
had no easily identifiable American qualities and a pair of jean
shorts. He had on his beat-up skater shoes. He blended in. At
least he thought he blended in. Over the next few months he
would feel successful in fooling several taxi drivers with his spoton recitation of the street addresses he had memorized. He
would convince countless other people on the street that he was
no different than them by simply saying nothing at all. He could
always blend in with the scenery, but he wouldn’t be able to
tonight. He couldn’t hide or disappear or camouflage himself
with the dirty cracked-gray buildings of the city. They were
meeting the girls tonight and they knew he was no Serb.
They had met the girls a couple of nights before at a place
called the Red Café. Red was a very popular color in Belgrade.
They were very proud of their socialist heritage. The football
clubs were Red Star Belgrade and FC Partizan Belgrade and they
both had logos with a red star. Neil had even seen a small coffee
shop called Café la Revolucion that had a sign picturing none
other than Che Guevara, which he found to be hilarious. Che
was undoubtedly spinning in his grave, he thought. They
embraced their socialist roots and still praised Tito as the father
I
38
of their nation. They all seemed very nostalgic for better times.
Not the girls, though. Not the young people. They were moving
forward without any particular direction. Anywhere other than
where they were. They studied and partied and took their tests
and danced and did their best to be cool. Their cool was an
imported cool. Imported from Western Europe, which was
imported from America, which was sort of, on average, sevenand-a-half-years-out-of-date cool. But Neil didn’t care. He was
sick of state-of-the-art-twenty-first-century-American cool, anyway. He could blend in and feel cooler than they were, only if by
virtue of his knowing that their cool was out of date.
The girls were very friendly and said they would show the
group around. Tonight they were taking the four guys to a place
down by the river, or maybe on the river. None of the guys knew
exactly because there were always a few language discrepancies.
They did know that the place was called Exile. Neil cringed at
the name. He knew what it would be like and he dreaded it. He
could just feel the horrible music creeping up his leg and onto his
back while making its way towards his ears where they would
bring certain doom. He had nothing better to do, though, and he
felt like an adventure, however idiotic it might be. He wanted to
explore more of the city. He wanted to stick with his friends.
The four of them waited outside the Red Café to meet the
girls. The Red Café would turn out to be an inescapable landmark on their summer landscape. Whenever they met someone,
they met them there. It was halfway down Skadarska, the same
street they lived on. It was a narrow cobblestone street that gently sloped downhill, lined with cozy restaurants, cafés, and art galleries. It was only open to pedestrians, wandering musicians, and
stray dogs. At the bottom of the hill was the BIP Brewery, home
to Belgrade’s finest blue-collar beer, and where the street ended
sat the Green market where farmers peddled fresh produce. At
night the street became alive with music and romantically illuminated for the many handholding couples who strolled along.
39
Neil suspected there were few streets in Europe more beautiful.
The guys were supposed to be there at ten o’clock, but
were a few minutes late. It didn’t matter because everyone and
everything in Serbia was even later. Except for Biljana. She was
always on time. She was admirably on time. It was as though she
couldn’t wait to see them, or maybe just some of them. Maybe
really only one of them. She was already outside the Red Café as
promised, and she came to greet them.
“Ciao, Billi-ana,” Lou said.
“Ciao, Ciao,” she greeted each one of them.
She said the others would arrive shortly. They all stood in
the middle of the street and chatted for a while. Neil didn’t really
do much talking. He was always quiet, with the idea being that
someone interesting would find him mysteriously attractive while
all others would simply leave him alone. Biljana spoke wonderful
English and Neil loved to listen to her. There’s something torturously magical about the Eastern European accent that drives a
young man crazy. Biljana had long black hair that she had put
into a ponytail. She was wearing her glasses tonight and Neil
hadn’t recognized her when he first saw her. She had perfect
teeth. She said it was because she was an only child, and she
often remarked how fortunate she was to be the only one. There
weren’t many large families in Serbia. No one made enough
money to have more than two children. Neil later met one Serbian girl who told him that her aunt had been the subject of a
special news story in her hometown because she had four children.
Biljana was wearing white pants and a t-shirt and had
brought the same sweater she had worn the other night in case it
got cold. They later found out that people there didn’t have
more than a few changes of clothes. Even the girls. It was mindblowing for the Americans. Neil found himself explaining on
several occasions to different people how American girls have
astronomical amounts of clothing and it’s hard to catch them
40
wearing the exact same thing more than once. He figured that
Biljana had three pairs of pants. It was simply unfathomable.
But the amount of clothes a girl had never really factored into his
equation. She was very pretty and he liked her. He could have
easily fallen in love with her he supposed, but he wasn’t. He
knew his own pathetic behavior well, and this was the kind of girl
he could become enamored with. She seemed especially interested in Lou but Neil didn’t really care. He just kept quiet and
hoped she would form the opinion that he was a nice guy and
possibly slightly cool.
The other girls showed up within about ten minutes. They
all greeted each other with “ciaos.” Ivana was wearing all white,
and rather tightly. She was tall and not quite as attractive as she
seemed to be the night they had first met her. Quentin instantly
took her hand and kissed it and tried to say something suave. He
was on day three of his four-day plan and playing the unlikely
role of the boyfriend to the amusement of his companions.
Maria was very short and had Pat Benetar styled, jet-black hair.
She was very cute and had large brown eyes. Lou took an immediate fancy to her. He said that she had the best eyes ever and that
he knew he said ever a lot but this time he really meant ever. There
were two new friends as well, a guy and another girl, whom they
had not yet met.
“This is Jasna,” said Biljana, “and this is Igor.”
“Ciao, ciao,” they all said as they shook hands.
“This is Lou, Keith, QC, and Neil,” she introduced them.
“They’re the rock band from California.”
Jasna was a stunning, tall and thin blonde. She looked like a
model as many of the young Serbian girls did. One taxi driver
told them, “Serbia is best place for women.” They were told that
many times by many different people. They always agreed. “I
don’t know what the fuck Kerouac is talkin about cause I’ve been
to Des Moines,” Quentin said once, “the most beautiful girls in
the world are here.” Igor was just slightly shorter than Neil and
41
was dressed in cargo shorts and a plaid button-up shirt. He had
spiked hair.
After introductions were made the group began walking.
They walked in an unorganized cluster as they made their way up
the street and around the corner to Republic Square. The nights
were always busy and interesting in Belgrade. It felt like a James
Bond movie and at any minute some BMW would come plowing
out of an alleyway being chased by motorcycle thugs. It felt like
Europe to Neil. It felt like history. The city was dirty and many
of the buildings made Neil depressed when he looked at them.
They must have been beautiful at some point, he thought, but
now they were just grey. He never actually saw much white in the
so-called “White City.” He thought maybe the name referred to
the racial makeup of the population. The young hipsters made
their way through the square, which was bordered by the national
theater and the national museum and marked by “the Horse” in
the center. It was a giant statue of a General on a horse. No one
seemed to remember who he was, some Hapsburg or some
Djordjevic prince, maybe. He was only greened copper now.
The square was crowded and lively and still full of pigeons.
The nine of them weaved through the many outdoor cafés on
the square and began walking through the pedestrian mall that
ran adjacent to it. The street was lined with designer clothing
and shoe stores. There was Jagger, United Colors of Benetton,
Nike, and Adidas. Neil wondered how these stores stayed open
because it seemed like no one ever bought anything. They just
looked in the windows. They walked through the mall for a few
blocks until Biljana led them down a side street and down a flight
of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs was a large but shallow puddle of water with a broken two-by-four lying in it that probably
once served as a makeshift bridge. The girls carefully navigated
the puddle with help from Lou and Quentin. Neil was the last
one to cross and tried to jump over it, but his left foot landed in
the puddle, half-soaking his shoe. He tried to act cool and pre42
tend that it didn’t bother him, but when he looked up everybody
was already moving on and no one seemed to notice or care.
They walked down a narrow street that smelled like the garbage there had not been picked up for weeks. There were many
smells in Belgrade, but this particular street was one of the more
consistently odorous in town. After a few blocks they turned
south onto another street and made several more turns until
coming to a very large street. This street stretched far ahead and
Neil could see that the orange, glowing street lamps crossed to
the other side of the river. There wasn’t much traffic and the
nine of them quickly crossed over to the other side to make their
way across the bridge. There was an air of excitement as they
approached the river. Maybe it was the fact that Neil had never
really crossed a river by foot. Or maybe it was the beauty of the
city at night. It was a much more beautiful city at night. In the
darkness, all that could be seen was what they wanted you to see.
Only the beautiful buildings with gleaming lights illuminating
them dotted the landscape. The dirt, the crumbling walls, the
smokestack clouds, and the hollow shells of buildings left by
NATO smart bombs were all invisible in the darkness. It was
scenic propaganda, but it happens everywhere. The group began
to spread out as they started across the bridge.
“Hey, what river is this?” someone asked.
“This is the Sava,” Igor answered. “Over there is the
Danube.”
Neil looked over the side of the bridge and saw the fluid,
silky-black Sava as it twisted and churned all the little streams of
light reflected on it. Then he looked to the North and saw where
it met the larger and even blacker Danube. The castle, Kalemagden, sat on top of the hill right where the two rivers met. It
was all lit-up and from this distance it looked more imposing and
intact than it actually was. They had gone to the castle on their
very first day in the city. Neil was fascinated at its history and
beauty, as well as its disrepair. To the right of the castle were the
43
golden spire of the old church and the rest of Old Belgrade.
They were making their way across the river into New Belgrade,
Novi Beograd.
The bridge seemed to stretch for miles, and as Neil was
walking he began to notice distinct rifts in the group. He had
somehow fallen behind Lou and Keith and the girls. He turned
around to see Quentin and Ivana twenty yards behind him playing all sorts of lovey-dovey handholding games. He had to laugh
at that. It was definitely out of character for Quentin. Sometimes it seemed as though he hated women, but the two things
he worked hardest at were getting drunk and getting laid. The
rest of the group was ahead of Neil. Lou was by far the most
interesting member of the group, if only by virtue of being the
most talkative, and Keith was the funniest, as well as the shortest.
They received most of the attention from the girls. Neil was the
quietest, so he found himself with a safety cushion to the front
and rear that would make any Driver’s Ed. teacher proud and
anyone else feel a bit lonely. He had been trying to keep himself
within earshot of Keith or Lou through the entire walk but found
his attention had slipped away. He had been taken in by the view
from the bridge. He walked faster to catch up with the group.
By the time he caught up with the rest of the group they
had already reached the other side of the river. He joined them
as they were all laughing.
“Billy-ANA,” laughed Maria.
“What’s so funny?” asked Lou.
“You keep calling me Billy-ANA. It’s not Billy-ANA. It’s
Biljana.”
Igor and the girls were all laughing at him as he tried to
pronounce it right. They waited for Quentin and Ivana to catch
up before going any further. There was a wide stone stairway
leading pedestrians down to the west bank of the river.
Once the whole group was caught up they made their way
down the stairs with Biljana and Maria leading. Lou was leading
44
the conversation and Neil was still pretending to be participating.
At the bottom of the stairs was a clearing that looked like a dirt
parking lot. There were mangy, weed-like bushes and trees scattered around the base of the bridge. They began to walk down
the path towards the river. The dusty clearing was bisected by a
small paved road that ran all along the bank. Across the road,
there were giant steps that lead about twenty feet down the dike
almost to the water level. Neil actually moved ahead of the
group and down the steps to be the first to get a sense of the
river. It smelled exactly like any American river: dirty and fishy
and uninviting as the Mississippi. He took in the sights all
around him. He looked up to his left at the long bridge they had
just crossed. It was lit from the underside by lights that gave it an
orange glow. There was graffiti on the underside of the bridge,
and some of it was quite a distance out from the bank. He wondered who would have ventured out so far underneath the bridge
and what they needed to share with everyone so desperately.
Directly in front of him was the hulking skeleton of a barge
lodged against the bank. It was all rusted metal beams and dusty
wooden planks and it sat half in the water and half on the rocks
below the bank. He thought it looked like you could climb out
onto it but that it would probably collapse if you did. He would
never dare trying, anyway.
The group began walking south along the river, following
the throngs of other young Serbs who were flocking to the riverbank. They walked for what seemed more than a mile along the
river. Neil was still lingering outside the conversation while Lou
and Keith were stirring laughter in their new friends with questions about Serbia and jokes about America. He was still taking
in the sites and sounds of it all. They came upon a large and
imposing sculpture that stood on a flat plane above the riverbank, looming over all who passed. He wondered what it was. It
looked like some sort of monument but seemed unnoticed by all
the people passing by. It was a giant arching pillar made of
45
jagged pieces of stone. It looked like some sort of a modern art
piece that was unpopular with the viewing public. It looked
painfully ignored. Dozens of young people passed by and he
wondered if any of them noticed it or new what it was.
They finally came within sight of the source of the ominous boom, boom, boom that had been growing ever since they
got off the bridge. Neil looked ahead and saw what looked like a
boat, or perhaps a barge, all aglow in neon lights and emitting the
now frighteningly close thumping sounds. There were people
everywhere. As they got closer, he saw that there were actually
three separate boats. The first one was not very crowded and lit
with mostly green and blue neon lights. The second slightly
more crowded and colored red and purple. They passed by the
first two and finally came to the third, which was glowing pink
and purple. All three were booming with the same thumping
techno music and Neil began to wonder if their decision would
be based solely on color. Then he realized that the last boat was
the loudest, most crowded, and most grotesquely pink and purple, and that somehow these repulsive qualities combined to
make it the most popular and, therefore, the most logical choice.
This was the place to be. This was Exile. He rolled his eyes as it
became inevitable that he would have to step aboard this technodoom vessel. Lou looked back at him as they got in line to enter
and smiled.
“Well, here we go,” he said, with a what-the-hell kind of
look on his face.
They walked passed the menacing-looking bouncers and
down the steep metal stairs that lead to the gangplank. Once
they were aboard Neil became even more grief stricken. It was
crammed full of people. There were feet and elbows everywhere
and it was difficult to move. The girls navigated the group
through the crowd and found a spot at the bar. It was also right
next to the bathroom. Neil found room close by to lean on the
outer railing of the boat. He always liked leaning against things.
46
It looked so much cooler and more natural than being by himself
and just standing on his own. Quentin ordered them all beers
and the girls ordered various mixed drinks. Neil quietly resented
it all on the railing. He didn’t talk to anyone until Keith came up
to him and handed him a beer.
“Thanks, buddy,” he shouted.
“So, how are you enjoying the, uh, techno boat?” Keith
asked.
“Oh, great.” Neil shouted back sarcastically.
Keith laughed and patted him on the shoulder. Then he
turned back to talk to the rest of the group. Neil turned around
and looked out across the river. He could see much of the southern half of the city. His eye was drawn to the great dome of the
large church in the center of town. It, too, was illuminated, and
from its silver dome shined two beacons of light at perfect geometric angles. They beamed upwards into the night sky almost
infinitely. He noticed the thick rope sagging in the water that
tethered the barge to the riverbank. He imagined the line snapping and sending him adrift forever on the high seas of techno
hell and it made him shiver. He prayed the rope would hold. He
remained there for a while, watching bottles and other debris
float through the water, not talking to anybody. It was impossible to hear, anyway. The constant BOOM, BOOM, BOOM,
BOOM of the music was deafening. It was techno, or house, or
drum and bass, or whatever the hell they call it. He didn’t know
what it was but he knew he hated it. All night long it boomed in
the same monotonous song. At least it seemed like all one song.
Every once in a while, the BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM
would slow down and go boom…boom… boom…boom…then
go full on back into BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! There
weren’t even that many kids dancing. The few that were dancing
were having the time of their lives, though.
Some of them were tripped out on ecstasy or just plain
drunk. Neil watched one blissful dancer who had placed himself
47
right in the stream of traffic to the bar so everyone passing would
have to brush against him as they came and went. He was in a
deep, dazed trance and gyrated with pleasure every time someone shoved him out of the way. The rest of the kids didn’t seem
to be having much fun at all. They were just standing around,
looking as if they were waiting for someone to pay attention to
them. All the girls were dolled up and standing around with their
friends smoking cigarettes and waiting to be hit on. The boys all
stood at their tables with their shirt collars turned up, not having
a clue. There were so many beautiful women. They all smoked,
though. Neil didn’t like girls who smoked, but it seemed like
everyone in Serbia did. It was like a national pastime. He began
to wonder at the science of it all. It was a strange phenomenon.
Neil stood there leaning against the railing for a long time.
Lou or Keith or Quentin would come and talk to him briefly
every now and then. Mostly he just found himself making way
for people to get in line for the bathroom. The constant booming drowned out most of his thoughts. He’d lost all concept of
time. He watched silently as his friends all talked with the girls.
Keith was talking to Biljana, Quentin was cuddling with Ivana,
and Lou was pathetically massaging Maria’s shoulders. They
were all drunk except Neil. He only had a few beers and didn’t
feel like drinking much more. Suddenly, Jasna approached him.
“So are you having fun?” she shouted over the music.
Neil was nervous talking to such a beautiful girl. He tried
to think of a funny answer.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I was thinking about going for a
swim.”
She laughed.
“Okay. Let’s go,” she said.
She put her foot up on one of the wires along the bottom
of the railing as if she was going to climb over and jump in. Neil
laughed and did the same. Then the joke was over. She tried to
make more out of the conversation.
48
“So what’s it like in California?”
He tried to keep himself from laughing and stuttered while
he tried to think of a response.
“Uh… it’s, uh great. You know, the weather is nice,” he
lied.
“How big is Santa Clara?” she asked.
He had no idea. Quentin had told the girls that they were
from California because it sounded much cooler than being from
Iowa. Neil tried to play along.
“It’s pretty big. L.A. is just one really big place,’ he replied.
“Biljana told me that you guys know lots of famous people,” she said with her irresistible accent.
“Yeah.”
After that the conversation ended. Neil couldn’t keep up
with all the questions for which he had no answers. It didn’t
really seem like she wanted to know anything about him anyway.
She rejoined the rest of the group and Neil remained alone on
the railing. His legs began hurting him and he tried to stretch
them out, but there was no room. He had wanted to go home a
long time ago.
A short while later, Biljana joined him. She had a cigarette
in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. She was drinking
Lashko Pivo, a Slovenian beer.
“QC told me that you’re the genius of the band,” she said.
“Yeah, I guess,” replied Neil rather bashfully.
They talked about music for a while. He found out that she
had rather good taste in music. She asked him a few questions
about Lou, to which he provided answers befitting a guy trying
to put in a good word for a buddy. He had suspected that she
had a little crush on Lou. It didn’t bother him, though. They
talked for a few more minutes before she returned to the rest of
the group.
Eventually the group began to show signs that it was ready
to leave. Neil had been wondering how much longer they were
49
going to stay for several hours. He thought about walking back
by himself a few times, but decided not to. He didn’t want anybody to think he was weird. Now they were definitely leaving,
much to his relief. The girls collected their purses and all of their
things as Keith and Lou tried to figure out the bar tab. They
decided they would treat the girls for the night and paid the bill.
Quentin threw in a noticeably small sum for the amount he
drank. Neil didn’t pay anything because he didn’t think he drank
that much. They began to plow their way through the giant mass
of sweaty flesh towards the exit. Neil felt more relieved with
every step further from the booming subwoofers. They crossed
the gangplank and went back up the metal staircase onto the
riverbank. Then they started to walk home.
Neil found himself isolated in the group again as they
walked along the river. Keith and Lou were still entertaining the
girls, and Quentin and Ivana were still holding hands. Igor was
walking close by Neil, though, and he could tell that he was going
to say something. He hadn’t really talked to Igor all night, and he
didn’t know what he would be like. Eventually they were walking
side by side, and Igor started to speak. He had an almost feminine voice with a thick accent.
“Do you go to school?” he asked.
“Yeah,” replied Neil.
“What do you study?”
“Philosophy.”
He hated telling people what his major was. It always
seemed to get strange responses and made people ask him lots of
questions.
“I took a philosophy class once,” Igor replied. “I didn’t
like it. It was difficult.”
“What do you study?” Neil asked after a brief pause.
“I’m studying for the dental exams,” he answered.
“That’s interesting,” Neil said, slightly surprised.
“It’s difficult. Besides it’s not really what I want to do. I’m
50
going to be the prime minister of the country some day,” he said
with a smile.
Neil became very interested when he said this. It seemed
like an odd, but sincere aspiration.
“That’s great. I would vote for you if I could.”
Igor laughed and thanked him. They talked for a little
while about politics, both Serbian and American. It was a somewhat superficial conversation, but Neil didn’t mind because it
was interesting. None of the other young people he had met
seemed to care about politics. He noticed as they were walking
that they had come upon the monument that he had wondered
about earlier. Just as he was about to ask if he knew what it was,
Igor interrupted.
“Do you see this monument?” he said. “There was a Nazi
camp here in World War Two.”
“Wow. That’s interesting,” Neil remarked.
“Yes. They killed many Orthodox Serbs and Jews here,
right by the river.”
Neil became silently amazed. He thought about the many
thousands of people dying by the dirty, smelly river. He thought
about the inadequacy of statues and monuments in commemorating tragedies like these. The monument was erected to remind
people of the history of this particular place but now it only
serves as a point of reference on the journey to a floating discotheque. It seemed very wrong.
“You know Belgrade was bombed three different times in
the twentieth century.”
“Uh, yeah.” Neil replied.
“Yes. By the Austrians in World War One, by the Germans
in World War two, and by the Americans… or by NATO I mean
in 1999.”
Neil felt awkward all of a sudden. He thought that perhaps
he was about to get an earful of resentment. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to offend him. He had been wondering
51
when he was going to get his first dose of anti-American sentiment.
“I don’t hate Americans, you know,” said Igor.
“Oh. Well that’s good,” said Neil, trying to make light of
the situation.
“No. I don’t hate anyone,” Igor continued. “Everybody
thinks that we Serbs hate lots of people. They say that we are
supposed to hate the Croats or the Bosnians or the Albanians,
but I don’t hate any of them.”
Neil remained silent.
“What have they ever done to me?” Igor went on. “The
older generations hate them, but not me. The young people
should not hate anyone.”
Igor paused as if he was allowing Neil a chance to respond.
Neil tried to think of something positive to say.
“Wow. That’s great,” he said.
He felt moved by what Igor said. He liked the idea that the
young generation of a nation could be so optimistic and willing
to put the past behind it. Maybe he just liked the fact that it
seemed like there were young people who cared about anything
at all. He continued to listen.
“I don’t hate the Americans, either,” he said. “Milosevic
was a terrible dictator. He was never popular with the people.”
Neil suddenly got the urge to ask a question.
“What was it like during the bombings?” he asked.
He felt embarrassed immediately after he opened his
mouth and didn’t expect an answer. Igor looked down at the
ground and smiled to himself.
“I will tell you, and many other people will tell you… that it
was the best time of my life,” he said.
Neil was shocked. He couldn’t understand how this could
be so.
“You see, every night they would bomb Belgrade,” he
explained. “And in the day everything was closed. Nobody had
52
to go to work or school. So we partied all day long.”
Neil was amazed as Igor explained that every day, thousands of people would gather in Republic Square and drink
themselves stupid. They would ride around on the tops of cars
and set off firecrackers, and drink all day long. It was the best
time of their lives.
“You know my friend and I would sit on the rooftop every
night and watch the bombs fall,” he added. “It was so beautiful.”
“Weren’t you afraid?” Neil asked.
“No. They were only bombing military targets. Only one
time was there a bomb that landed close to us and it shook the
whole building like an earthquake,” replied Igor.
Neil had always imagined people seeking shelter in basements and a state of martial law on the streets. He had seen
some of the bombed buildings. They were still standing several
years after they were hit. Their outer facades were still standing
but they were a mass of crumbling concrete inside. It turns out
that smart bombs are very smart, leaving a useless hollow shell
behind. They didn’t have the money to tear them down and
rebuild. Maybe they didn’t want to tear them down. Maybe they
began to love the look of destruction in the city. After all, it
seemed like all the other buildings were crumbling. It all began
to make sense to him. The conversation died shortly after Igor’s
last remarks, and he left Neil to catch up with the rest of the
group. They were back on the bridge now, well on their way
home. Neil scanned the skyline of the city in the dark as they
walked. He pictured blooming clouds of fiery orange and gold
and endless shimmering beads of anti-aircraft fire. The thought
of undetectable Stealth bombers menacing above the clouds,
exacting dazzling-light destruction across the concrete jungle was
invigorating. He thought about the excitement and lawlessness of
it all.
He was so engulfed in his thoughts that the walk home
seemed almost instant. Before he knew it, they were almost on
53
the corner of Skadarska. The group stopped to part ways. Biljana and Igor were going to take the intersecting street home and
the other three girls were taking a cab. They said their goodbyes,
each girl kissing them on the cheeks and making Neil feel very
uncomfortable. He looked at Igor to say goodbye.
“It was nice to meet you,” Igor said as he extended his
hand.
Neil took it and shook firmly.
“Yes, you too,” he replied.
“I know we will see you soon,” said Igor.
“Yeah.”
Neil knew it would be a long summer and that they would
definitely meet again. When the group had split up the four
Americans began to walk down the street toward their flat.
“Guys, it’s only 2:30,” said Lou. “You wanna go down to
the Optimist?”
“Hell yeah,” said Quentin.
They passed the door to their building and made their way
around the corner to the Optimist Club. It wasn’t very crowded,
and the minute the waiter sighted them he escorted them to one
of the reserved tables underneath the tent on the sidewalk. They
sat down.
“Hello Oliver,” said Keith to the waiter.
“Hello,” he replied.
He didn’t speak much English, but ordering four beers was
easy enough. Within a few moments he had returned with four
glasses of Weifert’s. Quentin picked up his half-liter glass and
raised it in the air for a toast.
“To Belgrade,” he said.
“No, to Exile!” said Neil.
They all laughed and took a drink. Neil sipped through the
layer of foam to the fine golden taste below. It was cold as it
went down his throat. It was one of the finest beers he’d ever
tasted.
54
curse of the cretaceous • joe mills
curse of the cretaceous
• joe mills
i tried to sit down and write
something the other day
(meaning right now)
all i could think about were
what some call pterodactyls
they soared through my head
swooping down and snatching
all the ideas
or all the good ones anyway
and left me with this
i am segregated
or serrated
like the back of a stegosaur
and i’m not afraid to do it
i’m just extinction-prone
you can have your small
pre-mammal rodents and i’ll
take the t-rex even though
he’s destined to lose
(at least he’s destined for something)
55
an elegy • joe mills
an elegy
• joe mills
i never realized how
much walking i do
with my littlest toe
until i dropped a
razor on it
you really need that
slice of skin
on the knuckle
he needs you
he remembers
he smears blood across
the bathroom floor
the tips of my fingers
mourn for him
and shed their shredded
cuticles and beat their breasts
douse themselves with the ashes
of burnt leaves
the ball of my foot
throbs from correction
compensation
loss
i remove my shoes
whenever i can
56
The Miracle of My Father’s Cock • Virginia Chase Sutton
The Miracle of My Father’s Cock
• Virginia Chase Sutton
is that now I remember it,
great purple thing, tipped
to satisfy me, which is why
I'm on the psychiatric unit
thirty-five years later.
I desire my own death.
What does a penis know,
beyond little death, hugely
red and sticky, endless?
What does a dick care
about suicide notes, drug overdoses
or even the gun
I think about buying.
Too young. He's call and response,
hands and mouth, how
I love the shift of my legs,
itchy nipples begging
for a kiss. At the hospital,
all this talk of medication
but there isn't one yet
that keeps my father away
or deletes sex from my childhood brain,
how I adore it, dirty and secret.
My father's dead nearly four years,
I've been in the hospital
ten times, see my therapist
three times a week, meaningless
numbers. But that cock,
57
The Miracle of My Father’s Cock • Virginia Chase Sutton
that cock. Jumbo-size imprint, pulpy smack
in my face, cry and stutter
when he zips it away.
58
What Brings You to Del Amo Hospital? • Virginia Chase Sutton
What Brings You to
Del Amo Hospital?
Saturday and Sunday afternoons
stutter past; patients spend a few hours
listening. This empty room, empty
shelves, we don't get a daily paper.
And our journey, well, it's not
as if anyone could save us.
What brings you to Del Amo?
Steven's a part time therapist,
working weekends, dead end shifts
no one bids for. To keep busy,
he provides the basic question.
Distraction. No picking at angry
sores marching up an ankle,
or the crust beneath gauze bandages,
though Debbie rewraps
better than any aide. She was a nurse
before the alters, all those traumatized pieces,
the other voices and interior selves,
pestered her twenty-four-seven.
Does someone want to answer the question?
Steven's a model of patience
in khaki pants, muted golf shirt,
black marker in hand,
poised at the white board.
My mother was a drunk Started
passing out when I was eight: bed,
59
couch, bathroom and kitchen floors.
Dark urine spoiled the cushions,
lapped the linoleum. A fleshy island,
dead center in a yellow lake.
*
Who are you, Steven asks.
The woman wraps a stuffed animal
in a Winnie the Pooh baby blanket
before she says I am Little Amy.
Red snout and black floppy ears, her toy's
a dog. I need Elizabeth, Steven says,
caps the marker. She's not here, clutches
the bundle high on her chest.
I need an adult. This is no place for children.
*
Begin where you want to begin.
He doesn't mean it. We're so weary
of repetition: number of suicide attempts
(methods used), mental health disorders (name them),
depression (when did it begin), anonymous
sex (were you in danger), blackouts
and drugs (list addictions).Number of rapes,
molestations (include all touch).
Steven, how many kinds of abuse exist?
Weekends cataloguing lists, someone
please answer his persistent question,
what brings you here?
*
I can always tell when my roommate becomes Mike,
male swagger, demanding house cigarettes.
Never mind that she doesn't smoke.
Chainsmoking in the courtyard,
60
he fiddles with the padlocks. It's easy to bust out,
if I wanted to. I believe him. Yesterday
he burned Lucy's cheek with a butt,
then skipped out. She took his punishment.
When Mike's out I refuse to sleep
in our room. Kathy helps me
drag my mattress down to the Quiet Room
where the light's on all night.
Makes sleeping tough but it bores
Mike. He prefers to sleep alone.
*
The middle school band director
squeezed my breasts, forced me
to lie to the principal.
When I stepped hard on his foot
he made me look at the bruise,
said what will I tell my mother?
See what you did?
Sometimes Heidi becomes Secret. It's
in her voice, the way it swivels
from her body, the way she jitters
in her chair. So many children here.
How to manage parts, pieces, alters,
those named and unknown? The Fat
Woman wants to kill me, Debbie says.
And I don 't know why. We didn't
do anything to her. Lucy's Miranda now,
covering the walls with elaborate
collages, pictures and words ripped
from years of National Geographic,
the only magazine here. One
Sunday morning she shaped two figures
61
from a pile of coffee stirrers, the large body
bending to hold the little one's hand.
The afternoon ends like all afternoons:
the board's swiped, the last story vanishes,
discarded, an old library book. Hasn't been off
the shelf in years.
62
Doors • Virginia Chase Sutton
Doors
When it is exactly the way I remember,
the doors slam upstairs, caught perhaps
on a shift of wind from tall trembling
trees outside. The breeze strokes
past an open window, crinkly screens,
then the flashing doors, their unexpected
firing down the long hallway,
every room and closet door like sex
so sudden it is taken fully clothed.
Against the wall, on the floor, beneath
the dining room table, attire only slightly
rearranged. Fast fuck, battered doors,
my father's constant goddamnit Virginia,
goddamnit. I still like it sharp
as the wooden hairbrush against
the naked thigh, one swift slap
and I say this is how I want it.
My father roamed the nighttime halls
of my childhood back when I still
called him daddy. Today an ex-one night
stand writes I remember the smell
of your sex. Provocative enough
for instant readiness, caught on the furtive
pizzazz of his cock, long ago sex
63
Doors • Virginia Chase Sutton
on his girlfriend's sofa. Your skin, he writes,
still perfect, just like wet latex. Hear the slamming
as one window frame shifts? Homemade curtains
billow, shades roll and unroll, dizzy,
old house going nuts. Take it again,
no decision, agony of discovery
and dust, the blind goddamnit banging.
64
Sex • Virginia Chase Sutton
Sex
How wrong, the word pleasure.
Too simple, the way it slips out
the pink and empty mouth. Imagine
a clutch of rhinestones cobbled together
for just the moment, held inside
the web of my hands. See the very best
jewelry I've collected? Oh yes,
signed pieces: Weiss, Trifari, Schreiber,
and the nameless gems, splendid turns
of metal, splashy color, hearts
and flowers, long glittering stems
and blossoms, geometrics and the puzzle
of desire. How they bend to hold light
between their settings, intricate clasps.
I remember standing on a bridge in Paris
as it straddled the Seine. I should recall
its name, no doubt important, but I cannot,
could not pronounce it anyway. But I waited
as twilight tumbled down the Eiffel Tower.
It was an enormous spike of sparking light
as the rest of the city grew damp beneath
low lying clouds. Perhaps there is pleasure
during high tea at the Phoenician, the dizziness
of tea selections and nouveau riche trappings,
white tablecloths, finger sandwiches of smoky ham
and tiny crisp asparagus stalks, strawberries
lathered in chocolate. Tarts, yes, something sour
for the tongue. At the spa, naked beneath
65
my white terry robe, naked again, spread over
a heated table, tortured by his heavy fingers,
better than any sex toy. A man's hot breath
at the nape of my neck, sweat gathering, tiny
dotted pearls creeping across my flesh. Press
tattoo needles to the dip of my shoulder,
spray of blue shooting stars and jolting
little comets, new worlds, aren't they, mix
of pain and vibrating intensity so beyond
pleasure that the word does not exist.
Fucking all night on a mattress on the floor,
taking a breath while outside the hesitant snow
pauses a moment before its inevitable melt,
just as the broken sun rises behind rows
of bare-lit trees. Sex is my religion,
my therapist says. I want that to be wrong.
There is no perfect divinity, only the mystic
shifting in constant circles, searching
for stupefaction and what may erupt
the flesh beneath the knotted cord.
No worship at the man's hands,
the beloved's imperfect body. I do not say
to the cock, you are my god, my god.
I say: devour me. Clean sheets before sex
and later, riddled with come and imprints
of flesh. Not even good chocolate
purchased at See's at a corporate discount
or the tender liqueur leaking about my lips
and the quick thrust down the back
66
of my throat. How to name infinity,
nipples and cunt staggering beyond
the word? Sex is what I want. My body
whispering, his hand, my hand, the cock
and his mouth, skimming past sweetness,
toodle-loo to desire, better than the knife
tipped to my fine-skinned neck. Incandescence,
illumination, transcendence. Of the body,
for the body, only time this body is fully
in the body. Yes, I say, this is how I want it.
Can I get it, sin and secrets gobbled away?
Say it right out loud? No matter. It's
adoration, my body's constant thrumming,
dangerously wet, and now, the drowning.
67
Pheromone Cocktails and a Kangaroo Pugilist • Michael Amundson
Pheromone Cocktails
and a Kangaroo Pugilist
• Michael Amundson
C
harlie slowly walked toward the blue house. It was one
of those typical houses that looked like a monopoly
house that had a front door and two small windows on either
side. When he got to the door, he rocked back onto his heels,
took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair (careful not
to disturb the little strand that had slipped out from behind his
ear [intentionally]), rubbed his eyes, straightened his shirt, caught
his refection in the door’s glass, thought he looked all right, cool
even, reached up and pushed the dirty opaque button next to the
door, (Sinatra’s Witchcraft came wafting out elevator style, Mr.
Fillstone had been a huge Frank fan) Mrs. Fillstone answered the
door. (In exactly 6.23 seconds.)
“Hello, come in, you must be the Charlie that I’ve heard so
much about from your mother.”
“Yes…yes I am.”
Jesus, Charlie could hear his mother’s voice describing him
to the old bag, ‘He has a darling figure and he is very polite. He
loves kids and stays away from drugs and alcohol. He will make a
girl very happy one day.’
“Would you like a soda,” ask the Mrs.
“No thanks, I just had one on the way over here.”
Charlie had no idea why he had lied. For a brief second he
started to wonder why people feel like they have to lie when
offered something they don’t want. It was not like this lady was
going to keel over and die, just because he didn’t want a fuckin'
Tab.
Mrs. Fillstone put her liver spotted hand on Charlie’s right
shoulder, looked him in the eyes and said, “Why don’t you take a
seat in the living room and I’ll go get your date.” She led Charlie
68
into the room to one of those old antiquated couches that was
mostly brown and had coarse fabric. Sitting on the thing was like
sitting on a piece of concrete with just a little give to it. No wonder old people were always bitchin’ about their backs. Charlie sat
there and the old bat hovered over him… a little too close. Smiling down and not taking her eyes off of him, she yelled, “oh,
Kristy!” She still hadn’t blinked when she said to Charlie in a
hushed voice, a left eye wink, and a tongue click, “She’s downstairs getting ready. You know us girls, always having to look our
best.”
“Um,” (nervous blush) “yeah.”
Jesus this was just too fucking weird for him. She just stared
at Charlie like he was an American G.I. about to liberate a young
French girl from the grips of a Nazi foot soldier. After a few agonizing seconds she turned and headed towards the stairs, and
right before she disappeared into the stair well, she turned her
head so that she could look at Charlie one last time, smiled, and
finally descended to the basement.
“Kristy,” the grandma yelled. Her voice echoed and dissipated in the stairwell leaving nothing but the deliberated thuds of
her feet on the stairs.
Mrs. Fillstone reached the bedroom. “Kristy, he’s really
cute.”
“Really Grandma?”
“Yes, he is. I just knew he would be. His mother is such a
darling young lady.”
“Oh good, I was hoping he’d be cute, not that it would
matter, it’s just nice that’s all.”
Kristy was facing her Grandma in the outfit that she had
picked out (last night around ten o’clock she ripped through her
closet and tried on 13 different outfits before finally deciding
that she had nothing to wear so she might as well just throw on
whatever she could find) for the blind date (that the old lady and
the mother conspired at circle). Her still wet shower hair was
69
straight brown and shoulder length and was soaking the back of
her white sweater, making it almost transparent.
“So Grandma,” Kristy spun slowly in place, “how do I
look?”
“Lovely dear. Just… lovely. But did you know that your
sweater is all wet in back from your hair?”
“That’s okay Grandma, it’ll dry.”
“Well dear, I think it’s about time you go meet this fine
young man. I’ll stay down here so that you two can have your
time.”
“Thanks Grandma.” Kristy’s smile broke through on her
fair skin and she moved in to give her Grandma a hug.
“Have fun dear,” Mrs. Fillstone squeezed Kristy. “Be careful, and if you need anything don’t hesitate to call… and call us
when you know what’s going on.”
The two broke off their hug and held each other’s hands
and exchanged smiles.
“I will Grandma. I love you.”
“I love you too dear.”
With that, Kristy walked out of her bedroom (and into the
relatively long wood paneled hallway), past the bathroom, past
the picture of her mother as a child (in sandy brown braids, a red
plaid dress, holding a sunflower in her little right hand) , past the
picture of her uncle Marv’s high school football team (they went
2 and 7 that year, he went on to become a dentist and got caught
banging the receptionist), past the painting of a morose Jesus (his
story is well documented) , past the door to the pantry that held
all the canned goods that her Grandma has made over the years
(enough cans of fruit and vegetables that would literally sustain a
family of five light eaters for seven months and nineteen days),
and into the rec’ room part of the basement where she continued
past the pool table (where she had her first kiss with her cousin
Jeff ’s best friend Ryan, the summer of her twelfth year), and past
the dehumidifier, before she finally reached the bottom of the
70
stairs. But before she started up the stairs, she looked up at the
door (which is very metaphorical if you think about it, because
every time that someone is contemplating the unknown, they
seem to look up…or maybe that’s just me), took a deep breath
and put her first foot forward (it was her right) to what she
thought would be a very pleasant date with a very pleasant boy.
All this time Charlie had nothing to do. There was not a
magazine in sight, not a radio within range, not a T.V. to stare at.
He had nothing. All there was was a bunch of old family pictures
on the wall, seven antiquated books (none worth mentioning) on
a shelf, and the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and his of
nerves. (When he left his house, they were simply a small little
man on the very distant horizon of his disposition [you could
barely see that he was waving his nervous little arms], but as
Charlie got closer to Kristy’s, the little man started to run from
the horizon and towards the front porch of his consciousness,
and this was no little man after all… he was one big bastard of
nerves.) I mean what was this broad going to look like? He knew
what she sounded like; Charlie had heard her over the phone and
she sounded like she was crying, or about to. That was just over
an hour ago (one hour and twenty seven minutes ago) and he
thought she sounded like one of those broads who was always
catching a cold or some other god damn disease that had to be
treated with Vicks vapor rub, boxes of Puffs and probably vagina
cream…
Charlie heard small steps making their way deliberately up
the stairs. He was keen enough to know that these were the steps
of someone pacing themselves, not hustling into the unknown.
Charlie stood up, wiped his sweaty palms along the out seam of
his pants, straightened his hair (once again being careful not to
mess with the bundle that coolly covered his face) coughed into
his right hand, and again wiped his hands along the side of his
pants, grabbed his right wrist behind his back, rocked back onto
71
his heels, and looked to the threshold of the door, to see what in
store for him tonight. When Kristy emerged from the doorway,
Charlie rocked back onto the balls of his feet.
“Hello. You must be Charlie,” Kristy smiled.
Kristy was hot. (Charlie squeezed his wrist in a sigh of
relief.) She was about four inches shorter than him which would
put her about 5’8”. She had on a ribbed pink tank that lay nicely
over her full breasts and semi-soft stomach. When I say ‘semisoft’ I mean it in the loosest sense of the word. When I say ‘loosest’ I mean it in the cliché way, you know the, “hey man, she is
every which way but loose.” Hell, I don’t know what I’m saying, I
guess what I’m saying is that that she has nice tits and a great assGood lord! How dare you talk like that!
Like what?
Like she’s some piece of fruit for some man to taste.
She’s not?
You are a pathetic little worm. Guys like you are the reason
why men have such a bad reputation.
Yeah? Is that so? Well lady, chicks like you are the reason
men have to suffer with blue balls.
Blue what? You are probably the most disgusting man that
I’ve ever come across.
Came across a lot of men in your day huh?
Would you shut up so we can get back to our couple.
Fine with me.
“Yep, and you must be Kristy.”
Charlie was handsome. His jaw line-length brown hair was
a little wavy and combed behind his ears. (Except for his
cool…well you know.) He was a tall boy with broad shoulders, a
thin athletic physique and the most beautiful blue eyes. They
were like the sky, like something that the story book princesses
would see in their prince. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans but
he got away with it. He looked clean cut and comfortable.
Kristy walked towards Charlie with her right arm extended
72
which relieved him because he didn’t know whether or not he
had to hug her. Charlie took her right into his right and covered
them both with his left. Kristy thought that was very sweet. They
shook hands in the amount of time that society deemed comfortable, and slowly released them. With hands at their sides and
their gaze on the floor, Kristy looked up and said, “Well, should
we get going?”
“Sure,” said Charlie, “Or as the French say, ‘sure’…but only
in French.”
“What,” Kristy replied with a smile and a sideways glance.
“Nothing, I was just trying to be funny. Let’s go.”
“Okay, just let me get my purse.”
Kristy walked off into the kitchen and left Charlie by the
door.
“I know it’s here somewhere,” she said, her voice (that
sounded much better in person than it did over the phone, much
sweeter) bounced around the olive green linoleum floor and the
olive green Amana refrigerator.
“No problem,” said Charlie.
Jesus Christ here we go, a typical woman typically looking
for something that she has misplaced. If it is not one thing it’s
some other god damn thing. She will probably find a way to lock
Charlie’s keys in his car tonight.
Would you be quiet. Just because she can’t find her purse
right away you don’t have to go off and throw a tiff. A girl needs
her purse, just like you need your bad attitude and your loud
music.
If a girl needs her purse so bad, then why does she always
lose the damn thing?
She doesn’t always lose it, she“Found it,” Kristy said as she appeared from the kitchen
holding a tiny little bag.
What the hell could possibly fit in that? It is not like she can carry
anything practical in that thing. It wouldn’t even qualify as a fuckin’ coin
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purse in most European countries.
It’s an accessory. It is more for looks than for practicality.
It’s more like an asinine-ory. No wonder why she lost the
damn thing.
You and your bad attitude... Let the girl be.
“Good,” said Charlie, “let’s get going.”
They stepped out into the warm summer night. The frogs
were croaking, the sky was pastels, the breeze non-existent, and
Charlie’s car was hip in that too cool to care style. He opened up
the door for Kristy and she sat down on the pseudo-velvety blue
cloth seats. Charlie got in and started the engine and jet setted
out the gravel driveway.
“So, what do you want to do?” Charlie asked.
“I am up for anything. And besides, you’re the boy, you
should have it all planned out,” said Kristy with a huge marketable grin.
“Old fashioned are we?”
“Not old fashion… I don’t know, I just like it when the boy
plans the stuff.”
“Okay, I thought we could go to that little bar on Long
Lake, The Galaxy, have you heard of it?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard it was nice.”
“Yeah, it’s cool. They’ve got a deck right on the lake and
pool tables and a cool jukebox.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Kristy with a shrug.
Charlie thought this was going to be all right. He would be
out with a girl for a change, and a hot one on top of it.
And if all goes well tonight, that won’t be the only time he’s
on top of something.
My God! Can you please get your mind out of the gutter,
for god sakes they just met.
I was just kidding...sort of.
Charlie was hoping that some of his boys would show up
so they could see him out with the top shelf goods and be envi74
ous of lil’ ol’ Chuck…. Wait, in fact, maybe Star Lake wasn’t such
a great idea.
“Maybe we should go to The Index on Ottertail Lake,
they’ve got better food and it won’t be so crowded. They’ve got a
pool table.”
“Yeah whatever, I’m up for anything.”
Kristy had a good first impression of the boy. He seemed
like he truly thought of her first. I mean, what boy would actually
decide to go someplace else because he thought the food was
better. That is definitely a plus.
“Do you mind if I turn on the radio?” asked Charlie.
“No, not at all, I love music.”
“If you want to you can pick out a CD. My CD’s are in the
black case in the back seat.”
“Sure.” Kristy was once again impressed; he was letting her
pick out the music. What a thoughtful boy, or then again...
She turned her body and reached over into the back seat.
The seat belt divided her breasts creating two independent
mounds of flesh. They were pushing against her pink tank top
and her nipples were erect (or in the teenage boy vernacular, she
was nippin’ out). Charlie masked the fact that he was sneaking
peaks by pretending that he was a very attentive driver and was
just checking the passenger side mirror.
You men and your sex, sex, sex.
“Are they under this cream polo shirt?”
“Yeah, they must be.”
Charlie got a little red in the face (he wants to be seen as
one of those cats who is cool in that non-conformist way [hence
the T-shirt and jeans {the T-shirt was solid navy blue}] which
inevitably makes you reject all things brand name) and subtly
shook his head and under his breath let out a “shit.” He couldn’t
believe that he almost let his mother talk him into wearing that
thing.
“Here… I got em’.” Kristy pulled herself back, straight75
ened her skirt and began flipping thru the CD’s.
Charlie was going to see just what kind of broad this chick
was. This was going to be his litmus test. She might be a big ball
of acid and grab a shitty CD. Then again, she might be the neutralizing base and grab herself a winner, and some respect from
Charlie. She decided on one and put it in without looking at
Charlie or letting him see what the CD was.
That was because she knew how you boys work. She knew
that she was going to be judged what kind of person she was just
by what kind of music she chose. You men are so predictably
shallow.
Well look, with all the shit out there like that French Canadian chick and her fucked up face, you can never be too careful. I
mean who wants to get stuck with a Rush fan?
Oh shut up.
Whatever, music is important.
(Miles Davis’, Kind of Blue, came pouring out of the
speakers. The reluctant brass and the sandy drums along with the
piano was the perfect music for the already set sun and the atmosphere of a first date.)
“I’m impressed…… Miles Davis.”
“I love this album. My dad used to always listen to this
record when I was little… I haven’t heard it in so long. It really
brings me back,” Kristy stared out the front of the car to the tree
line in the foreground and the clouds in the back. Her green eyes
seemed to (for some reason) compliment the whole mood of the
car. Charlie wondered if it was true that there are more bald
women than women with green eyes.
“You have very pretty eyes.” Charlie just blurted it out
before he even knew what he had said. Before she could answer
him he quickly shoveled out, “I’m sorry, that probably sounded
like a line, like something that you’ve heard a thousand times
before, but…” He quit talking before he made an even bigger ass
of himself and once again subtly shook his head and swore (qui76
etly). Kristy looked over at Charlie and he pretended not to
notice. (This would be the part of the movie where the girl would
slowly move her hand towards his until she had his covered, but
this ain’t the movies so her hand wasn’t going anywhere.) She
smiled and said, “No Charlie, it was very sweet, and I haven’t
heard it a thousand times before.”
Oh my, this boy was something out of the ordinary. He had said that
so… so self consciously, so honestly that it struck the perfect note on Kristy’s
emotional xylophone and it harmonized perfectly with her first impression.
She was going to like this boy.
“So Kristy, is that short for Kristina?”
Charlie had to break the silence that was uncomfortable for
him and perfectly fine for the broad.
“Yeah, but I hate that name. I’ve always gone by Kristy.
How bout you, is your name really Charles?”
“Nope, just Charlie.”
“Does anybody ever call you Chuck?”
“No, not really, sometimes my buddies call me that but I
think it sucks. I would rather be called anything other than
Chuck.”
“Anything?” Kristy smiled.
“Well I suppose not anything; I wouldn’t want to be called
shithead or anything like that.”Charlie relaxed and smiled, almost
forgetting about his cliché-crack-pick-up line.
There, finally Charlie swore, he is starting to be himself.
You don’t have to swear to be yourself, why are you men
always cursing.
Because.
Because why?
Because that’s just the way it fucking is, all right.
I just knew you were going to do that.
Do what?
Swear when I asked you ‘because why.’
Well come on, anybody would have done it, you left the
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door wide open. In fact I am starting to feel a little embarrassed
that I hit such an easy target. I consider myself a more able
comedian than that…Jesus you’re a prude.
I’m not a prude. I just happen to respect good manners
that’s all. And do you even know what prude means?
Yes I do, it means you.
No really, do you know what it means?
What, don’t you know what it means?
I know what it means, but I don’t think you do.
It means someone who is doesn’t like shit, someone who’s
conservative. The republicans, they’re prudes.
Oh god, please don’t start on the republicans now, I’m not in the
mood. Besides we’re missing all the action here.
(This is where I [if I were an unimaginative hack] would
flash back to the car and we would just catch the punch line of a
joke that Charlie was telling. Like, “Rectum? Damn near killed
em,” and then Charlie and Kristy would break into hysterical
laughter leaving us to wonder what the beginning of the joke
was.)
“…and that is why I hate the French,” said Charlie.
“Wow Charlie, that’s one heck of a story.” (I just couldn’t
resist.)
See now look what you have done. All your swearing has lead us to
miss what they were talking about.
It’s no big deal; I’ve heard the story a thousand times.
Well, what is it?
I’m not telling.
Fine, be that way you big baby.
Bite me.
Whatever, let’s just get back to our lovely little couple.
Charlie was diggin’ this girl. She was funny (meaning that
she laughed at all of Charlie’s jokes), smart, hot and innocent.
Charlie really dug those virginal type girls. He didn’t like damaged
goods.
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What on earth are you talking about…damaged goods, I
have never!
Relax lady.
Don’t you tell me to relax, IWould you just shut the Fuck up!
……….
Oh Jesus, please don’t cry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at
you… I had no right to yell at you….please stop crying now.
Can we please just get back to the story. (Sniff.)
Yes we can, and I am sorry for making you cry.
That’s all right. Okay where were we…oh yes, Charlie just
got done telling a story that we missed for some reason and now
they are just about to pull into the restaurant.
“I hope you like pizza,” Charlie asked.
“Are you kidding me? Who doesn’t like pizza?”
“That’s true,” said Charlie, “who doesn’t like pizza?”
They stepped out of that charming little blue car and went
into the bar/grill/Mexican restaurant (that makes pizza) and
were absolutely blown away by the volume of the music. The shit
was just cranked. And if I am not mistaken, that was The Who
playing. Charlie loved The Who (or at least told everyone he did).
They sliced their way through the audio fog and found a booth.
(This was not tough because they were the only ones in the
place.) Facing each other across the red and white checkered
table cloth, Charlie kind of half yelled, “I love The Who.”
Kristy, having no idea what he had just said, just smiled her
pretty little smile, put her elbows on the table, and rested her chin
in her supple hands. Daultry just screamed on about “searching
low and high.” Finally the bonehead cook/manager saw that
there was someone in the place and yelled at the waiter/bartender to turn the fuckin’ shit down.
“Sorry bout that folks, didn’t see you there,” said the
waiter/bartender. His denim shirt embroidered with his name…
“TRENT”.
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“No problem/that’s okay,” said Charlie and Kristy simultaneously. Their voices wove together, and tangled in a metaphorical embrace that was depicting what their bodies were going to
look like in the backseat of Charlie’s ride at about 1:30 a.m. Or at
least that what was what Charlie was hoping for.
How do you know that was what Charlie was hoping for?
Maybe he just wants to get to know her and hopefully build a
meaning relationship with her.
How do I know? Because Charlie’s my boy. (In the ‘buddy’ sense,
not in the father/son sense. You know like, “you just tell him
that I sent you and that you’re my boy, and they’ll take care of
you.” No wait. That was a bad example, It’s more like, “yeah I
know him, he’s one of my best friends…he’s my boy.” Hell just
say ‘boy’ the way that one of the hip hop kings would... Boyeee!)
And if there’s one thing I know, it’s my boys.
Maybe you don’t know Charlie as well as you think.
Maybe you talk too much lady. Have you ever thought of
that?
Maybe we should just get back to our little couple and let
them be the focus of attention.
Good idea.
“So Charlie, what do you do?” Kristy said while still staring
at the menu.
“What do you mean? Like what do I do for fun? Or what
do I do to make my life seem worth while, like school or a job
or....”
“I mean what do you do? Do you go to school, do you
have a job, do you like to dance, I don’t know, like…what d’ya
do?” They looked at each other for a fraction of a second before
they broke off the gaze. Charlie looked out the window, and
Kristy looked back onto the menu.
“Well I went to school at a little private school in Wisconsin
but I got sick of that and needed to take a little time off. Now I
just spend a lot of time hanging out with my buddies that are still
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in town, and we basically do nothing.”
“Well you have to do something?”
“No, not really. We spend a lot of time just hanging out and
talking about the same ol’ shit.” Charlie let out a sigh (not one of
those deep sighs that come bellowing out of Thorazine drones,
the kind of sigh that was designed to signify the truth, it was
almost as if he realized, at that very moment, that him and his
friends really and truly did not do shit.)
Kristy let loose a long, drawn out hum, (If inflection could
be drawn, the hum would be slanted with questioning, a kind of
hum that starts high and slides its way down towards the bottom
of the pitch pipe. Like, “MMMMMMMMM mmmmmm
mmmmm, what have we got here?”) furrowed her brow, and bit
her index finger in mock contemplation as she looked up at
Charlie.
After they both thought about it, and subsequently talked it
out, they decided on a pizza and told Trent to bring them a large,
with tomatoes, mushrooms, black and green olives, artichoke
hearts and extra cheese. Whether or not either of them would
admit it, there was a deliberate or at the very least sub-conscious
choice not to order onions. Charlie got a Coors light in a bottle,
and Kristy got a Sprite, “with a lemon, please.”
“So Kristy, what do you do? And I mean that in the general, slash, universal sense.”
She shot back at him with a coy, sarcastic, “Ha, Ha.”
“No but seriously what do you do for fun, for a job, for
life?”
“Well not much really. I go to the U, and other than that I
don’t do much. I like to read and my friends and I go to movies
and sometimes out dancing or something.”
“What are you majoring in?”
“Elementary Ed.” Charlie Nodded his head in agreement
and was about to ask her a follow up when the drinks came. He
took a long pull of his beer and actually felt a little self conscious
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about drinking too much of it. He did not want to give her the
impression that he was a booze hound and that she was in for a
long drunken, drooling, slurring, sexually harassing night. He was
sure that was the last thing this chick needed. Finally he asked,
“Elementary ed? What made you decide on that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I guess I’ve always liked kids and it just
seemed like the thing for me. Besides, I really can’t see myself
doing anything else.”
“Well, that’s nice; it sounds like things are moving right
along for you.”
“Yeah,” Kristy replied softly. She looked across the empty
restaurant, taking in all the neon beer signs and promotional Tshirts on the wall. (With that the conversation slowed. Not that
they were by any means getting sick of each other or running out
of shit to say. It’s just that within the natural ebb and flow of a
conversation, theirs happened to be at low tide). They were both
focusing on far points of the restaurant when Charlie finally
broke the silence by asking if she wanted to “shoot some pool.”
“I would love to. My Grandma has a pool table but I am
not very good.”
“That’s fi-“
Jesus, this is getting ridiculous. I am not going to sit here
any longer if all there going to do is nothing. I mean shit, I would
rather get my head kicked in than sit here through this shit.
Well then don’t sit here. Leave. You won’t hurt my feelings.
(Again)
I’m not going to leave, but if the only thing that is going to
happen is these two not knowing what to say, then what the
fuck?
Don’t worry, something has to happen, why else would we
be here?
“You wanna’ break?” Charlie asked while handing her the
cue.
“Sure.” Kristy took the cue from Charlie and walked
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around the table and got herself into position…aimed…and…
Crack!
Jesus Christ that girl is a Shark!
“Holy Shit!” Charlie said it a little too loud. Kristy’s face
was in full blush by the time the third ball was only halfway down
the internal tunnel of the pool table. “You never told me that
your dad was Minnesota Fats.”
“Oh be quiet. I’m not that good. I just got lucky, that’s all.”
“Lucky? I don’t think so. I think you’re trying to hustle
me.”
“Hustle? Me? Noooo.” Kristy had a smile on her that you
usually only see on grifters and politicians. (Yes I know that’s
redundant but it is for literary purposes.)
“Seven ball in the corner pocket.”
“So Kristy, why are you staying with your Grandma?”
Charlie took another pull from his beer. (This time a small one.)
“Well, my grandpa died this winter and I thought she could
use some company around the house.”
“Sorry to hear that. Was he sick?”
“Yeah, cancer. He was sick for a long time so I guess it was
for the best that he passed on. At least he’s done suffering now.
Three ball, corner.”
“Still it’s never easy when someone you love dies.” Charlie
took another swig, put the beer down, and looked at Kristy trying for her next shot. He could tell that she was not ready to talk
about this stuff with him so he decided to leave it at that. “So do
you and your Grandma have fun?”
“Yeah, we have a great tim- Oh shoot, I missed it. Your
shot.” She walked around the table and gave Charlie the cue. He
was sure that she intentionally brushed her fingers along his.
All right Chuck!
Oh shut up.
Charlie scouted out a shot, extended the his left hand on
the table and laid the stick in the soft pit between his thumb and
83
pointer finger, pulled the cue back with his right and poised his
body for the release. Synapses were at the edge of their seat in
anticipation… muscles were taunt ready to explode… his eyes
were unblinking… his- Charlie stood up and looked over to
Kristy (the green eyed bombshell) and said matter of factly, but
without malice, “Before I shoot this there is something that you
should know about me. I am not one of those guys who falls for
the coy antics of girls, and I don’t pretend I know how to play
pool just to impress some girl.” With that, Charlie got back into
the position that he had seen Newman in in “The Hustler”,
shot…and missed.
Kristy just sat there and looked at him. A vague, tiny little
smile may have been on her mouth. She had no idea what to
think of this kid and his straight shootin’ honesty. She couldn’t
tell whetI’ll tell you what she thought of him, she thought it was one of the
sweetest things that she had ever heard. She knew at that very moment that
this boy (in the little girl, little boy sense) was different from all the “poo poopee pee” boys that she had meet at the University. They were into haircuts,
nice clothes and themselves. But this Charlie boy seemed like he was different.
He seems honest, friendly, sweetAnd a hellcat in the sack.
Would you be quiet?! Are you ever going to let me finish a
thought? Or areNo…I’m going to interrupt you.
Ohhhugh!
Come on, that was funny, you gotta’ admit that.
That was not funny.
How can you sit there and say that that was not funny? I
mean, there are probably only a handful of people in the world
who are that quick. Me, a couple of comedians and maybe,
maybe, one of those Buddhist monks who has been meditating
on some mountain in Tibet for the last thirty years and is completely in tune with his mind, body and soul.
84
So now you’re saying that you are a monk?
No, I was just using the monk to illustrate my god damn
point…You don’t get a lot of things do you?
I get a lot of things just fine.
Yeah sure. Everything except jokes, politics and human
interaction.
Oh shut up!
“Oh, no! I knocked the eight ball in.” Kristy said as she
pouted her lower lip and started to fake cry.
“I guess that means I win. That means it’s official; I have
never lost to you in pool. I would like to take this moment to
retire, undefeated, champion pool player.” Charlie smiled and
finished off his beer with one big gulp. He was no longer on
edge. He was comfortable being around Kristy, and comfortable
around himself for the first time in a long time. Things were
going good. They had a good game of grab butt going, and Jesus,
was she hot.
“Hey look, our food is here,” said Charlie. They started to
make their way back to the table.
“I’m gonna a get a soda from Trent, do you want another
Sprite?”
“Yes, please. And don’t forget the lemon there, champ.”
Charlie turned around and faced her and locked his hands,
raised them above his head, and shook them as if had just won
the sprints at the original Olympics in Greece. He stopped his
gloating and headed up to the bar. While he was standing there
waiting for Trent his friend, Stevie, walked in.
“Stevie, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Well nice to see you too man.” Stevie replied. He was
wearing that stupid fuckin’ Gas Huffer shirt that he thinks is so
cool. For Christ sakes, the fuckin’ thing was pea green and soiled
with party, B.O. and knowing Stevie, semen. His straight, blonde,
greased hair was pulled back into a ponytail and the five o’clock
shadow was casting a gold tint over his honkey skin. (A marine
85
drill sergeant would squeeze out through neck veins and bloodshot eyes, “Youlooklikeafuckingbumprivated!” and a surfer kid and/
or skater punk and/or a pseudohippie following some wanna be
Grateful Dead would draw out a, “Duuuude.”)
“No, I didn’t mean it that way. I meant what are you doing
here?” Charlie pointed at the ground with both hands for emphasis. “I thought you guys would be at the Galaxy?” Charlie felt a
very small, tiny little veil of nervousness cascade over him. He
sure as fuck didn’t want his boys coming in here and fuckin’ it all
up for him.
“Naw man, I’m on my way to Lisko’s cabin. He’s havin’ a
party out there. I just stopped by here for a take out menu. What
about you man? I thought you had that big date tonight.”
“Yeah, I do, I’m on it right now.”
Stevie stepped to the side and peered over Charlie’s shoulder, “Well, where the hell is she?”
“She’s at the table,” Charlie threw his right thumb over his
shoulder pointing in her general direction. “I’m up here getting
drinks.”
“Well is she hot?” Stevie’s little slit of a mouth twisted and
crept into a little sneaky fuckin smile.
“Shut the fuck up Stevie. Can you be an adult for just five
minutes in your fucking life?”
“Hey fuckin’… whatever, man.” Stevie held up his hands.
“You should bring her out to Lisko’s, it should be a great time,
there is going to be a shitload of people there.”
(Charlie has reached yet another crossroads in his life. It
was not a big one, like trying to figure out if he wanted to drop
out of college or not; it was a little one, and he had to figure out
if having his friends see this chick he was with was greater than
the time alone he could spend with her. Then again, it would be
nice to see her in a social situation, and she was gonna have to
eventually meet his friends.)
“Yeah, you know what, maybe we will show up.”
86
“Cool man, I hope to see you there.” Stevie grabbed the
menu from the wall and started to walk out.
“Hey, Stevie.” Charlie, looked over his right shoulder,
cupped his hands over his mouth and whispered loud enough for
him to hear him. “She’s hot.”
“Alllll Right.” Stevie surfer vernaculared. With a thumbs up,
he walked out the door.
Charlie got the drinks and headed back to Kristy and the
pie.
“What took you so long?”
“Oh, a friend of mine came in and I chatted with him a little. He said there was a party going on down the road at a friend
of ours. If you want, we could go to that after we’re done eating?” Charlie didn’t what she would think of this idea.
“Yeah that would be fun,” Kristy said happily and honestly
Christ. Charlie didn’t think she would be that easy going
about it. There was not a hint of apprehension.
That’s because she is a confidant young woman.
Yeah, whatever, it’s still weird.
It’s not weird, it’s healthy.
It’s healthy to want to go rage with a bunch of dudes?
No, it’s healthy to be a confidant girl.
You mean promiscuous girl.
No, you pig, I mean healthy.
Kristy took her third and final piece from the pizza pan.
She and her fork were just about to cut into the piece when her
mind and curiosity got the best of her, “If you could be any animal, what would you be?”
Charlie (with a mouth full of masticated chow) raised his
eye brows, swallowed and coughed out, “What?”
“I said…what kind of animal would you be if-“
“No I heard you, I just…where the hell did that come
from?”
“What do you mean? That’s a good question.” Kristy sat
87
back into the chair and pulled her shoulders back, her breasts
pushed forward as her back muscles stretched and relaxed.
Charlie tried hard to look her in the eyes. He tried real hard.
But somehow he kept slipping his gaze down onto those protruding love muffins. Charlie was getting a good feeling; she
obviously was doing this to get his attention.
Would you shut up?! The girl had to stretch her back; she is not consciously trying to exploit herself. I am sure you men could see an innuendo in
a sneeze.
Look lady I know what I saw and what I saw was that
broad putting the moves on my boy.
Whatever.
“Well,” (Charlie after much thought) “I guess I would be
some kind of bird, maybe an eagle, those amazing eyes and the
ability to fly would be just fine by me. How ‘bout you? What
would you be?”
“I would want to be a horse... personally.” Kristy shrugged
her shoulders and smiled. “I mean they are so beautiful, smart
and so graceful. I mean, they can run super fast and still make it
look easy. Plus they are very good at, um… they’re trusting, and
right when you come up to them, they can tell whether you’re
nice or not.”
“Have you ever ridden a horse Kristy?”
“Yes, of course I have. Why... have you?”
”Nope, never been on one. I have ridden an elephant and
watched a Kangaroo box a guy before but I have never ridden a
horse.” Charlie took another bite of his slice and sat back to
chew it (with his mouth closed).
“You saw a guy box a Kangaroo? I always thought that that
was made up.”
“Nope, it’s real. I saw it with my own eyes when I was a little kid. Even at that young of an age, I thought it was twisted and
bizarre. It was this small little traveling carnival that was right by
my hometown. The guy was wearing this old, soiled wife beater
88
and was wearing these giant red boxing gloves. I remember him
being this gray-haired guy whose hair was always falling in front
of his eyes. The kangaroo was also wearing gloves and just sort
of jumped and flayed around wildly. He was pure instinct…”
Charlie moved his head slightly towards the ceiling. (His eyes
were glazed with that gaze, you know, the one that people get
when they are tapping into a turning point. I don’t want to say
anything as heavy as it was traumatic, but it definitely had made a
mark on Charlie.) “That god damn Kangaroo just sat there inside
that boxing ring, fighting for it’s life against some old carnie who
was just out trying to make a buck. I remember that ol’ Kangaroo really let that son of a bitch have it; I mean, he really
unloaded on the guy and the crowd went nuts, just screaming
their heads off… In retrospect, I’m pretty sure they weren’t yelling because it was poetic justice, but nonetheless that Kangaroo
was winning one over for the animal kingdom by proxy… God
damn… that was a weird day.” Charlie rubbed his face with the
palms of his hands and Kristy just sat there.
She was sitting there because that young man just opened
up to her and she was respecting the moment.
Yeah? Well, it would be nice for her to say something;
Charlie is starting to feel like an idiot, like maybe this broad
doesn’t get him or something.
She gets him just fine. That’s the point. She saw who he
really was right there; she saw that this boy was filled with something different; he was sensitive…at least more than other boys
that she knew.
Well, that’s fine lady. I’m glad she thinks our Chas here is
some kind of saint, but it is still wrong for her to leave him out in
the wind like this.
She’s notKristy looked down at her plate and softly said, “Wow
Charlie, that must have been a pretty weird day… Do you still
think that they let people box those things?”
89
“I sure hope not.”
A silence came caressing over them. In the background the
two Knucklehead employees’ were fuckin’ around with wet towels, and Kristy and Charlie just sat there, listening to them and
the out of date and out of place music coming from the jukebox.
(It was Journey with their pussy front man and all their soulless,
bullshit music. You would have thought that this was ‘85 with its
Reaganomics, short-shorts, feathered mullets and it’s, ‘give me a
break’s”.)
Right then that idiot Trent came over and asked them,
“You need anything else here folks?” This dipshit had about as
much tact as a mother fucker. He had no respect for the moment
between two people. This is the last guy you would have sent
over to the UN during the Bay of Pigs scandal. We would have
been nothing but a charred out sterilized ash hole of a world.
“Do you need anything Kristy?” Charlie looked at her (in
the eyes).
“No thank you Charlie.”
“No, I don’t think so man; I guess we’ll just take the
check.”
Charlie took a wad of money out of his pocket and uncrumpled a couple of tens and a twenty. He saw that Kristy had
start sifting through her tiny purse for money.
“I’ll get this.”
“You don’t have to Charlie, I have money.”
“I’m sure you do, but don’t worry about it.”
“Well thank you Charlie, that’s sweet.”
“You’re welcome Kristy.”
She knew that she didn’t have to pay, so why did she even bother
reaching for her cash?
Because it’s the thought that counts. She doesn’t want
Charlie to think that she was not willing, even though it is the
boy’s job to pay.
You women and your contradictions; you’re always bitching
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about equal rights until it comes to the money. And if someone
doesn’t open the door for you, you about have a god damn heart
attack, squealing that chivalry is dead.
We don’t need equality in manners, we need equality when
it comes to respect.
Yeah? Respect? Well we’d respect you more if you started
to take more responsibility. It wouldn’t kill you to change a tire
every once in awhile, or god forbid, you’re the one who runs out
in the rain to pull the car around.
You can’t be serious. Do you honestly think that the only
way for a woman to get respect is to get her hands dirty or get
wet?
Hey, I have nothing against a woman getting wet.
What?….Oh my god, you pig!
You asked for it.
I never did such a thing. You should take some lessons
from Charlie on how to be a man.
There is nothing that kid could teach me. I’m a god damn
sexual Jesus.
…I’m impressed; you just managed to be sacrilegious and
sexist in the same sentence.
Thank you.
“So how much tip should I leave on a seventeen dollar
bill?” Charlie stood and fingered through the money lying on the
table. “I don’t say that because I want you to know how much
money I spent on you. I say that because I’m horrible at math,
and my buddies are always bitching at me for tipping too much.”
Charlie looked up at the girl.
“I know you weren’t trying to rub it in my face Charlie…lets see.” Kristy started to mumble to herself. Her full lips
were pounding unseen numbers and she closed her eyes to really
maximize her math skill. “Three dollars and forty cents would be
twenty percent.”
“Do you think, ‘The Trent,’ (Charlie raised his hands to
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make the quote signs with his fingers) deserves that much?”
“Yeah, he was nice enough.”
“Yeah, he was fine…three fifty it is.” Charlie dug into his
pocket and flipped two quarters onto the table. (They both
landed heads up.)
“Well Kristy, what do ya say? Let’s get the hell outta here.”
“Sounds like a plan Stan.”
“No Kristy, my name’s Charlie.”
“Oh you.” Kristy let out a little giggle and flipped her hand
at Charlie (in an oh-so-girlie way). Charlie just kinda stood back
and watched Kristy turn and start to walk out. He wasn’t looking
at her ass. He was just looking at a girl who was alright. This is
just what the doctor had ordered for Charlie.
Wow, I’m impressed that you didn’t focus on her body.
I said Charlie wasn’t looking at her ass, I didn’t say anything
about me.
Good lord. You’re an idiot.
Kristy slowed and turned around and started to walk backwards looking at Charlie. “Well are you coming?”
“Yeah I’m coming.”
You hear that? My boy said he was cuOh shut up!
Charlie caught up with Kristy and held the door for her.
The night was still warm and could be described as muggy. The
moon was starting to make an appearance, and Charlie had the
Stones “Tumbling Dice” rolling through his mind’s ear. He
started to swagger a bit, and opened the door of that kick ass
light blue LTD.
“Thanks Charlie.”
“You’re welcome Kristy.” Charlie shut the door for her
once she was securely inside and started to walk around the back
of the car, looking at Kristy through the back window. He was
waiting to see if she would reach over and unlock his door for
him. Charlie was behind the car when he saw the silhouette reach
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over. (Charlie had seen that in some movie with DeNiro. Some
guy said that was the way you knew you had a good one, if they
opened the door for you. Charlie gets all his shit from the movies.)
Charlie got in, put the keys in the ignition, (but didn’t start
it) and turned to face Kristy. “So now what?”
“I don’t care.”
“Do you want to go to that party?”
“Yeah that’d be just fine by me.”
“I have to warn you, my friends are a bunch of flaming idiots.”
“I’m sure they’re not that bad.” Kristy pulled out her seat
belt and the metallic click of the locking mechanism seemed
unusually loud. It resonated through the whole car.
“No, they’re bad. They’re sweethearts, but they’re bad.”
Charlie straightened himself and turned the car on. Her motor
hummed, her stereo played, and he rolled her windows down so
the air coming off the lake would wash the pizza parlor funk
from their hair.
A little on down the line Charlie spoke up, “So I hope you
don’t mind, there will be a lot of drunk people there.”
“No. Jeez Charlie, what do you think, that I’m some kind of
prude, that I’ve never had a beer before or been to a party?”
Kristy smiled her little smile, “I do go to college, you know.”
“Yeah, I know, I just didn’t know if you were into that
whole scene.”
“Don’t worry Charlie, I’ll do just fine.” Kristy slid her hand
across the seat, the friction just slightly warming her palm and
gently patted the back of Charlie’s hand.
Sounds like your girl is into to getting shitfaced. Not to mention she
just put the moves on my man there.
She’s not into getting um-faced (blush), and no, she wasn’t putting the
moves on him. She was simply showing affection, that’s what humans do.
Yeah, humans that want to get laid….Did you hear me? I
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said humans that want to get laid.
I heard you, I’m just ignoring you.
You can’t ignore me forever. Sooner or later you’ll speak
up. Especially in about an hour and a half when that girl will be
taking her shirt off.
…….
“You want me to roll the windows up?”
“No. This air feels nice… Isn’t the moon pretty tonight?”
Kristy had her arm out the window and was flying it at the 35
mph speed limit dictated by law. The air flowed above and below
her hand and wrist, and her little fine arm hair was blown back
against her skin. (Tickling her in a thousand little places and
sending shivers up her peripheral nervous system to that part of
the brain that processes the tactile. That must be the best place to
work in the brain.) The hair around Kristy’s face danced and
softly whipped. She stuck her head a little farther out the window
and closed her eyes. The white noise wind swooshed by her ears,
and the Doppler Effect the passing mailbox had on the breeze
created a natural rhythm that tranced and soothed Kristy into
that place that pot heads, small children and dogs seem to be.
(You know that place; I believe they call it ‘nirvana’ in the east
and ‘trippy’ in the west.) After about thirty seconds, (33.74 to be
exact) Kristy pulled her head back into the window, looked at
Charlie and said matter of factly, “You know Charlie, I’m having
really nice time tonight.”
“So am I, Kristy…so am I.” Charlie broke into a smile and
the green indigo glow of the dashboard washed his face and
teeth in a subtle, electronic hue.
The tenths of a mile and the miles rolled on by, and they
both just sat back in silence and enjoyed the night, the music, the
breeze and each others company. (But not necessarily in that
order.) There was seven minutes (seven minutes and twent…nevermind) of unspoken conversations…
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“So Kristy…” Charlie finally broke the silence. He didn’t
know why, he just felt like he should say something. “What’s your
favorite kind of music?”
Kristy opened her eyes and the smile that was softly forming her lips slipped out the back door and into the shadows.
“What?”
“You know… ah, what’s your favorite kind of music?”
Charlie knew right away that he just had totally disrespected the
moment. He took something as perfectly intangible as comfortable silence and shattered it with his stupid trivial question. He
was just as bad as that Trent fuck back at the pizza joint.
Kristy turned her head to the left and let it rest on her
shoulder. She studied Charlie for a moment, (I mean really
looked at him, just to see what the hell he was getting at. The
waves of recognition rolled onto her beach of comprehension
and moved the sand around to reveal a mosaic of his regret and
embarrassment. She knew that Charlie didn’t mean to ask it, or
even that he wanted an answer. She knew that he simply asked it
for her sake. He wanted her to know that he was not avoiding
her, that he was not uncomfortable. He simply asked it for her,
and that, she found, was the perfect kind of sweet.) rolled her
head back straight, closed her eyes again and softly said, “I don’t
know Charlie… I don’t know.”
Charlie took a slow, deep, quiet inhale through his nose and
blew a smile onto his face in the aqua marine electric evening.
The hearts pumped, the blood flowed, the hemoglobin carried the oxygen molecules, the optic nerve received, the cochlea
converted, the semi circular canal stabilized, and the id lied in
thick anticipation. Charlie slowed the baby blue ride and put her
turn signal on. They were taking a left towards the east, towards
the lake, towards the cabin, and to the party.
“You know, it’s not too late turn back, We don’t have to go
if you don’t want to.”
“No I think it will be fun, Besides it will be nice to meet
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your friends.”
They drove down the narrow wooded path towards the
cabin. The headlights illuminated the trees on either side of the
love car. When they broke through into the clearing, they saw a
small white cabin with chipping white paint and a screened in
porch that faced the lake. Down by the water there were six or
seven people standing a circular brick fire pit. The flames were
reflecting and dancing on the still water, and the dark silhouetted
figures were deftly smeared with an amber orange hue. Charlie
parked the car, turned it off, looked at Kristy and said, “Well,
we’re here. Now don’t say I didn’t warn you when you realize
everyone here is an idiot.”
“Jeez Charlie,” Kristy said while opening her door. She got
out, and finished her thought over the dirty white vinyl top of the
car. “You must really hate your friends. All you have been doing
is talking about how annoying they are.”
“Jesus would you keep it down,” Charlie hushed and,
looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard her. “I don’t
think they’re annoying, they’re just an acquired taste, that’s all.
You have to get use to ‘em.”
The smile was still stretching on Kristy’s face, “I’ll get used
to them. I got used to you didn’t I?”
“Ha...ha. Very funny.”
Kristy went around the car so that she could walk with
Charlie. Shoulder to shoulder they started off towards the party.
They could not see the faces of any of the people in front of
them, just cut out shapes from the giant backdrop of the lake, the
night-starry sky, the fire, and the red and white pontoon that was
beached (just begging to be taken out on a drunken midnight
ride).
A blacken shape started to approach them, “Hey Chuck,” it
said enthusiastically, “long time no see.” The shape began to gain
color. It was as if someone, something, was turning up the volume on the visual hi-fi. It was finally loud enough so they could
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see Lisko approaching with his arms out looking for a hug.
“Lisk!” Charlie shouted and embraced him. “Sean, this is
Kristy. Kristy, this is Sean Lisko.”
“Hello Kristy, I’m glad you could make it.”
“Thanks, nice to be here. This is a real nice spot.”
“Yeah thanks, it’s my parents but they don’t spend much
time out here during the week. So you guys want a couple of
beers?”
Charlie looked over to Kristy to ask her if she wanted one,
but before he could even start to turn his head, before he even
thought about turning his head she said…
“Sure, I’d love one.”
“Well then follow me, me lady.” Lisko and his stupid
fuckin’ accent took Kristy by the arm and led her to the fire, leaving Charlie standing by himself. I mean really. Did that guy honestly think he could charm people with that fucking voice? It
sounded like a drunken pirate being molested by an Irish priest
and a Scottish fry cook. I mean good god, I’ve heard funnier
voices coming out of my asSounds like someone is jealous?
I’m not jealous; I just think it was a stupid voice that’s all.
Look, you have nothing to worry about. Your ‘boy’ Charlie
is doing just fine as far as the Kristy camp is concerned. But that
Sean sure is cute with his clean cut blonde hair and nice dress
pants.
Well that’s comforting coming from you there clueless.
Besides, I’m not jealous. I know that soon, very soon Charlie will
be getting in that girl’s pants.
Here we go.
Charlie started off towards the fire and saw Kristy and Sean
getting a beer. He was on his way over when he got headed off at
the pass. “Dude, where’s your broad?”
“What? Oh, hey Stevie. She’s over there with Sean getting a
beer.”
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“Well that’s cool that she drinks man… At least you didn’t
get a Christian.”
Charlie looked at him and sarcastically said, “I guess that’s
something man… you’re right,” slapped him on the shoulder,
stepped around him, and went for the beer. The chatter around
him was lively and sporadic. He heard lone words shooting out
of conversations like, “Death” and “Peanut Butter” and “Esoteric.” All Charlie knew is that he wanted a beer, and fuckin’ fast.
He thought that other boy was going to steal Kristy away
from him? I’m sure, you men are so insecure. You always have to
prove your manhood to everybody even if they don’t want to listen.
Maybe we’re insecure because you woman are sluts.
Maybe you’re a jerk.
Maybe I’m not.
Mayb“Charlie!” Kristy said and handed him a cool one, “I was
wondering if you were ever going to come over here. I thought
maybe you had left me.”
“Now why would I go and do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know, because maybe you hate me? Maybe you
think I’m ugly? Maybe you think that I’m not good enough for
you?”
Charlie knew what she was doing. She was playing the
game. She was acting coy. Charlie was now either supposed to do
one of two things: A) reassure her about how he thought that she
was nice, smart and funny and that he was having a good time,
or“No, you’re not good enough for me, but I’ll stick around a
little longer and see if I don’t get lucky.” –he could do that.
“Charlie!” Kristy laughed and backhanded him on the
shoulder. Chas snapped that beer open and took a big pull out of
it, smiling all the while.
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After a couple of beers, a couple of hours, and a whole shitload of swearing, Charlie, finally lit a heater. (The buzz said to do
it…honestly.)
Kristy, feeling a little warm herself, half yelled, “Charlie! I
didn’t know you smoked.”
Everyone stopped and looked at Charlie. Charlie had the
floor, granted there were only nine of them including the couple,
but it was enough for Charlie to feel like he was on the spot.
“…That’s because you haven’t slept with me yet.” Charlie
shrugged and smiled. Chris (Charlie’s buddy who works at a cabinet shop and who was standing next to Charlie) spit his fuckin’
beer all over the place. It mostly went into the fire, but some of it
misted onto Charlie’s face. The rest of them stood there quietly,
waiting in anticipation for what Kristy was going to do or say. It
seemed like forever but it was only a few seconds (a fleeting
moment, if you will). Hell in actuality it was no time at all because
Kristy was laughing her fucking ass off. She was bent over with
stomach muscles clenched. If she would’ve had a dick, she
would’ve had to pinch it off to keep from pissin’ in her pants.
Oh...My...God! I can’t believe you just said that. That was probably
the most disgusting thing
I’ve ever heard.
Get a sense of humor.
“Holy shit, Charlie I can’t believe you just said that!” Chris
said while still laughing and wiping the snot/beer from under his
nose. Everyone just sat there and laughed, and laughed, and
laughed…until finally all there was was sporadic chuckle or
someone whispering to themselves, “That was so fucking funny.”
Then…silence…nothing…not a sound….only the sound of
night by a lake…the snapping of the fire…nature echoing off the
water…and maybe… a small… tiny… minute… sound of collected breathing…
“Sooooo…Anybody wanna do some coke?” Jake (one of
Charlie’s best friends) had a big shit-eatin’ grin on his face as he
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scanned the crowd for a reaction. That was all it took. It fanned
the flames and they (small gathering) busted back in hysterics.
Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out just about enough
coke for everyone (at the party) to get fucked up. The crowd
melted into a mob mentality and started to act like they were a
crowd at a fuckin’ ball game. Chants erupted “LET’S GO JAKE!
LET’S GO JAKE!” Angie (a former high school football cheerleader)
gave
a
big,
primal,
drawn
out,
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOO JAKE!” There were scissor kicks
and elbows-in-tight-stiff-arm-clapping-cheerleader-style. Jake
pulled over the picnic table and Lisko ran in to get a vinyl album
cover-jacket. The crowd milled about in anticipation. Charlie bit
into his lower lip with anxiety tickling the ever living shit out of
his feelings for Kristy. (Better yet, the part of his brain that his
anxiety controlled was getting the shit beat out of it by the part
of the brain that gave a shit about what Kristy thought of him).
You mean the penis. (giggle)
Holy Shit lady I’m impressed. That was funny.
God, I can’t believe I said that. I’m so embarrassed.
See it feels good to let loose every once in awhile, doesn’t
it?
I wouldn’t call that letting loose, but yes, it did feel good.
Maybe you’ll finally start to loosen up.
“I got one. I hope no one minds snortin’ off a Bing Crosby
Christmas Album.”
Stevie laughed his ass off and Tay mocked, “Jesus Lisko,
don’t you have any Sabbath in there?” Jake took the album from
Lisko and started to cut the blow on it, using a little replacement
razor for various household shit. “Okay!” Jake shouted. “Everyone, I need your attention. I have cut the first rail, repeat, I have
cut the first rail. So if we could just have a volunteer to step
forwa- Wait. I think we should let our guest go first… Kristy, get
on up here.” Jake motioned to Kristy like he was some dirty traffic cop signaling that it was her turn to go.
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Charlie had a grin on his face; I say had because the fucker
disappeared as soon as Jake said the ‘K’ word. With a sullen
(sorry) face, Charlie let his arms fall to his side as he heard, or at
least thought he heard, Kristy let out a “whoop.” Beer was
slowly tumbling out of his can as he saw Kristy’s ass shuffling up
to the front of the line. Was this shit real? Was this beer that he
was drinking? Was he on planet fucking earth? Was that chick
that had giggled all night actually into that shit? The cotton that
was layered over his reality was burned away when he heard Jake
laugh out, “And, my dear young Kristy, you will notice that the
first rail is cut fittingly enough on the song titled, ‘I’m Dreaming
of a White Christmas.’ Jake thought that this was hilarious, and
frankly so did everyone else.
“All right!” Kristy chirped and snatched the rolled bill away
from Jake. She stuffed that thing in her nose with one hand, put
her finger to her nostril with the other, bent over, and unloaded
on that shit like she was auditioning for the coke slut on Miami
Vice. She wiped the line out and stood up, flicked her hair back,
actually rubbed some of the coke dust onto her top gum,
smacked her lips and started to walk back to Charlie. At this
point Chuck half expected God to step forward out of a tree and
say, “Naaaaw, Chas, I’m just fuckin’ with ya, that didn’t really happen.” Then being God, he would rewind everything to the point
where Kristy would respectfully decline.
“Holy Shit! What the hell was that?”
“What the hell was what, Charlie?”
“That,” Charlie pointed towards the coke table (where his
dry walling buddy Tay was rippin’ into a line), “That coke shit. I
didn’t know you were into coke.”
“I’m not.”
“What do you mean you’re not, you just cleaned that shit
up like you were Scarface.” Charlie stood there; an internal
shimmy was starting to shake the very foundation of what he
thought was real.
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“Is there something wrong Charlie?”
“No, there is nothing wrong… I just never would have
thought that you would be into coke, that’s all.”
“I told you Charlie, I’m not into coke. I just do it every once
in awhile. Besides, you don’t really even know me.” Kristy lowered her eyes when she said that.
“I guess not.” Charlie turned away and looked at the lake.
The moon was reflecting off surface and was distorted by the
waves. Distortion seemed to be everywhere.
“Are you mad?”
“No I’m not mad… I’m just a little tripped out.”
“Come on Charlie, it’s not like I’m the Beatles or something.”
Charlie had to smile at this. The Beatles probably had
snorted, but they weren’t exactly known as being coke heads.
(‘Rock and Roll’ means ‘Cocaine’ in Latin.)
“No…I know that you’re not the Beatles. I’m just a little surprised, that’s all.”
I have been sitting here looking at you for the last five minutes waiting for you to say something about your little princess
the coke head, but I can see that you have nothing to say. Took
you by surprise, I take it?
Took me by surprise? That’s the understatement of the century. That took me out of my skin. I would have never thought
that she would ever do anything like that.
That’s what you get for being naive.
I’m not naïve, I’m just…
Hey, don’t take it so hard. It’s not like she just shot a baby
for Christ sakes. She just did a little coke…big deal.
How can you be so nonchalant about this? She’s doing
drugs.
Come on…everyone’s doing it.
This is no time for jokes. This is serious.
This is not ser102
“I’m sorry that I shocked, you Charlie.” Kristy said it
silently, self-consciously. She took a step forward closer to Charlie. Her heart kicked it up a couple of paces (some of that was the
snow). Her breathing shallowed, she blinked her eyes slowly,
almost tiredly.
“That’s okay.” Charlie was hollow. The tingling radiated
from his sex centers and shot down and up every nerve (the CNS
and PNS were in a total gridlock. Nerves impulses were honking
their horns and beating their dashboards trying to get through to
places like the little toe and ear lobe). Charlie took some cool saturated night air into his lungs and held it, hoping that it would
dissipate throughout his body, putting out his primal fire. He met
her green eyes with his blue (and shared one of those moments
that teenaged girls dream about and discuss with their friends at
recess.) The anticipation was blunt, it was screaming under neon
lights of recognition, just screaming its head off, “Would you kiss
her god-damnit!” They moved ever closer to that first kiss, it was
theirs to have. They were the only ones on the lake. Mosquito’s
turned away out of respect. The cigarette-beer-bottled air came
streaming from Charlie’s lungs with the heat from his internal
combustion as the only souvenir of its trip to the body. Their
cool hands reached out in a mutual extension, and meshed. Skin
over bones rubbed themselves against each other. Another step
forward and the fingers were interlocked. Another step forward
and the apex, the very tips of her tits, I’m talking mostly the silk
of her bra, pressed softly into Charlie’s chest. Neck muscles
relaxed, and the eyes slowly started shutting, only allowing
enough information in so that they could gauge range and distance of the incoming mouth. Charlie slowly ran his tongue over
his lips to lubricate them, to moisten them, to prepare them.
Kristy stopped her exhale so as not to carbon dioxide Charlie.
The heat from each others faces were mingling in the spandrel in
front of them. They could hear it. This was it, this was the very
second that they both had been wait103
“Hey Charlie!”
It was over.
“Fuckin’… What!” Charlie stepped backed and yelled it
over her shoulder (not letting go of her hands).
“You want some of this?” Jake was standing there, just
standing there, pointing down towards the pile with his eyebrows
raised. Everyone was facing Charlie with gluttonous eyes.
“No-I-don’t-want-any-of-that-shit!” Charlie rifled off. He
moved backed into position in front of Kristy’s face and in the
background faintly heard, “Good, that means more for us.” All
the little eyes turned away from the couple leaving them back to
themselves, but the moment had passed. They slowly released
the fingers from their lock. Charlie’s middle fingers slowly slid
down Kristy’s middle fingers and he felt the smoothness of her
nails before he fell off the edge.
“Ahhh…” Charlie turned his gaze off and to the right, to
the ground where their shadows from the fire stretched into
infinity.
Kristy smiled…smiled the smile of “Chutes and Ladders,”
skipping rope, and pig tails.
“You wanna get out of here?” Charlie said it, hoping, nay,
praying that she would say yes.
The moon reflected off of Kristy’s lower lip making a little
white spot of light on the red wet of her flesh. Charlie’s eyes were
drawn to it and he watched her softly say, “Yes.”
Taking her right hand into his left. they started to make
their way to the car. “We’re outta here,” he yelled.
“Nice meeting everyone.”
“Yeahs” and “yes’s” and “goodbyes” and ‘nice meeting
you’s’ came spewing out of the pack that was hovering over the
coke in some kind of desperate rugby scrum.
Charlie and Kristy walked hand in hand to the light blue
tempered steel of perfection. Charlie opened Kristy’s door, saw
her in, and walked around to find that the door had been opened
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by the girl. (Not all the way wide open, just enough so all Charlie
had to do was pull lightly.)
The car started. Charlie turned off the radio, backed up,
and drove on down the driveway towards…
“Is that really the time?”
“Yeah that’s the time. What time you gotta be home?”
“Well no particular time, but my grandma might be worried. I should probably get home.”
“That’s no problem.”
Charlie steered the car in silence, awkward kisses gone awry
and coca wishes were spinning in the minds of the two. Kristy’s
heart was pounding out a stimulated bass beat with an alcohol
Christmas filler. Charlie’s mind was bogged with a beer buzz
afterthought and a pheromone cocktail. Silence was the blanket
and their anticipation of the front door good bye was the hypothermic bed friend.
“Charlie?” Kristy kept her eyes straight ahead, the yellow
lines dashing under the car fueling the mind’s metronome.
“Yeah?”
“I had a really great ti-…” She looked to Charlie to finish
her thought. She wanted him to finish her thought, cementing
their connection, but Charlie had nothing to say, he just looked at
her and pulled a quiet smile.
The miles drove away. The silence permeated the car and
seeped its way into the porous bone of their femurs, phalange’s
and scapula’s. Was the silence squirming in its seat? Was the
silence beating down the hedonistic tendencies that were dancing
in the rain? Were the hedonistic tendencies aware of their wet
naked bodies and all of their shortcomings?
“Kristy?”
“Yeah Charlie?”
“Did I ever tell you about the time that I made a handicapped girl sad?”
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“No, Charlie, you haven’t.” Kristy looked to Charlie, then
back at the road.
Charlie looked straight ahead, and ran his right thumb
along the shoulder strap, holding him in in the event of a worse
case scenario.
“Well, way back when I was in high school we got out of
class early so that we could go see a speaker at the middle school
across the street. The whole school got let out. I can’t remember
who the speaker was, but he must have been someone the school
deemed worthy because they were lettin’ us out to see the guy. So
anyway, my friend Fritz and I busted out of the school with the
rest of the kids and started making our way there. There was this
big hill that we all had to walk up and there were a ton of people.
Fritz and I got stuck behind this big mass of a thing and started
to act like idiots, you know, to get a rise out of people. Well I was
back there and we were going slow and everything and I shout
out, I mean I just yell, “Hey Jesus Christ what’s taking so long?
What you gotta’ limp or something?” (Charlie had the glazed
gaze again. His hands were reaching into his closet [and they had
on alcohol mittens] past all the shit hanging in there. Past the
Kangaroo, past the first day in a new school, past the time he
almost hit his mom in sixth grade, past all that shit, and grabbed
an item for Kristy to check over and to see if she really wanted to
wear this thing.) “Well anyway Fritz and I broke out in to hysterics. We were just sitting in the back of everyone laughing our
asses of when the crowd started splitting right down the middle
right in front of us.” Charlie raised his hand in the Karate chop
position, closed his left eye, and stared down the crosshair length
of his arm, over his thumb and pointer finger, and to the half
illuminated road. “I’ll never forget it. People just started peeling
away, one by one until there was only one girl left. She was wearing this oversized white stuffed jacket and had on these little
black corduroy pants. And with intermittent zips of her pants,
she was just limping up the hill, giving it everything she’s got just
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to stay in front of this cluster of kids behind her. There was no
way that she was going to get left behind again.”
Kristy sat and listened. The silence was broken, and the
night was coagulated into a fresh wound of compassion and
empathy. “Fritz and I looked at each other and he let out one of
those embarrassed laughs, turned bright red, and took one step
to the right away from me. I just fuckin’ sat there white as a
ghost. Here this little thing was just trying to fit in and I had to
go and call her bluff…I’m mean fuck me for making her feel all
bad and shit.” Charlie turned his head and glanced out the
driver’s side window. He was trying to figure out why he told her
that. He was trying but“Charlie?”
“Yeah.”
Kristy looked through almost inebriated eyes to the corner
of his jaw, traced his mouth, dropped to his knees and whispered,
“Nothing.” She said it loud enough for him to hear, but quiet
enough for it to be a word of understanding. She had shown her
plastic cosmetic stand hand with the coke and Charlie had shown
his, with its veins and arteries and it scrapes and scars.
The miles continued to tumble into the reflective mirrors
and the reflective surfaces of their inner space illuminated their
percussion hearts and disco minds. When Charlie pulled the sky
ride into the Fillstone’s driveway it was 1:13 in the a.m. Kristy’s
grandma had fallen asleep long ago with the thought of the
weather man’s prediction for tomorrow being a ‘mostly sunny
day.’ Charlie parked and turned the engine off. The car was quiet
and dark. Silhouette jet black trees branched off on their faces as
the front porch light shone in the backdrop. Kristy and Charlie
looked at each other through the metaphysical forest and got out
of the car. Charlie walked around and slowed his walk to steps,
drag steps, where rocks rolled between his soles and the earth.
Charlie took Kristy’s hand and they started walking to the front
107
door on cracked, segmented cement slabs. Three insects were
twirling around the bare white front porch light bulb, making far
off waxed comb humming sounds. Charlie and Kristy climbed
the three stairs to the tiny landing, the tiny stoop. Not letting go
of her hand, Charlie stared at his feet.
“Tonight was good for me. I had a good time Kristy.” He
met her eyes just for a second before he looked up to the entomologist ballet.
“Tonight was good for me Charlie. I hope we can do this
again.”
“Me too.”
Side ways glances and finger caresses were all the rage
when Kristy moved towards the door. She turned the brass knob,
opened it up, stepped inside, and turned around to put her face
into the threshold space. She held the knob with her left and
grasped the door with her right. Charlie, hands in pockets,
looked at her face framed by the door and the jam.
“Good night Charlie,” Kristy said softy.
“Good night.” Charlie took his right hand from his pocket
and hip shot a half wave and started to step down the stairs backwards. Kristy, smiling, slowly moved the door shut. The lock
clicked closed and Charlie turned around and started to walk
back to his baby blue wheels. Once inside, Charlie put on his
seatbelt, started the engine, turned her around and headed out
the driveway. When he was half way gone, the front light turned
off and the house and silhouetted trees disappeared. Charlie
turned on the stereo, smiled, and leaned his head back against the
headrest and said… “Jazz music.”
So that’s my boy Charlie.
And apparently that’s my girl Kristy… So do you think that
they will(Shhh.)
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Gluttony • Judi A. Rypma
Gluttony
• Judi A. Rypma
So many gastrointestinal adventures
of miniature consumers
starved
they say
for Happy Meals-food missiles hurled across the cafeteria
weekends clogging theaters to ogle
Hannibal Lecter, risking
victimless cannibalism
like Gretel feasting on a great slab
of gingerbread drywall,
double-paned candy windows
her sweet tooth inspiring
an old woman who slaved over a sugar house
to take her revenge in flesh
though she postponed the buffet-salivating over a plumpening finger,
salting and stewing,
envisioning a juicier Hansel-basted, barbecued boy
to satiate a feeding frenzy
precipitated by one greedy girl
or Snow White sampling leftover round steak
swiped off the dwarves' plates
exonerated perhaps by days in the forest
trying to forget the queen had a taste
for pickled lung and liver
but how to excuse the girl later-belly full of groceries
(paid for by seven benefactors)
yet still unsatiated
reaching
for that juicy apple
dangled
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Gluttony • Judi A. Rypma
like a fleshy breast
by someone eaten up with envy.
She never admitted craving
fancy lace, jeweled combs,
plump fruits that would make her no better
than the vain woman from whom she fled.
And Goldilocks guzzling that porridge-first degree food theft
though the beneficent bears
awakening from a long winter's nap
hungry and weary of berries and roots
forgave her
for treating their home like a free Holiday Inn.
Jack, too, trading a perfectly good milk cow
for a handfiil of beans that promised
to sprout to epic proportions--become
Jolly Green Giant of the vegetable world
but no, he had to break in
to the ogre's home, raid his kitchen,
linger over breakfast, let the wife
take the ultirnate risk. Forced
in his recklessness to hide in the oven
close to becoming Child on Toast
yet he returned again and again
for cash, goose, harp
when he could've been content-sold more beans than Bird's Eye.
Only the Gingerbread Boy failed
to win riches, a princess, a home
all sacrificed when he fled
from one of the few sets of fairyland parents
who valued what they created
made his own agony
racing through a world where everyone
yearned to taste him
and he was suitably devoured.
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Leonid Meteor Shower November 19, 2002 • Donna Pucciani
Leonid Meteor Shower
November 19, 2002
• Donna Pucciani
November's Leonid was well-forecast,
slivers of icy faith to be shaved off the frosted dawn.
I watch, nose pressed against the dark,
like David waiting for a glimpse
of pearled flesh parting a towel.
I have lain awake on August nights
in a rust-webbed lawn chair
seeking lights that never once appeared.
I've blamed myopia, doubt, lack of patience
for a faceful of midnight pillow.
Now, a glint off eyeglasses,
cynicism sharpened
on the edge of nextdoor's porchlight.
Then, a cosmic hiccup-but possibly there,
in the implausible thereness
hanging overhead.
Blood muscled in a tightrope of desire,
I shiver into the night circus,
sing silence in silken hyphens four times twenty,
lick poured milk splashed from the Dipper,
drink moon, sip star.
Ice-pick chips shard into my hair, feather-fired,
faster than streaks of white chalk on a blackboard.
The neighbors sleep. A dog barks.
I stand alone in the big tent,
skepticism swinging with trapezed stars
burning the palms of my hands silver.
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Photograph: • Emily Renaud
Photograph:
• Emily Renaud
Murmuring vehicles, downtown,
drones compete against
the copulating chirp
of birds on roofs
fluttering in gutters, wet
fucking on rustling tree branches,
against a harpsichord canon
tinking the laptop.
all compete for this morning stillness
that I might witness these creatures
as they occur.
112
Simulacra Silhouettes • Alice Obrecht
Simulacra Silhouettes
• Alice Obrecht
he next day at work I would hear complaints about
the traffic. For many of my co-workers, the Walcott
Street Bridge was a vital component of their commute home. But
as of 5:27 pm Tuesday evening the bridge was blocked off to
traffic, as I stood near the railing on this purged concrete and
tried to convince Molly that a hair dye commercial was nothing
to kill yourself over.
“It’s not just the commercial,” she said disdainfully.
“Yeah, I know.” I said, prying back into her good graces.
“It’s everything.”
“Yeah, I know.”
*
I met Molly on the street. She asked me if I was morally,
emotionally or economically bankrupt. I answered, all of the
above. So she had me over for tea and pancakes as her weekly act
of charity. Molly liked to wear fishnets on her legs, heavy liner
around her eyes, and no brassiere. It made her feel like an anachronism, which was important to her for some reason.
It was established from the beginning, by Molly, that we
could never be romantically involved. And, aside from her brief
stint in a masturbatory fantasy, I erased all sexual thoughts of
Molly and in time came to regard her as a sister. She was in love
with a late 19th-century author and collected any artifact having
to do with him, his life, and the boat on which he perished. They
spent every Thursday afternoon with each other, usually at the
museum where she would chat with his portrait about the various events of the week. As with her lover, Molly’s time with me
was spent with her doing most of the talking:
“He seemed disconcerted today. Perhaps his colic has come
back—he had that as a child, you know.”
“I believe colic is strictly a neonatal disease,” I said.
T
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“A what?”
“That which only afflicts babies.”
“Oh, maybe it’s gout then. Yes, it must have been gout—he
was looking rather peakish today. I think my uncle died of gout.
Or perhaps it was cirrhosis of the liver. Cirrhosis of the liver,
now that’s the way to go. Really, when you think of it, it’s death by
overindulgence. And I know what the Puritans have to say about
that, but in my opinion it’s a fine way to go. I mean, life is for the
living, which is what my mother always said. She had eight siblings, did I ever tell you that? Eight, and all of them—plus her
parents—died before she did. All the aunts and uncles and most
of the cousins as well. She was the last one standing, and every
time another one fell by the wayside she’d just say, ‘life is for the
living, Molly!’ And then she’d bake a pie for the wake and keep
trucking. What was I talking about? Oh—overindulgence. Don’t
you think that’s a grand way to go?”
“Depends on what you’re overindulging in. It seems that
one who is afflicted with cirrhosis of the liver has had quite an
overindulgence of sadness and misery.”
“Just because you drink when you’re depressed doesn’t
mean everyone else does,” She scoffed. “I bet that socialite Mrs.
Fairbanks’ll die from cirrhosis. But not because she drinks when
she’s miserable and wants to feel sorry for herself, no sir, it’ll be a
well-earned cirrhosis from countless parties and afternoon mint
juleps.”
I said nothing.
“Come to think of it,” Molly mused, “I guess she probably
is a rather sad woman. You think?”
I nodded.
“You know, wrinkles come from continuous flexion of the
face muscles. That means if you have a lot of wrinkles you’ve
smiled a lot in your life.”
“Or frowned.” I said.
“Or smiled,” Molly restated. “It’s too bad you can’t die
114
from having too many wrinkles—an overindulgence of smiling. I
think that’s how I’m going to go.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
*
One Thursday I convinced Molly to forgo her weekly date
and instead accompany me to the National Museum of Letters
and Correspondences. She of course took greatest pleasure in
the love letters, whilst I marveled over the ransom notices. We
had our favorites in the general collection as well. Molly enjoyed
one entitled Peaches:
Dear Rosemary,
How many birds must I bake in a pie for you to taste
the musky sweetness of a revenge served cold? The peaches of
malcontent are ripe for picking. Their sandstone pits shall
be the seeds of your demise. Plan your brunches wisely.
Avoid grapefruit juice—it leads to distemper.
Your dearly departed,
Charlemagne Palestine
We marveled over one called Can You Tell? for almost
eight minutes:
Queenie,
I am attempting to posit a limitless self-positing, but
the smell of your hair constantly interferes. The neighbor boy
sprayed himself in the face with the hose today. As he stood
there crying I told him it was bound to happen—every
moment in his life is determined by a hodgepodge of genetics
and environment. He responded that he was the Postmodern
Prometheus and that I could go sit on my thumb. This brief
exchange gave me hope for today’s youth.
Parrots in teacups,
Fitzgerald
In the end, we concluded it was a neoclassical piece. I
showed Molly my favorite exhibit, Briefs of Strange Passion and
Circumstance. It included my most beloved piece in the entire
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museum:
Dear Prudence,
My tea tastes rather pungent this morning. No one
really knows what happened to Ms. Archer’s white picket
fence, but we’re all in agreement that it was a primary factor
in her mental collapse. I’m not sure if collectivity leads to
bliss or despair. Some advertisements came with the post
today. Were you aware that I’ve been making designs on you
for some time? But maybe you’ll change your mind when the
season rolls around. It’s been very quiet lately. Meteorology
is queer. I often imagine the world ending in some apocalyptic haze involving Stairmasters and beige curtains, with a
little bit of movie popcorn thrown in for redemption. The
hedge needs pruning.
Regards,
[name obscured]
“It’s called Trust,” I said.
“What happened to Ms. Archer?” said Molly.
*
The wind began to pick up awful fierce.
“Say, Molly,” I yelled out to her. “Wouldn’t it be more prudent to hold this discussion indoors? I’ll treat you to some tea—
crumpets included.”
She continued staring out onto the river, wind pulling her
hair across her face. Then,
“I used to think seagulls were Japanese.”
“What?” I moved closer down the bridge towards her.
“I used to think seagulls were Japanese—the way they dive
into the water like that.”
“I don’t understand, Molly.”
“You know, like the kamikazes.”
“Ah.”
“I thought they were all suicidal, like it was hardwired into
their systems. I think there are other animals like that too, but I
can’t remember. It’s just, they dive so hard into the water—
116
Bam!” She gave a little jerk. “I don’t think anything could survive
that kind of impact.”
“But they’re just fishing.”
“Hmm?” She had been thinking something else.
“I said, they’re just fishing, Molly. They don’t die—they
come back up and eat their catch and continue living—it’s beautiful, really.”
“I wonder what the fish would say,” she remarked.
*
In the duration of our relationship, Molly and I had only
one serious fight. After a particularly grueling day I decided to
drop by Molly’s shanty for some tea and solace. She had been
hanging daffodils all day and the place stank with a putrid, flowery scent.
“What do you think of the daffodils?” She asked me.
“I think they’re wretched,” I said.
“Well I think you’re wretched,” Molly scolded me, “I have a
very strong Danish ancestry, you know, and the Danes were capital at daffodil hanging—I think preservation of one’s cultural
heritage is very valuable.”
“Why? Why do you want to preserve outmoded rituals like
that? It’s pointless. People need to accept the death of old
mythologies and integrate themselves into the modern narrative.”
“That’s absurd,” said Molly, “People shouldn’t let themselves be overrun by the tyranny of some over-arching doctrine.
We should be allowed to practice our own doctrines and preserve
the beliefs and practices of our ancestors. It’s what makes us
unique.”
“If you try to preserve your culture, you’ll only end up losing it. Cultures change, traditions change. You just want everyone
to hold onto these primitive beliefs so you can pigeonhole them
more easily. So you can observe them and feel advanced in comparison—you want to stop the evolution of cultures. You want to
117
kill them, put them in formaldehyde and observe them like
museum exhibits.”
“I do not,” Molly’s temper flared briefly. “I just don’t think
certain cultures should boss other ones around—you can change
a lot of things about a culture without changing its core aspects.
And changing a culture to fit another one isn’t change—it’s
death. Now drink your goddamn tea.”
*
“The world is imploding,” she said, lifting her head up and
talking into the wind. “I read that somewhere. This guy says the
world is imploding because nothing is real anymore. We live in
the hyper-real—where everything is just a simulation or a symbol. And we try to get past it, but we only end up using more
symbols, which just makes things worse. Modern culture is on a
down spiral into a tyranny of the image.”
“I don’t think that’s exactly what he meant,” I said. I pulled
my coat around more tightly, “He—”
“But it’s true, you know,” she went on. “I mean, even when
we say ‘I love you,’ that’s a simulation. Because we’ve just read
about romance in books or seen it in motion pictures. It’s all
scripted.”
“But everything’s like that—humans have always used symbols, haven’t they?” I asked.
“Yeah, then maybe we’ve never known reality,” said Molly.
“Maybe our standards for reality are too high,” said I.
*
The last time I saw her before the bridge was five days earlier. At Molly’s request, we went to the park with the merry-goround, which we rode four times. She rode a different horse on
each run, while I stayed with the chocolate-colored steed with
blue ribbons.
“You’re so consistent and predictable,” she laughed, “I bet
people think you’re boring—but not me. You’re marvelous.”
We walked around for a while. I bought her her first corn
118
dog. She took one bite, spat it out, but continued carrying the
thing around.
“It completes the picture,” she said.
“The picture of what?” I asked.
“You know. The picture of us in the park on an afternoon.
With the merry-go-round and the lightness of my hair and the
breeze that ripples my skirt flirtatiously but not perversely. And
the old woman feeding pigeons over there and the old men playing chess. And the children running and screaming and crying.
And the corn dog and you’ll say you want to marry me and I’ll
say I’m free next Tuesday and then you’ll kiss me and I’ll start to
cry and we’ll all fade to black…”
“I don’t think you’re well,” I said. “You should take a holiday or something.”
She stopped walking and stared at a homeless man sleeping
in a pile of his own rubbish on a bench.
“I fear the world is getting tired of itself,” she said.
She let the corn dog slip out of her hand—
“And I’m getting tired too.”
*
“At the beginning there were just frames of this woman
who looked sort of dumpy, I guess,” From the edge of the bridge
Molly explained the commercial to me. “I don’t think she really
looked that bad, but you could tell they were trying to use lighting and angles to make her seem unattractive. Anyway, then they
cut to her using this hair dye and all of a sudden she’s a new person and all these guys are looking at her. And she’s getting some
promotion at work and then water skiing—all this stuff. And the
announcer sings something like, ‘Change your style, change your
life.’”
“Yeah?” I said.
“Yeah, and I just thought, this is ridiculous. This is the epitome of our cultural downslide. To think that just by changing the
color of your hair—I mean, people can’t do this, people can’t just
119
build their lives out of products and insignificant properties of
themselves. I thought life was more than that.”
“For some people it’s not. Right? I mean, you can live your
life in a more meaningful way and accept that others won’t, can’t
you? Why should you care how other people are living?”
“Because it makes me sad. Because I love them and want
them to stop killing themselves.”
“You can’t be everyone’s savior, Molly,” I said. “You saved
me, isn’t that enough?”
She turned her head towards me. “I saved you?”
“Sure.”
She looked at me with pride and sniffed. I asked her about
her 19th century lover.
“I don’t know,” she said, turning her gaze back to the river.
“I don’t think things between us are working out, ever since they
moved in the portraits of those naked women across the exhibit
room. But somehow it’s the realest thing I have…” She trailed
off for a moment, “I just want to feel alive. You understand? I
want to know what it’s like to be true.”
“‘The simulacrum is never that which conceals the truth—
it is the truth which conceals that there is none. The simulacrum
is true,’” I recited.
“Say goodbye to him for me,” she said. Then, arms splayed,
she leapt out over the water, swooped down like a seagull, and
then rose up and flew away.
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Night Flight Over Water • William Jolliff
Night Flight Over Water
• William Jolliff
The taste of someone else's air
Whispered through the cabin, where
My only face, one leprous statue,
Loosened toward its double pane.
And then a continent began.
The lights of ports, the lights of towns
Tossed diamonds through the fog,
A choir of candles singing mass, lost
On this deaf left eye; toward the other,
Only black where the rocky coast of Plymouth
Must have been, where waves who know
Such nights lap the thigh of that bright coast.
I thought of you and Massachusetts Bay
When lights began to flicker, to stray
Along what once had been our wilderness,
Its only partner darkness, in darkness dressed.
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If I Could Dream Like William Butler Yeats • William Jolliff
If I Could Dream Like
William Butler Yeats
• William Jolliff
If I could dream like William Butler Yeats,
I would worry the dawn with listening
to the melting of my own vowels slipping
between warm sheets, turning first to the moan
beside me, then to sounds reaching each other,
stretching gently to the lips they share,
until I would doze into some old valley
of sunflowers, where sacred steps lead always
up the clouds, then toward an inner chamber,
finished in emerald, where the woman with a harp
would note the sad condition of my bow, pluck
hair from her head, and craft a jig of sandalwood.
Soon I'd be fiddling again, and because I know
sleep comes slowly to the hungry, the empty,
I would feel, even in the vision, my belly's ache
and half a million others, and beneath the hill
the sidhe would rant and pipe me fighting songs
and sometimes dirges, until I could sing no more,
love no more, and I would dream my final dream
not of Cuchulain or revolution, but of a woman
who looks the sister of sleep, just within my reach.
122
Geese • ZZ Packer
Geese
• ZZ Packer
hen people back home asked her why she was leaving Baltimore for Tokyo, Dina told them she was
going to Japan in the hopes of making a pile of money, socking it
away, then living somewhere cheap and tropical for a year. Back
home, money was the only excuse for leaving, and it was barely
excuse enough to fly thousands of miles to where people spoke
no English.
"Japan!" Miss Gloria had said. Miss Gloria was her neighbor; a week before Dina left she sat out on the stoop and shared
a pack of cigarettes with Miss Gloria. "Japan," Miss Gloria
repeated, looking off into the distance, as though she might be
able to see Honshu if she looked hard enough. Across the street
sat the boarded-up row houses the city had promised to renovate. Dina tried to look past them, and habored the vague hope
that if she came back to the neighborhood they'd get renovated,
as the city had promised. "Well, you go 'head on," Miss Gloria
said, trying to sound encouraging. "You go 'head on and learn
that language. Find out what they saying about us over at
Chong's." Chong's was the local take-out with the best moo goo
gai pan around, but if someone attempted to clanfy an order, or
changed it, or even hesitated, the Chinese family got all huffed,
yelling as fast and violent as kung fu itself.
"Chong's is Chinese, Miss Gloria."
"Same difference."
The plan was not well thought-out, she admitted that
much. Or rather, it wasn't really a plan at all, but a feeling, a nebulous fluffy thing that had started in her chest, spread over her
heart like a fog. It was sparked by movies in which she'd seen
Japanese people bowing ceremoniously, torsos seesawing; her
first Japanese meal, when she'd turned twenty, and how she'd
W
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Geese • ZZ Packer
marveled at the sashimi resting on its bed of rice, rice that lay on
a lacquered dish the color of green tea. She grew enamored of
the pen strokes of kanji, their black sabers clashing and warring
with one another, occasionally settling peacefully into what
looked like the outlines of a Buddhist temple, the cross sections
of a cozy house. She did not want to say it, because it made no
practical sense, but in the end she went to Japan for the delicate
sake cups, resting in her hand like a blossom; she went to Japan
for loveliness.
After searching for weeks for work in Tokyo, she finally
landed a job at an amusement park. It was called Summerland,
because, in Japan, anything vaguely amusing had an English
name. It was in Akigawa, miles away from the real Tokyo, but
each of her previous days of job hunting had sent her farther and
farther away from the city. "Economic down-turn," one Office
Lady told her. The girl, with her exchange-student English and
quick appraisal of Dina's frustration, seemed cut out for something better than a receptionist's job, but Dina understood that
this, too, was part of the culture. A girl—woman—would work in
an office as a glorified photocopier, and when she became
Christmasu-keeki, meaning twenty-five years old, she was
expected to resign quietly and start a family with a husband. With
no reference to her race, only to her Americanness in general, the
Office Lady had said, sadly, "Downturn means people want to
hire Japanese. It's like, obligation." So when the people at Summerland offered her a job, she immediately accepted.
Her specific job was operator of the Dizzy Teacups ride,
where, nestled in gigantic replicas of Victorian teacups, Japanese
kids spun and arced and dipped before they were whisked back
to cram school. Summerland, she discovered, was the great gaijin
dumping ground, the one place where a non-Japanese foreigner
was sure to land a job. It was at Summerland that she met Arillano Justinio Arroyo, with his perfectly round smiley-face head,
his luxurious black hair, always parted in the middle, that fell on
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Geese • ZZ Packer
either side of his temples like an open book. Ari was her coworker, which meant they would exchange mop duty whenever a
kid vomited.
By summer's end, both she and Ari found themselves
unamused and jobless. She decided that what she needed, before
resuming her search for another job, was a vacation. At the time,
it made a lot of sense. So she sold the return part of her roundtrip ticket and spent her days on subways in search of all of
Tokyo's corners: she visited Asakusa and gazed at the lit red lanterns of Sensoji Temple; she ate an outrageously expensive bento
lunch under the Asahi brewery's giant sperm-shaped modernist
sculpture. She even visited Akihabara, a section of Tokyo where
whole blocks of stores sold nothing but electronics she couldn't
afford. She spent an afternoon in the waterfront township of
Odaiji, where women sunned themselves in bikinis during the
lunch hour. But she loved Shinjuku the most, that garish part of
Tokyo where pachinko parlors pushed against ugly gray earthquake-resistant buildings; where friendly, toothless vendors sold
roasted unagi, even in rainy weather. Here, the twelve-floor
department stores scintillated with slivers of primary colors, all
the products shiny as toys. The subcity of Shinjuku always
swooned, brighter than Vegas, lurid with sword-clashing kanji in
neon. Skinny prostitutes in miniskirts swished by in pairs like
schoolgirls, though their pouty red lips and permed hair betrayed
them as they darted into doorways without signs and, seemingly,
without actual doors.
At the end of each day, she took the subway, reboarding the
Hibiya-sen tokkyuu, which would take her back to the gaijin hostel
in Roppongi. She rented her room month to month, like the
Australians, Germans, and Canadians and the occasional American. The only other blacks who lived in Japan were Africans: the
Senegalese, with their blankets laid out in front of Masashi-Itsukaiichi station, selling bootleg Beatles albums and Tupperware;
the Kenyans in Harajuku selling fierce tribal masks and tarry per125
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fumed oils alongside Hello Kitty notebooks. The Japanese did
not trust these black gaijin, these men who smiled with every
tooth in their mouths and wore their cologne turned on high.
And though the Japanese women stared at Dina with the same
distrust, the business-suited sararimen who passed her in the subway stations would proposition her with English phrases they'd
had gaijin teach them—"Verrry sexy," they'd say, looking around
to make sure women and children hadn't overheard them. And
even on the tokkyuu itself, where every passenger took a seat and
immediately fell asleep, the emboldened men would raise their
eyebrows in brushstrokes of innuendo and loudly whisper,
"Verry chah-ming daaark-ku skin."
Ari found another job. Dina didn't. Her three-month visa
had expired and the Japanese were too timid and suspicious to
hire anyone on the sly. There were usually only two lines of work
for American gaijin—teaching or modeling. Modeling was out—
she was not the right race, much less the right blondness or legginess, and with an expired visa she got turned down for teaching
and tutoring jobs. The men conducting the interviews knew her
visa had expired, and that put a spin on things, the spin being
that they expected her to sleep with them.
Dina had called Ari, wanting leads on jobs the English language newspapers might not advertise. Ari agreed to meet her at
Swensen's, where he bought her a scoop of chocolate mint ice
cream.
"I got offered a job at a pachinko parlor," he said. "I can't
do it, but you should. They only offered me the job because they
like to see other Asians clean their floors."
She didn't tell him that she didn't want to sweep floors, that
too many Japanese had already seen American movies in which
blacks were either criminals or custodians. So when they met
again at Swensen's, Dina still had no job and couldn't make the
rent at the foreign hostel. Nevertheless, she bought him a scoop
of red bean ice cream with the last of her airplane money. She
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didn't have a job and he took pity on her, inviting her to live with
him in his one-room flat. So she did.
And so did Petra and Zoltan. Petra was five-foot-eleven
and had once been a model. That ended when she fell down an
escalator, dislocating a shoulder and wrecking her face. She'd had
to pay for the reconstructive surgery out of her once sizable bank
account and now had no money. And Petra did not want to go
back to Moldova, could not go back to Moldova, it seemed,
though Ari hadn't explained any of this when he brought Petra
home. He introduced her to Dina as though they were neighbors
who hadn't met, then hauled her belongings up the stairs. While
Ari strained and grunted under the weight of her clothes trunks,
Petra plopped down in a chair, the only place to sit besides the
floor. Dina made tea for her, and though she and Ari had been
running low on food, courtesy dictated that she bring out the
box of cookies she'd been saving to share with Ari.
"I have threads in my face," Petra said through crunches of
cookie. "Threads from the doctors. One whole year"—she held
up a single aggressive finger—"I have threads. I am thinking that
when threads bust out, va voom, I am having old face back.
These doctors here"—Petra shook her head and narrowed her
topaz eyes—"they can build a whole car, but cannot again build
face? I go to America next. Say, 'Fix my face. Fix face for actual.'
And they will fix." She nodded once, like a genie, as though a single nod were enough to make it so. Afterward she made her way
to the bathroom and sobbed.
Of course, Petra could no longer model; her face had been
ripped into unequal quadrants like the sections of a TV dinner,
and the stitches had been in long enough to leave fleshy, zipperlike scars in their place. The Japanese would not hire her either;
they did not like to view affliction so front and center. In turn,
Petra refused to work for them. Whenever Dina went to look for
a job, Petra made it known that she did not plan on working for
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the Japanese: "I not work for them even if they pay me!"
Her boyfriend Zoltan came with the package. He arrived in
toto a week after Petra, and though he tried to project the air of
someone just visiting, he'd already tacked pictures from his bodybuilding days above the corner where they slept across from Ari
and Dina.
Petra and Zoltan loved each other in that dangerous Eastern European way of hard, sobbing sex and furniture-pounding
fights. Dina had been living with Ari for a month and Petra and
Zoltan for only two weeks when the couple had their third major
fight. Zoltan had become so enraged that he'd stuck his hand on
the orange-hot burner of the electric range. Dina had been adding edamame to the udon Ari was reheating from his employee
lunch when Zoltan pushed between the two, throwing the bubbling pot aside and pressing his hand onto the lit burner as easily
and noiselessly as if it were a Bible on which he was taking an
oath.
"Zoltan!" Dina screamed. Ari muttered a few baffled words
of Tagalog. The seared flesh smelled surprisingly familiar, like
dumplings, forgotten and burning at the bottom of a pot. The
burner left a bull's-eye imprint on Zoltan's palm, each concentric
circle sprouting blisters that pussed and bled. Petra wailed when
she saw; it took her two weeping hours to scour his melted fingerprints from the burner.
And still, they loved. That same night they shook the bamboo shades with their passion. When they settled down, they
baby-talked to each other in Moldovan and Hungarian, though
the first time Dina heard them speak this way it sounded to her
as if they were reciting different brands of vodka.
After the hand-on-the-range incident, Zoltan maundered
about with the look of a beast in his lair. The pictures from his
bodybuilding days that he tacked on the walls showed him
brown, oiled, and bulging, each muscle delineated as though he
were constructed of hundreds of bags of hard-packed sugar.
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Though he was still a big man, he was no longer glorious, and
since they'd all been subsisting on crackers and ramen, Zoltan
looked even more deflated. For some reason he had given up
bodybuilding once he stepped off the plane at Narita, though he
maintained that he was winning prizes right up until then. If he
was pressed further than that about his past, Petra, invariably
orbiting Zoltan like a satellite, would begin to cry.
Petra cried a lot. If Dina asked Petra about life in Moldova
or about modeling in Ginza, she cried. If Dina so much as
offered her a carrot, this, too, was cause for sorrow. Dina had
given up trying to understand Petra. Or any of them, for that
matter. Even Ari. Once she'd asked him why he did it, why he let
them stay. Ari held out his hand and said, "See this? Five fingers.
One hand." He then made a fist, signifying—she supposed—
strength. She didn't exactly understand what he was driving at:
none of them helped out in any real way, though she, unlike Petra
and Zoltan, had at least attempted to find a job. He looked to
her, fist still clenched; she nodded as though she understood,
though she felt she never would. Things simply made all of them
cry and sigh. Things dredged from the bottoms of their souls
brought them pain at the strangest moments.
Then Sayeed came to live with them. He had a smile like a
sealed envelope, had a way of eating as though he were horny.
She didn't know how Ari knew him, but one day, when Dina was
practicing writing kanji characters and Petra was knitting an
afghan with Zoltan at her feet, Ari came home from work, Sayeed following on his heels.
"We don't have much," Ari apologized to Sayeed after the
introductions. Then he glared at the mess of blankets on the
floor, "and as you can see, we are many people, sleeping in a tiny,
six-tatami room.
Sayeed didn't seem to mind. They all shared two cans of a
Japanese soft drink, Pocan Sweat, taking tiny sips from their sake
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cups. They shared a box of white chocolate Pokki, and a sandwich from Ari's employee lunch. Sayeed stayed after the meal and
passed around cigarettes that looked handmade, though they
came from a box. He asked, occasionally gargling his words, what
each of them did. Having no jobs, they told stories of their past:
Petra told of Milan and the runways and dressing up for the
opera at La Scala. But mostly she recalled what she ate: panseared foie gras with pickled apricot gribiche sauce; swordfish
tangine served with stuffed cherries; gnocchi and lobster, swimming in brown butter.
"Of course," she said, pertly ashing her cigarette, "we had
to throw it all up."
"Yes yes yes," Sayeed said, as though this news delighted
him.
Zoltan talked of Hungary, and how he was a close relation
of Nagy, the folk hero of the '56 revolution. He detailed his
bodybuilding regime: how much he could bench-press, how
much he could jerk, and what he would eat. Mainly they were
heavy foods: soups with carp heads, bones, and fins; doughy
breads cooked in rendered bacon fat; salads made of meat rather
than lettuce. Some sounded downright inedible, but Zoltan
recalled them as lovingly and wistfully as if they were dear
departed relations.
Dina did not want to talk about food but found herself
describing the salmon croquettes her mother made the week
before she died. Vats of collards and kale, the small islands of
grease floating atop the pot liquor, cornbread spotted with
dashes of hot sauce. It was not the food she ate all the time, or
even the kind she preferred, but it was the kind she wanted
whenever she was sick or lonely; the kind of food that-when she
got it-she stuffed in her mouth like a pacifier. Even recollecting
food from the corner stores made her stomach constrict with
pleasure and yearning: barbecue, Chong's take-out, peach cobbler. All of it delicious in a lardy, fatty, condiment-heavy way.
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Miasmas of it so strong that they pushed through the styrofoam
boxes bagged in brown paper.
"Well," Ari said, when Dina finished speaking.
Since they had nothing else to eat, they smoked.
They waited to see what Sayeed would do, and as the hours
passed, waited for him to leave. He never did. That night Ari
gave him a blanket and Sayeed stretched out on a tatami, in the
very middle of the room. Instead of pushing aside the low tea
table, he simply arranged his blanket under it, and as he lay down,
head under the tea table, he looked as though he had been trying
to retrieve something from under it and had gotten stuck.
Over the next few days they found out that Sayeed had
married a non-Moroccan woman instead of the woman he was
arranged to marry. His family, her family, the whole country of
Morocco, it seemed, disowned him. Then his wife left him. He
had moved to Tokyo in the hope of opening a business, but the
money that was supposed to have been sent to him was not sent.
"They know! They know!" he'd mutter while smoking or
praying or boiling an egg. Dina assumed he meant that whoever
was supposed to send Sayeed money knew about his nonMoroccan ex-wife, but she could never be sure. Whenever Sayeed mused over how life had gone wrong, how his wife had left
him, how his family had refused to speak to him, he glared at
Dina, as though she were responsible.
One night she awoke to find Sayeed panting over her, holding a knife at her throat. His chest was bare; his pajama bottoms
glowed from the streetlights outside the window. Dina screamed,
waking Petra, who turned on a light and promptly began to cry.
Ari and Zoltan gradually turtled out of their sleep, saw Sayeed
holding the knife at her throat, saw that she was still alive, and
looked at her hopelessly, as though she were an actress failing to
play her part and die on cue. When Zoltan saw that it had nothing to do with him, he went back to sleep. Sayeed rattled off
accusingly at Dina in Arabic until Ari led him into the hallway.
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She sat straight up in the one pair of jeans she hadn't sold
and a nearly threadbare green bra. Ari came back, exhausted. She
didn't know where Sayeed was, but she could hear Japanese
voices in the hallway, their anger and complaints couched in
vague, seemingly innocuous phrases. They have a lot of people living
there, don't they? meant, Those foreigners! Can't they be quiet and leave us
in peace! and I wonder if Roppongi would ofter them more opportunities
meant, They should go to Roppongi where their own kind live! Ari tried to
slam the door shut, as if to defy the neighbors, as if to add a dramatic coda to the evening, but Zoltan had broken the door in
one of his rages, and it barely closed at all.
"He probably won't do it again," he said.
"What! What do you mean by 'probably won't'?"
Zoltan sleepily yelled for her to shut up. Petra sat in her
corner with a stray tear running in a rivulet along one of her
scars.
Then Ari was suddenly beside Dina, talking to her in broken English she hadn't the energy to try to understand. He
turned the light out, his arm around her neck. Soon they heard
Petra and Zoltan going at it, panting and pounding at each other
till it seemed as though they'd destroy the tatami under them.
Dina and Ari usually slept side by side, not touching, but
that night he'd settled right beside her and put his arm around
her neck. an smelled like fresh bread, and as she inhaled his scent
it occurred to her that his arm around her neck was meant to
calm her, to shut her up-nothing romantic. Nevertheless, she
nudged him, ran her palm against his arm, the smoothest she
ever remembered touching, the hairs like extensions of liquid
skin. He politely rolled away. "You should wear more clothes.”
She tugged the sheet away from him and said, "I can't take
this."
She hated how they all had to sleep in the tiny, six-tatami
room, how they slept so close to one another that in the dark
Dina could tell who was who by smell alone. She hated how they
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never had enough to eat, and how Ari just kept inviting more
people to stay. It should have been just he and she, but now there
were three others, one of whom had just tried to kill her, and she
swore she could not—would not—take it anymore.
"Can't take?" he asked, managing to yell without actually
yelling. "Can't take, can't take!" he tried to mimic. He turned on
the light as if to get a better look at her, as if he'd have to check
to make sure it was the same woman he'd let sleep under his
roof. "But you must!"
She had nowhere else to go. So she and Sayeed worked out
a schedule-not a schedule exactly, but a way of doing things. If he
returned from a day of looking for work, he might ask everyone
how the day had gone. In that case, she would not answer,
because she was to understand that he was not speaking to her. If
she was in one corner of the room, he would go to another.
Sometimes she would take a crate and sit outside the stoopless apartment building and try to re-create the neighborhood
feeling she'd had at home with Miss Gloria. The sun would shine
hotly on the pavement, and the movement of people everywhere,
busy and self-absorbed, would have to stand in for the human
music of Baltimore. The corner grocery stores back home were
comforting in their dinginess, packed high with candies in their
rainbow-colored wrappings, menthols, tall boys and magnums,
racks of chips and sodas, but best of all, homemade barbecue
sandwiches, the triangled white bread sopping up the orange-red
sauce like a sponge. Oh, how she missed it. The men who loitered outside playing their lottery numbers and giving advice to
people too young to take it, the mothers who yelled viciously at
their children one minute, only to hug and kiss them the next.
How primping young boys played loud music to say the things
they couldn't say. How they followed the unspoken rules of the
neighborhood: Never advertise your poverty. Dress immaculately. Always smell good, not just clean.
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For a few minutes, the daydream would work, even in
Japan.
Once, when looking for a job in Shibuya, she eyed a cellophane Popsicle wrapper nestled up against a ginkgo. It was gaudily beautiful with its stripes of orange ooze from where a kid had
licked it. Just when she felt a rush of homesickness, a Japanese
streetworker, humbly brown from daily hours in the sun, conscientiously swept the little wrapper into his flip-top box, and it was
gone.
The day after Sayeed tried to kill her, she took the train to
Roppongi, and though she had no money for train fare, she
pounded on the window of the information booth, speaking
wildly in English, peppering her rant with a few words of Japanese. She said the machine hadn't issued her a ticket. The Japanese girl at the information counter looked dumbly at the
Plexiglas, repeating that the machine had never broken. They
would not outwit her: Dina knew that the Japanese did not like
to cause scenes, nor be recipients of them. She pitched her voice
loudly, until everyone in the station turned around. Finally, the
information girl pressed a hidden button and let her through.
She did not want to go back to Roppongi, where she'd first
lived, where she had unsuccessfully searched for jobs before, but
Sayeed's knife convinced her to redouble her efforts. She hoped
to get a job from Australians or Canadians who might overlook
her lack of visa. She wished she'd taken the job at the pachinko
parlor, but now it was gone; she hoped for a job doing anythingdishwasher, street cleaner, glass polisher, leaflet passer—but
she did not get one.
They could not go starving, so they began to steal. While
Ari was away at work, Zoltan swiped packaged steaks, Sayeed
swiped fruit and bread and one time even couscous, opening the
package and pouring every single grain into two pants pockets.
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Even though she never would have stolen anything in America,
stealing in Japan gave Dina the same giddy, weightlessness that
cursing in another language did. You did it because it was unimportant and foreign. She stole spaghetti, rice, fruit. Keebler cookies all the way from America. But Petra outdid them all. She went
in with a sack rigged across her stomach, then stuffed a sweater
in it to look as though she was pregnant, and began shopping.
When the sack got full, she'd go to the bathroom, put on her
sweater, and pay for a loaf of bread.
But Petra's trick didn't last long. She went to get Zoltan a
watermelon for his birthday and the sack gave way. She gave
birth to the watermelon, which split open wide and red, right in
front of her. The store manager, a nervous Japanese man in his
forties, brought her to Zoltan, telling him, in smiling, broken
English, to keep her at home.
Since then, the stores in the area became suspicious of foreigners, pregnant or otherwise. They'd all been caught. They'd all
made mad dashes down the street, losing themselves in crowds
and alleys. And they didn't even have the money to get on the
train to steal food elsewhere. It was impossible to jump the turnstiles—they were all electronic. Eventually they got to a point
where they never left their one-room flat, knowing that they
would see people selling food, stores selling food, people eating
food, people whose faces reminded them of food.
And then they simply gave up. Some alloy of disgust and
indifference checked the most human instinct, propelling them
into a stagnant one-room dementia. It was a secret they shared:
there were two types of hunger—one in which you would do
anything for food, the other in which you could not bring yourself to complete the smallest task for it.
Ari came home from work and declared that they must all
go to the park. They looked at him uncomprehendingly. Sayeed
went to his corner of the room and said, under his breath, "They
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know." Zoltan stood there, looking as though he had somewhere
to go but had forgotten where. Petra bit her fingernails, her sunset-blond hair in unwashed clumps, framing her scars.
"Why the park?" Dina asked.
"Look," he said, reaching into his backpack to show them a
block of cheese that was hardened on the ends, some paprika, a
box of crackers, a plum. Dina remembered that all that was left in
the refrigerator were two grapefruits. She salivated when her gaze
settled on the bunch of bananas on the countertop. These he did
not take.
"Let's go," he said.
Sayeed rose from where he'd been sitting on the tatami;
Zoltan grabbed Petra's arm and led her toward the door. Once
they'd gathered at the doorway, they looked at one another in
silence, as if they had nothing further to say. Ari did not bother
to lock the door.
They sat in Shakuji-koen Park, dazed with the sunlight, surrounded by an autumn of yellow ginkgo trees. For the most part,
the sky was gray, shot through with fibrous clouds. The Japanese
families sat like cookies arranged on a plate. The son of the family closest to them was as bronzed as Dina, a holdover tan from
the summer. He bit into the kind of neat, crustless sandwiches
Dina had seen mothers unwrap at Summerland. The girl was
singing while her mother was talking to another mother, who
agreed, "Ne, ne, ne!" as she bounced a swaddled baby on her hip.
The father dozed off on a blanket of red and white squares.
The boy nibbled at his sandwich as the five of them
watched. When the boy saw the foreigners stanng at him, at his
sandwich, he ran to his sister and pointed. Five gaijin, all together,
sitting Buddha-like. The boy looked as though he wanted to
come right up and ask them questions in the monosyllabic
English he had learned from older boys who had spoken togaijin
before. Do you have tails? If so, would you kindly show them to
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me and my sister? Do you come out at night and suck blood? He
would look at Dina and ask if the color rubbed off. He wanted to
ask them these questions and more, if his limited English permitted, but the girl had enough shyness for the both of them, and
held him back, a frightened smile on her face.
Ari took out the crackers, the cheese with the hard ends,
the paprika, the salt, and the plum.
"I lost my job," he said.
Quietly, shamefully, they mustered out their Sorrys. She'd
expected him to lash out, tell all of them to leave, but he didn't.
"I'll pay you back," Dina said, "every penny.
"You mean yen," Ari said.
They ate the crackers with sliced plum and cheese on top.
Then Petra spoke.
"I do not like cheese," she said. Everyone looked at her, her
pouting lips and unblinking eyes. Zoltan clenched her arm. Petra
had taken her slices of cheese off her sandwiches and Zoltan
grabbed the slices with one fist and thrust them at her. They fell
humbly into the folds of her shirt.
"You don't have to eat them," Ari said. But Petra knew she
had to eat the cheese, that the cheese mattered. She ate it and
looked as if she might cry, but didn't. They sat for a while. The
food melted in Dina's stomach just as the sunset melted, their
synchronized fading seeming to make the whole world go dimmer and volumeless. Then she felt a sharp pain, as though the
corners of the crackers had gone down her throat unchewed.
None of them spoke, and that seemed to make the pain in her
stomach worse. They watched the people and the lake and the
sun, now only a thread of light.
"Look," Sayeed said.
Geese. Stretching their necks, paying no mind to humans.
Zoltan bolted upright from where he lay and ran after them. For
a few moments, the geese flew hysterically, but then landed yards
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away from him, waddling toward escape, all the while snapping
up bits of crackers the Japanese had thrown just for them. When
Zoltan started the chase anew, Dina realized he was not after the
crackers but the geese themselves. She imagined Zoltan grabbing
one of the thin, long necks, breaking it with a deft turn of wrist.
And what would all the Japanese, quietly sitting in the park, make
of it all? She skipped over that scene, speeding ahead to the
apartment, everyone happily defeathering the bird, feathers lifting and floating then descending on their futons and blankets,
the down like snow, the underfeathers like ash. They'd land on
Petra's trunks, empty now that all her clothes had been sold, and
they'd land on the tea table at which they used to eat. They would
make a game of adjusting the oven dials, then wait out the hours
as the roasted gamy smell of the goose made them stagger and
salivate. And there would be a wishbone, but it wouldn't matter,
because they'd all have the same wish.
Zoltan ran as haphazard as a child chasing after them, and
when he seemed within grasp of a few tailfeathers, the geese flew
off for good. When he returned, he dusted off the blanket before
sitting down, as though nothing had happened.
All Japanese eyes were on them, and it was the first time
Dina thought she had actually felt embarrassment in the true Japanese sense. Everyone was looking at them, and she'd never felt
more foreign, more gaijin. Someone laughed. At first she thought
it was Sayeed, his high-pitched laughter that made you happy.
Then Dina saw that it was one of the Japanese picnickers. Families clapped, one after the other, cautious, tentative, like the first
heavy rains on a rooftop, then suddenly everyone was clapping.
Applause and even whistles, all for Zoltan, as though he had
meant to entertain them. an made a motion for them to stop, but
they continued for what seemed like minutes, as if demanding an
encore. They did not stop, even when Zoltan nuzzled his head
into Petra's gray corduroy shirt so no one could see him weep.
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It was a week after they saw the geese that Ari sliced up the
grapefruit and banana into six pieces each. Dina watched them
eat. Sayeed, his face dim as a brown fist, took his banana slice
and put it underneath his tongue. He would transfer the warm
disk of banana from side to side in his mouth until, it seemed, it
had grown so soft that he swallowed it like liquid. He nibbled
away at half a wedge of the grapefruit, tearing the fibers from
fruit to skin with his bitten-down lips. He popped what was left
of his grapefruit into his mouth like a piece of chewing gum.
Petra let her slices sit for a while and finally chewed the
banana, looking off from the side of her eye as if someone had a
gun pointed to her head. She wrapped up her grapefruit slice in a
bit of leftover Saran Wrap and went to her corner to lie down.
Zoltan rubbed his eyes, put the banana slice on the flat side
of the grapefruit and swallowed them both whole, grapefruit peel
and all.
Ari ate his slices with delicate motions, and after he'd finished, smiled like a Buddha.
Dina ate her fruit the way she thought any straightforward,
normal American would. She bit into it. One more piece sat on
the plate.
"Anybody want that?" Dina asked. No one said anything.
She looked around to make sure. No one had changed. She ate
the last piece, wiped the grapefruit juice from around the corners
of her mouth, looked at the semicircle of foreign faces around
her, and knew she had done the wrong thing.
She needed to go to Shinjuku. Once again, she claimed the
turnstile wouldn't issue her a ticket, and although the girl at the
counter didn't look convinced, she gave Dina a ticket. When she
got to Shinjuku, it was going on noon. Sararimen hurled by, smiling with their colleagues, bowing for their bosses to enter doors
first. Mothers shopped, factory workers sighed, shopworkers
chattered with other shopworkers. The secretaries and receptionists-the "Office Ladies"-all freshened their lipstick and straight139
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ened their hairbows. The women in the miniskirts rushed past as
though late.
She stood in the Shinjuku station, though she hadn't ridden
the train to get there. She read an old magazine she'd brought
along. Finally, a sarariman approached her.
"Verrrry sexy.
He paid for the love motel with a wad of yen. "CAN
RENT ROOM BY OUR!" screamed a red-lettered sign on the
counter. Dina ascended the dark winding staircase, the sarariman
following. The room had only a bed and a nightstand, though
these simple furnishings now seemed like luxuries. He watched
her undress and felt her skin only after she'd taken everything
off. He rubbed it as if he were trying to find something underneath.
The inside of her closed eyelids were orange from a slit of
sunlight that had strayed into the room. The sarariman shook her.
She opened her eyes. He raised his eyebrows, looking from Dina
to the nightstand. The nightstand had a coin- operated machine
attached.
"Sex toy?" he asked, in English.
"No," she said, in Japanese.
The motel room sheets were perfect and crisp, reminding
her of sheets from home. She touched the sarariman's freshly cut
Asian hair, each shaft sheathed in a sheer liquid of subway sweat.
The ends of the shortest hairs felt like the tips of lit, hissing firecrackers.
He was apologetic about the short length of time. "No
problem," she told him in Japanese.
She left with a wad of yen. While riding the tokhyuu she
watched life pass, alert employees returning to work, uniformed
school children on a field trip. It all passed by—buildings, signs,
throngs of people everywhere. When the train ran alongside a
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park, yellow ginkgo leaves waved excited farewells as the train
blazed past them. Fall had set in, and no one was picnicking, but
there were geese. At first they honked and waddled as she'd seen
them a week ago when Zoltan had chased them, but then, as the
train passed, agitating them, they rose, as though connected to a
single string. Soon the geese were flying in formation, like planes
she had once seen in a schoolbook about Japan.
The book told of kamikaze pilots, flying off to their suicide
missions. How each scrap-metal plane and each rickety engine
could barely stand the pressures of altitude, how each plane was
allotted just enough fuel for its one-way trip. The pilots had
made a pledge to the emperor, and they'd kept their promises.
She remembered how she'd marveled when she'd read it, amazed
that anyone would do such a thing; how—in the all-knowing
arrogance of youth—she'd been certain that given the same circumstances, she would have done something different.
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The Last Neanderthal • Carl Auerbach
The Last Neanderthal
• Carl Auerbach
A creature armed with symbolic skills is a formidable competitor, as H.
Neanderthalensis has discovered to its cost.
-lan Tattersall, Scientific American, 2003
Just because his mind was slow and his palate
not well formed for language, we must not imagine
he was without feeling, as he huddled there
guarding the mound of moldy, ancestral bones
to which he felt a troubling attachment
although he would have had no words,
even if his tongue could be twisted into speech.
Watching those bewildering fast talkers,
always one step ahead, or to the side,
or somehow out of reach, he did not begrudge them
the future they had won by being fitter.
Indeed, he was gifted with a mute sense of fairness,
that, together with his total lack of cunning,
had already proved to be his undoing.
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They're Spun from Transparent Silk- • Sharon Doyle
They're Spun from Transparent Silk• Sharon Doyle
these lines of music-and we slide along them to
places we never would have found:
Splintered stages where
a midnight sax riffs teenage;
woody parks just now set free
by a solo guitar;
riverboats jazzed with
party lights and French Quarter mandolins;
stained glass aisles of
confession and
the rivers beneath them that
blue-wash our sins;
bugles-with-drum-that-cal1-to-arms;
beergardens blend with
accordions petitioning the
takeover of Austria;
circles of dust calling inside
our heads
the round dance turning always
faster till we fall,
gratefully,
right next to-- of all things-a life-size harp parlored
and powdered
with sleep.
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driving towards nothing • Becky Stockel
driving towards nothing
• Becky Stockel
o there I was, driving through the middle of
nowhere in the middle of the night. I sat fully
reclined in the driver’s seat of my white ’81 Ford Escort piece of
shit excuse for a car with my head cocked to the left so I could
feel my long ponytail on my bare arm. My left foot was pulled
up so that it sat shoeless next to my right leg. My right hand was
draped over the steering wheel, and my left hand was completely
engrossed in its job of carrying my Marb Light from my lips to
the window. In between taking drags I sang along with the
Clash; they were blasting out of my stereo system at the time.
This is how I always drive.
I drive to think, to clear my mind, and all I could think
about was how I was not paying attention. If something jumped
out in front of my car, I wouldn’t have had time to react. Not
that I really needed to pay attention to the road; I was coasting
through the farmlands of the Midwest. The only other being I
was going to encounter on this drive would have been a stray
cow crossing the badly cracked pavement in hopes of better
grass to chew. At least I was hoping that’d be the worst I’d see.
If a damn cow did wander across the road at some point, I’d have
to do a lot of maneuvering. I’d need time to get rid of my cigarette and throw down my left foot to work the clutch so that I
could downshift quickly. I’d definitely hit the cow. And I really
couldn’t afford to fix my car.
I wasn’t worried. Mick Jones had lulled me into a calm,
hypnotized state hours ago and now I was just driving by habit,
like a robot programmed to get from point A to point B as
quickly as possible.
Hours had gone by—long, monotonous hours of driving
toward nothing. I left my very small hometown of Perrysville,
S
144
Indiana around eleven that morning in search of something new,
exciting, some sort of adventure, something to make it seem as if
I had a reason for this impromptu cruise across the Midwest. At
first, I just drove around the only town I knew, passing all of the
places I grew up in—the white rock school building that held
two hundred students, kindergarten through twelfth; my cute little Lutheran church with the white pillars in front and the tall
bell-steeple; the red brick building that held the public library and
the town hall. I drove out of Perrysville, out into the country
and drove around the other little farming villages in the county,
driving past the neighboring schools where I had competed in
track and speech competition. I eventually just ended up driving
straight out of Indiana, the only state I’d ever known.
I drove northwest through Illinois for a while. I drove into
the setting sun into Iowa, and I finally understood what “the
middle of nowhere” really was. I drove away from myself and my
memories; I left it all behind in a moment. I left for adventure,
and so far all I’d gotten was corn. Not exactly what I was looking for. I lit another cigarette.
*
I remembered the way the late-summer breeze hit the back
of my neck between my braids. I must have been fourteen or fifteen years old, can’t really remember my exact age. I was young,
naïve, still “pure” in every sense of the word. Taylor and I had
just come from an hour-long sermon at Our Savior’s Lutheran
Church; it was about resisting temptation. We were right at that
age when church seemed more like a chore than a faith. We only
went because that’s what was expected of us. We always did
everything that was expected of us.
That Sunday afternoon, we were headed out to the middle
of her stepfather’s fields, ready to change that.
“We gotta see this,” said Danny, Taylor’s older brother,
coming up behind us. He was accompanied by their other brothers Clint and Jeremy, both of them also older than we were. I
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suppose we didn’t really mind that they had tagged along.
Besides, we figured witnesses to our actions might come in
handy later.
“Yeah, sure, we’re heading out to the big rock,” Taylor said.
There was a rock about half a mile into the fields where we often
went when we didn’t want anyone—more specifically, any
adults—around. This time, it was really important that no one
else saw the five of us head out there. Danny had just turned
eighteen and he bought us a pack of Marlboro Red cigarettes,
and I was going to try my first one.
I felt rebellious. I was about to break the law. It didn’t
bother me that we were “smoking underage”—the governmental
law never bothered me, especially at fourteen. What mattered
more was that we would be breaking the laws of the church, and
the laws that our parents set down. We were taking control of
our own lives.
Up on the rock, I stood and looked out over the waving
fields of wheat swaying in the light breeze. Even through my
sunglasses my eyes squinted at the way the sun shone off the
gold. I took a deep breath of the sweet smell of summer, ready
to do something that I wasn’t really supposed to do. It gave me a
sort of rush, a freedom that couldn’t be found within the conformities of the world I knew.
I turned around, and Danny gave all of us cigarettes, and I
watched as he, Taylor, Clint, and Jeremy lit theirs.
“Just inhale slowly when you light it,” Clint offered with his
classic crooked grin. He was so cute, I thought. I remember he
was wearing the khakis that made his butt look so hot. He was
my first crush, and I’d do anything to impress him. When I was
about twelve, only in the sixth grade, Taylor had invited me to
sleep over. I saw him, the seventh grade god, for the first time
and just about died.
“This is so cool,” said Taylor. “I’m glad you’re doing this
with me.”
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Wide-eyed and full of adrenaline, I put the cigarette carefully, loosely, delicately between my lips and watched as Taylor
touched the end of it with the translucent green Bic she always
carried with her.
The first drag was nothing like what I had expected. There
was no coughing or gagging, like you always see the kids on TV
doing. It slid down my throat like silk.
“Did you just inhale?” said Clint, with a look of mixed
shock and admiration—I had impressed him! “Man, I’ve never
seen anyone inhale their very first drag.”
“I can’t believe I’m smoking with you,” said Jeremy, with
big eyes.
“What did you think?” asked Taylor. The four siblings
were all getting a little giddy at this point, excited that they had
roped another teen into the addictive world of nicotine. I felt
like the tight grip my parents had on me loosened up. I could
almost see the Virgin Mary and Our Lord Jesus Christ drop their
jaws in shock. I smiled, eyes closed.
“Tastes like peanut butter,” I said, and finished my cigarette
in the sun.
*
Around ten, I decided to pull over and get some food,
maybe even a map. That was just about the time all I wanted was
to get out of the cornfields. I threw on my shoes and lit a new
cigarette as I looked for a place to stop.
I stepped out of my car at the next truck stop and took one
last drag off my smoke, savoring the smooth taste before exhaling slowly and stamping the butt out on the ground. I walked
into the small diner and looked around. The diner was one of
those quiet joints with blue booths lining the windowed walls
and a row of stools at a counter up front, lit entirely by harsh
blinding fluorescent bulbs. The woman behind the register was
short and chubby, with her silver-streaked brown hair pulled into
a loose bun. She wore a peach colored dress with short sleeves
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and a light blue apron with a big pad of paper in the front pouch.
I sat down at a stool by the counter and leaned over to read the
nametag: Agatha. It was just like in all those old movies.
Even though I had plenty of money in my pocket, I rifled
through my change and asked how the pie was. The old woman
behind the counter was less than amused. She wiped her hands
on her apron as her mouth twisted into a snarl, “Don’t pull that
crap with me. Pie’s $2.50. Don’t matter if yer a fuckin’ homeless
orphan. I put my sweat into that pie and yer gonna pay fer it.”
“Just gimme a cup of coffee then. Black,” I said, rolling my
eyes. The pie probably tasted like shit anyway. I drank my coffee, looking around the diner for someone to watch for the next
few minutes. The only other person in the place was an old man,
probably the woman’s poor husband, wiping the tables and mopping the floor. I immediately felt sorry for the guy. He seemed
like just the perfect wimp for the woman to boss around. He
even stood hunched over, as if afraid she was going to throw
something at him. She probably made him sit outside in a rocker
on the front porch to smoke his nightly pipe. He probably didn’t
mind.
I tried to keep myself occupied with watching the old man,
but he just dipped the mop in his bucket and swished it around
the black and white checker-tiled floor. I took my coffee to a
back corner booth and sipped it slowly in silence, alone with my
thoughts. Images of cool summer nights spent outside relaxing
on a familiar roof floated through my head.
*
I remembered the first time I crawled through that window.
We were barely sixteen years old, just licensed drivers and ready
to take on all the independence it gave us. There was something
magical about that night, in an eerily haunting way, like leaving
part of myself behind forever, yet entering a new world. I
remembered exactly the way Taylor looked when she got out on
the roof and turned back for me. She had that giddy look she
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always got when we were rebelling together.
“You comin’, Jo?” Taylor asked expectantly, coughing. She
laughed softly and explained, “Sorry man, breathed in some spit
or something.”
I smiled. I knew I had to follow her. My heart pounded,
and I left her bedroom through the window and followed my
friend up to the top of the house, nervous, worried that I’d mess
something up.
“Sure ya wanna do this?” she asked.
I looked at Taylor’s serious face and her big brown eyes.
The moon shone off her waist length-red hair, creating a copper
glow around her head. I could trust her; she was my best friend.
“Yeah, let’s do this thing,” I replied confidently as the last
bit of childish nerves wore off.
I watched as Taylor took an elaborately painted glass pipe
out of her baggy jeans pocket and packed the bowl full of the
weed we’d bought earlier that day. I watched, silently, as Taylor
closed her eyes, letting her long, dark lashes touch her high
cheekbones; she was beautiful. She took the first hit, and passed
the pipe to me with a smile.
“Just do what I did,” she instructed.
“Don’t laugh when I look stupid.” I took the pipe in my
left hand carefully, as if holding a robin’s egg. Taylor watched
intently—she stared—as I lit the bowl and inhaled deeply. As I
did, my eyes closed slowly, and I held them shut while holding
the first sweet breath of smoke in my lungs. It seemed like forever that I just stayed that way, eyes shut, sitting on the roof as
the soft sounds of “Tonight Tonight” by the Smashing Pumpkins
drifted out of the bedroom window below us.
“Sweet.” The word slowly fell from my lips as I passed the
pipe back.
We finished off the rest of the bowl and lit up a cigarette
each, drawing the smoke into our lungs and exhaling slowly into
the starlit night.
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“This must be heaven,” Taylor said dreamily.
“If you believe in those things,” I answered and we both
giggled softly. “So this is what I’ve been missing out on?”
“Yeah, man. I can’t believe you just got high with me.”
The words came so slowly, like she knew the true meaning of
peace. She was leaning on her left arm, facing me, and holding
her Camel Light in her right hand. One strap of her army green
tank top slipped down her arm, and her bare feet peeked out
from the bottom of her paint-splattered jeans. I mirrored her up
on that roof, except for the obvious differences: I was the
blonde-haired, blue-eyed sort that seemed meant to be a cheerleader. I know if anyone heard about this, they wouldn’t believe
it.
I smiled a lazy half-smile and took another long drag off
my cigarette. “Why is this stuff illegal, man? I’ve never felt
so….” I sighed as my words melted away into the darkness.
“Peaceful?” Taylor offered.
“Yeah, I feel like I could just lay here on your roof forever,
and the stars would stay out and I would never have to do anything…ever…again…I could stay here forever.”
“Here’s to forever, under the stars,” Taylor toasted her cigarette.
“Here’s to us forever,’” I added as we touched smokes.
That was how I would always remember Taylor.
*
“Is there anything else, miss?” asked the old man. He had
apparently finished the floor, and I had apparently finished my
coffee.
“Oh, no thanks,” I said, startled out of the trance I had
been in. “I should probably start heading out anyway.”
“Where are ya headin’?” he asked.
“Nowhere in particular,” I shrugged. He gave me a questioning glance as if it seemed strange for a girl in her early twenties with Indiana plates to just be driving aimlessly in the middle
150
of Iowa. “Haven’t you ever just needed to get out? Just leave
and see what you find?”
“Well, I s’pose then, its not so strange. I jest expected you
to be with someone or on your way somewhere specific,” he said
slowly in a soft voice.
“Roger!” yelled Agatha from somewhere in the kitchen.
“You finish them floors yet?”
“Is she always like that?” I asked without thinking. I suppose it was rude to ask a question like that of a complete
stranger, but it didn’t really matter to me; I’d never see Roger or
Agatha again. Besides, after so many hours alone in the car I
guess I did want someone to talk to for a little while.
“Aw, Aggie’s awright,” said the devoted husband. “She
comes across as a little hotheaded, but she’s quite a gal.”
“I’m sure.” I smiled, wondering if she was ever really nice
to him.
“Roger!” came her shrill voice from the back of the diner.
“What the heck are ya doin’?”
“See, when we were kids we had planned on running away,
seeing the world,” said Roger. “We made plans for seeing all of
Europe: Ireland, England, Germany, Spain, the Eiffel Tower, the
Coliseum, all the great sights.”
He stopped to wipe his brow and give me a wink. It
seemed so strange that a perfect stranger would just start talking
to me like that. I felt like I had to continue the conversation with
him. “So what happened?”
“We never went,” he said, with a sad look. “Couldn’t come
up with the money. But I did ask fer her hand in marriage. She
was crazy enough to give up her whole life and family to run
away with me, completely out of the blue. Can’t let a girl like that
get away.”
“That’s kinda sweet,” I told him as he walked with me up to
the cash register so I could pay.
“ROGER!” screamed Agatha from the back.
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“I’d better get going,” I said. “Um…it was nice meeting
you.”
“Just remember, whatever you’re looking for, you already
have it,” he said quietly as I left the diner.
I paid him and walked out of the glass doors, listening to
the jingle of the bells they had roped up to the handle.
Back in my car, I kicked my black flip-flops under my seat
and put the car into reverse. Back out on the highway, I started
thinking about what Roger had said in there. “Whatever you’re
looking for, you already have it?” What did he know? He was
looking for adventure and chose “Aggie” instead.
Whatever. That had nothing to do with why I left town. I
didn’t even really know why I had left; I just needed to think a little. I couldn’t do that in that tiny little town in Indiana, with its
little white church with the steeple glaring me down all day. I
couldn’t stand that church, or the little pink and blue cottoncandy houses with their front porches, complete with gossiping
old women on rocking chairs. It was all too quaint. It haunted
me, even hundreds of miles away from it.
I tried to push it out of my mind, as I had a million times
since getting in my car this morning. I turned on the radio to
what had been the alternative rock station when I left. Now it
was some random country station, and some guy was whining
about how his wife was making him choose between her and
fishing trips with his buddies. He naturally chose the fishing. I
decided to just leave it there for a while. I hated country music,
but I didn’t want anything that would let me have any thoughts
deeper than those about cowboys or cheating hearts.
Outside, the dark fields of corn were rushing by as I flew
down the road. I looked at the speedometer; I was going almost
ninety miles per hour. My best friend Taylor always told me that
I had a lead foot, but she always drove the same way.
*
“So how was it?” The question fell from my lips uncer152
tainly.
Taylor had just gotten back from the DMV, after her
driver’s licensing test. She walked in with her head down, looking defeated. I didn’t know what to make of it. Did she fail?
Before she answered, she started coughing a little and pounded
on her chest with her right fist. It seemed at the time like she was
coming down with a bad cold.
I stood there anxiously, waiting for her to catch her breath.
Should I be excited or sympathetic? She slowly lifted her head
and half-grinned at me.
“So where you wanna go?” she asked, holding out her
newly acquired plastic. The left corner of her mouth curled up
mischievously, the way it did whenever she got one of her
“Damn the Man” crazy ideas. “Let’s blow off seventh and
eighth.”
“Nice,” I said approvingly. It was crazy, but hell, we liked
to think we were, too. “How ‘bout Country Kitchen? The owners don’t care if we smoke in there.”
She nodded and slapped my hand. We told our teachers we
had one of our many miscellaneous projects to do for one of the
four art classes we took together, and left school. We got into
her mom’s black ’98 Cavalier—she said Taylor could borrow it
for the rest of the day—and sped out to Country Kitchen, our
usual hangout. It was the biggest dive our little town had to offer
us, but we didn’t mind if the place was always dirty, the waitresses
were mostly rude, or the food wasn’t always cooked right—if the
dumbasses even got the order right. We could go sit there and
talk about the shit we wanted to talk about over hot black coffee
and cigarettes. The best part was that none of the other people
from our school would ever show up there; it was mostly a daytime hangout for the nighttime drunkards, or a place that the students from the nearby community college could actually afford.
We sat in one of the green booths in the back room—the
smoking section—and ordered a pot of the sludge they call cof153
fee and two Diet Pepsis with no ice to start us off, and lit our cigarettes, even though Taylor’s cough was still very much a reality.
But we didn’t care—we were celebrating.
“So what was the test like?” I asked. I wouldn’t be able to
take my test until just before summer vacation since I was still
taking Driver’s Ed. “Were you nervous?”
“It really wasn’t all that bad,” she replied through her
coughs. “I don’t know why everyone complains so much about
it. Everything that we do in class is on the test, and nothing
else.”
“Did he make you parallel park? I hate that.”
“Yeah, between two garbage cans set up in the place of
cars. Don’t worry about it. It was pretty easy. I mean, you’ve
seen me drive. If I can get a license, anyone can.”
“Good point.”
She threw a piece of ice (from her drink—stupid waitress)
at me, and we both laughed.
“God, you’re always the first to do these things,” I said to
her. She always experienced things before me. She was the first
one to kiss a boy, to drink a beer, to smoke a cigarette, to lose her
virginity, and so on down the list.
“What are you talking about!” she laughed. “You got suspended from school for three days for smoking in the parking
lot. I never did that!”
“That was only because you’re smart enough not to get
caught,” I told her.
“Well, someday you’ll have to do something alone.” Her
laughter faded a little, and she took a long drag on her cigarette.
“Yeah… but we still have a few more years before we head
off to see the world,” I said uncertainly. The look on her face
and the way she was coughing was making me a little nervous.
“And besides, we’ll always have the future to start up our little bar
somewhere.”
“Well, if I can’t, promise me you’ll still open it up. Name it
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after me.”
“Jesus, Taylor!”
“Is he here, too?” she joked.
“Yeah, he comes and hangs out here when he’s too wasted
to drive home,” I shot back, sarcastically, ignoring the strange
way Taylor was acting.
*
The memories were rushing back too fast. They were eating at my mind, and I knew I had to think of something different
before I broke down again. I looked back out at the cornfields,
stretched out on miles upon miles of flat land that met perfectly
with the black night sky. I put the Clash back in the CD player,
threw my cigarette butt out the window and put my elbow on my
knee and my head in my hand.
All I could see around me was blackness, interrupted by the
white stars and the full moon, and, in places, the flashing red
lights of the television and radio towers. That combined with the
fact that I was driving a stick and the lights from my speedometer, gas gauge, and radio were all emitting that neon green light. I
felt like I was flying a spacecraft.
I hate sci-fi movies and books. I just don’t think that the
prospect of discovering life on other planets is at all possible.
There’s a good reason why we consistently make fun of Trekkies.
But that night, flying in my Escort through the Iowa cornfields at
night, I let my mind wander towards the idea. What if there was
life on Mars?
If there was, I’m sure that their planets looked something
like the Midwest at night. There was this intense feeling of being
sucked into a black hole. I’m sure that’s what it felt like to live on
another planet. Maybe this is why so many people claimed to be
abducted by aliens; they were driving through cornfields for
hours, and just completely lost it. It only seems natural that
someone’s mind wanders toward the unknown when driving
through the middle of nowhere. Maybe I was just going crazy.
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By this time, it was getting on towards one in the morning,
and I had driven almost to Des Moines. I decided it was time to
stop. There was a sign up ahead that said “Pella 2 miles.” It
listed the motels that are usually found just about anywhere in
the Midwest: Days Inn, Country Inn and Suites, Super 8, Motel
6. I pulled off the exit and settled on the Super 8. It was probably cheap enough for me to afford, at least.
I contemplated going in barefoot, but those “No Shirt, No
Shoes, No Service” signs that are posted on every small business
door flashed in my head. Once upon a time, it wouldn’t have
bothered me—“breaking the law” was my hobby, I suppose.
Now it just didn’t seem like “me.” It was all in the past. I threw
my sandals on and grabbed my keys, locking my doors behind
me out of habit.
I walked into the lobby through a set of automatic glass
doors, and looked around. The couches were upholstered in tan
leather, and I could tell that when they were new, they had been
really nice. The floor was covered in that mint-green-bordered
carpet with green vines twisting through light-pink flowers. It
was that typical design that seems to be trademarked by every
hotel, motel, and bed and breakfast across the country. They had
a couple of coffee machines and some hot chocolate sitting on a
counter at one end; there was a continental breakfast at least, a
bonus for me. I turned around and walked up to the front desk.
“Do you have any rooms left for the night?” I asked the
middle-aged woman sitting behind the counter. She wore electric blue eye shadow painted on up to her eyelids, fake eyelashes,
and bright pink lipstick to try to make herself look presentable
and professional. Her puffy eyes had dark rings around them
and her blonde hair was a bit frazzled. She, like the lobby
couches, had seen much better days. I imagined three overactive
kids, a lazy beer-gutted husband, and years of hard work turned
her into the woman I was looking at then.
“Let me check,” she said politely. “I’m not sure that we’ll
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have anything open for you, but I’d really like to help you out.
You look like you need a bed and fast! This week’s Tulip Time,
the worldwide tulip festival held here each year. We normally run
out of rooms months in advance, it’s such a popular event.”
“A tulip festival?” I asked, disbelieving but still listening.
“Yep. People from all over gather here to celebrate Pella’s
Dutch heritage,” she explained. “They dress up in traditional
costumes, there’s a parade, and the historical village downtown
simulates Old Dutch life. There’s street vendors and wooden
shoes and dancers. And Central—that’s our college—performs a
play, and there’s music, and oh! So much going on! You should
go see the flowers while you’re here.” As she rambled, her voice
got more and more animated. Tulip Time must be a big deal
around here.
“Well, that sounds interesting, but I’m just passing
through,” I explained.
“Oh! Your room!” She suddenly remembered why I was
standing there. “It seems that I do have one opening, but it’s a
non-smoking honeymoon suite. It’s kind of expensive. If you
don’t want that, there’s a small motel that isn’t advertised out on
the highway. I’m not sure if you want to go there.”
“Well, how much is this suite?” I asked. I just had to get
some sleep.
“It goes for $139.99 a night,” she told me with a grimace.
“It’s actually more like a two-room apartment. It’s great for
those less well-to-do folks who can’t afford a real honeymoon,
and popular with the kids on Prom night.”
“Yeah, that’s really not for me,” I told her, cringing
inwardly. “So where’s this other place?”
“It’s just down the road here. Drive about three blocks and
turn left at the Dairy Queen. Then just keep going past the hardware store. You’ll find it on the right after an old historic red
schoolhouse. It’s kind of a dump, but it’s the only place with any
rooms left this week. The Dutch apparently don’t enjoy that sort
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of place.”
I nodded at her, curious yet hesitant about this old motel in
the middle of nowhere. “So why does this one have any rooms
left? No tulips?”
She hesitated. Then she looked around to see if anyone
was coming and leaned over the counter. “It’s kind of a rent-bythe-hour establishment,” she whispered. “I don’t like sending
people there, because it is a complete dive, but you look like you
really need some sleep, and it’s really not that bad—after all,
we’re still in Iowa.”
“Well… thanks,” I said. “I guess I’ll check it out, if it’s the
only option left.”
“Good luck, honey,” the woman told me.
I turned and walked slowly out of the Super 8. I really
didn’t care where I crashed for the night, as long as it wasn’t in a
ditch by the side of the road, which is where I would have ended
up if I got back on the interstate.
I left my shoes on for the drive over and wondered what I
was getting myself into, scanning the signs of the other hotels
just in case there might be a vacancy. All of them had those
harsh red neon signs flashing “NO VACANCY.” So hateful. As
I passed the Dairy Queen, I imagined coked-up whores with a
pound of electric blue makeup over each sunken eyelid. I imagined them emaciated to the point where they made those posterchildren for third-world countries look fat. The difference was
that the whores were dressed in stiletto heels, sequined backless
tops, and miniskirts and were spending all of their money on
drugs, whereas those poor kids didn’t have any money or any way
to earn it. I imagined all of the stars of an after-school special,
only this time they aren’t saved from themselves just in time to
turn their lives around and build a successful life at some business.
The street I was driving down only emphasized the horrors
I was imagining. Maybe it was just because I was tired, or maybe
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it was just because it was dark, but the houses lining the street
seemed to all be boarded up and their roofs were caving in. Gray
weeds had overrun the lawns and broken rockers were falling
through the holes that seemed present in every porch. That
woman at the Super 8 sure wasn’t exaggerating when she said
this was in a bad area. I was having a really hard time remembering that I was in Iowa, even if I was within forty miles of the largest city in the state.
I saw the dilapidated building up ahead, styled like a saloon
from a western movie. It had a wide, wrap-around porch with a
once elaborately painted sign hanging crookedly from the eaves.
The door was wide open, and a faint light was glowing from
inside. The paint was chipped almost everywhere on the main
building, and the doors looked splintered, from what I could see
in the dark from my car. The rooms to rent were in three onestory buildings that formed a C-shape behind this main building.
These three room buildings and the fancy saloon formed what
should be a courtyard in the middle, but was really the parking
lot, full of old, beat-up cars. I drove around behind the main
building and slowly maneuvered my car perfectly between two
imaginary lines, as the parking spots were not labeled on the
cracked pavement. I hesitated before I turned off the ignition
and stepped out into the night air.
*
I remembered that summer we spent on the road with our
soccer team. About four years ago, Taylor and I made the area’s
Premiere team and spent the three glorious months before our
senior year traveling the country, staying in some nice hotel
rooms, and kicking some major ass. That was the year we
revived The Bloodhound Gang’s album One Fierce Beer Coaster
and adopted “Fire Water Burn” and “Going Nowhere Slow” as
our anthems and blasted them out the windows of the team bus
as we won game after game on our way to the big international
tournament in Rockford, Illinois. When we finally got to Rock159
ford, we immediately chose up hotel rooms and made plans for
the night, since we had a few days until the tournament actually
started. Taylor and I ended up rooming with these girls Emily
and Sarah, the other two smokers and general “bad girls” on the
team.
“So what are we doing tonight?” I asked the other girls.
“Well, there’s always the guys’ teams over at the Comfort
Suites,” said Emily with a smile. She was always thinking about
boys, but at the age of sixteen, we all were.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Sarah agreed. “Besides, I hear
that one of the U-18 boys teams are throwing some sort of party
tonight.”
“Fine with me. Eighteen-year-old boys might come in
handy tonight. I’m almost out of smokes.” Almost before the
words left Taylor’s mouth, she started coughing horribly.
“Yeah, sounds like that’s what you need,” yelled Emily.
“Smoke another one,” I pitched in, watching my best friend
caught in a horrible coughing fit, pounding on her chest with one
hand and giving us the finger with her other one. She tried to
laugh with us, but it only made it worse, and soon she was rolling
on the floor, hitting herself and kicking her legs around.
We all laughed hysterically and started getting ourselves
ready to the Bloodhound Gang that was blasting out of the
boom box we had with us. When Taylor finally got up, she and I
threw on our typical baggy jeans, tank tops, and flip-flops. We
put on minimal makeup—the usual mascara and chapstick—and
pulled our hair into ponytails at the backs of our heads. Sarah
put on a pair of shorts that could have fit a toddler and a
sequined halter-top. Emily went all out with the short black skirt
and a sparkly tube top. The amount of makeup and hairspray
they used could have done up the whole team for a formal dance.
“Hey, when you girls are done whoring up, come join us on
the balcony,” Taylor yelled over her shoulder as she pulled me
outside with her. Outside on the balcony, she pulled out her little
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glass pipe—the one that she had introduced me to at the beginning of the summer. She took a small dime bag out of her
pocket and started packing the bowl.
By the time Sarah and Emily had sufficiently fluffed their
hair and joined us on the balcony, Taylor and I were lit. High as
a fucking kite. I sent a soft half-smile to the girls and held out
the pipe. Sarah shook her head and waved it off.
“What the hell, man?” asked Taylor, getting kind of angry.
“That’s some grade-A shit there. I’ve never seen you turn it
down.”
I just stared at them in disbelief through my half-closed
eyes, shaking my head slowly. This was bullshit. These two were
turning down some good shit, and what happens if they say
something to one of our stuck-up prissy teammates? Or
worse… the coach? “Hey, you guys aren’t gonna, be like…” I
started.
At this point, Sarah looked at Emily and pulled out a nicely
rolled joint out of her purse. With a grin, Emily just leaned over
and pulled my lighter out of my pocket and they sparked up.
“Fuck you, guys!” Taylor laughed at them, coughing a little
again. I’d been telling her she was smoking too much lately, but
we didn’t really think too much about it.
“Taylor, you really gotta switch to lights,” Sarah said with a
sly grin.
“You gotta lighten up, too,” Emily laughed as she exhaled
the smoke she had been holding in her lungs. “You were so
freaked out.”
We laughed our teenage asses off at that, finished our dope,
and headed off to the boys’ hotel.
*
I stepped out into the night air and walked up to the
saloon. The old planks that made up the main steps threatened
to collapse under my weight and I stepped quickly but carefully
up to the door and walked in. It was like no hotel I had ever
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been in before. The floor was a dark hardwood, and the front
desk sat in a small lobby. The guy sitting behind it looked
wasted, and was wearing a pair of holey jeans, a black cowboy
hat, and a T-shirt that said “Britney Spears Sucks!” with an arrow
pointing towards his zipper. I could hear loud country music and
drunken voices muffled by the two closed doors on either side of
the desk.
“Um… Hi... Someone said you guys had some rooms left
tonight?” I kind of asked the guy.
“Yeah…” He slowly drew the word out of his mouth as if
he were totally confused as to why I was standing there. “We got
a bar in the back, too.”
“So, can I get one of the rooms?” I asked. “You guys are
the only hotel with any rooms left in this strange little town.”
“Yeah, it is kinda strange…” Was he stoned or something?
I just stared at him for a while, shaking my head. I’m sure I
was giving him my “Are you some kind of an idiot?” face. I must
have stood there for five minutes before he reached behind him
and grabbed a key off its hook.
“Here. Are you alone?”
“Yeah, I’m alone. I want to sleep. Just give me the room.”
“Ya don’t come here offen, do ya?”
“Can I just have my room? It’s been a long day.”
“Ok, ok, ya don’t have to get so pushy with me,” he whined
as he checked the book and recited, “It’s $29.99 a night for a single.”
“Yeah, here,” I said, giving him my credit card. “Just put it
on this. You do take credit cards, right?”
“Yeah, we take any form of payment. Where’d you come
from? They not use plastic there?” he said as if I asked him if he
had a hat on. He rang me up and handed me a key. “You’re in
room number 18.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled. I was tired and just wanted to get
into a bed—any bed—and forget that today ever happened.
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“Ya know what?” He turned to face me, perfectly straightfaced, staring straight into my eyes and forcing me to stare back.
“Ya know, someone OD’d on meth in there last week. Iowa’s got
a crazy number of meth labs. Ya do meth?”
“What?” I asked, dumbfounded. This guy was starting to
creep me out. “Uh… no. I don’t do meth. I prefer nicotine and
caffeine. You guys got coffee here in the morning?” I tried to
answer as normally as I could.
“Thas too bad. I got some here if ya want,” he offered,
raising his eyebrows. “I get off in an hour if ya be wantin’ some
company, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s perfectly all right, I think I’m going to be ok,” I
said, sarcasm dripping from my voice.
“Fine, just thought that’s what ya were here for.” Just then,
a couple of half-naked drunkards came stumbling through the
saloon door, hanging on each other. “That’s why everyone else is
here.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I shot back, and turned around and left. I
was in no mood to deal with degenerate hicks like him or the
others in the back room.
*
I remembered that soccer party. Comfort Suites room
numbers 403 and 405, occupied by the Milwaukee Premier U-18
boys’ team. Emily led Sarah, Taylor, and I right on in as Green
Day started belting out “Welcome to Paradise” on the stereo. I
remember Clint, Jesse, Nick, and Chad offering us some beer
and ashtrays almost immediately after we walked in. Those boys
were quickly claimed for the four of us. I don’t remember how
we ended up with them, but I think Emily’s skimpy outfit and her
seasoned flirting skills had something to do with it. I remember
the taste of beer on Chad’s tongue and the way his hands felt on
my skin. I remember the way Jesse smiled at Taylor and laughed
when she shot down all of his horrible pick-up lines. Free beer,
cute boys, and a kick-ass party in a smoking suite. It seemed like
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we were in for a pretty good night.
“So where are you girls from?” asked Clint when he handed
us some longnecks of Bud Light.
“Perrysville, Indiana,” said Taylor.
“It’s about an hour and a half west of Indianapolis,” Sarah
pitched in when we saw the confused look on the boys’ faces.
“Cool,” said Clint. “U-18 team?”
“Not quite,” I answered reluctantly. “U-16.”
“Well, that’s cool,” said Jesse, smiling at Taylor. “So, Taylor
was it?”
She nodded, sipping her beer.
“Come here often?” He winked at her.
“That has to be the lamest line I’ve ever actually heard,”
Taylor told him. It may have been lame, but damn was he hot.
And he could buy her more smokes. She smiled and put her
hand on his shoulder.
Shortly after downing a couple of beers, I saw Emily and
Sarah pull Clint and Nick into some back rooms. They didn’t
waste any time. I could tell Chad and Jesse were thinking along
the same lines, but neither Taylor nor I were interested in getting
laid that night. We had to play the next day. I settled for a makeout session on the couch in the middle of the party, close enough
to Taylor and Jesse that I could hear their conversation, but far
enough away to really enjoy my new-found boy-toy-for-thenight.
“So… I play the field, and it looks like I’m gonna score a
goal with you,” I heard Jesse actually saying to Taylor.
“So… I play defense,” laughed Taylor, lighting a cigarette
for herself and one for the boy.
“Damn! So did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”
“Boys like you should just sit there and look cute. No more
talking,” she laughed, putting her finger on his lips. I was still on
the couch exploring Chad’s molars with my tongue, and I had to
pull away from him to keep from laughing.
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“I’ll be back, just going to get another beer,” I told Chad
and walked away to see what Taylor was up to. I saw Jesse take
Taylor’s ponytail down and start to run his fingers through her
hair. I’m sure he was telling her how it reminded him of spun
copper or something just as bad.
Just as Jesse leaned in for the kiss, Taylor started coughing
again. At first, it wasn’t bad—just a few hard from-the-lungs
coughs. She seemed fine after a short moment and Jesse got his
kiss. I stood there, thinking how cute it was. This guy wasn’t like
the usual guys Taylor went after. He was awkward, a little shy,
and by far the worst conversationalist we’d met in a long time—
and we were in high school. I started walking back to Chad on
the couch with our two bottles of Bud Light when Taylor started
hacking up a lung. She was thrown into such violent convulsions
that Jesse began to panic, and people around her started to stare.
“Is your friend all right?” asked Chad, coming up behind
me. He seemed genuinely concerned for her, but maybe he was
just concerned about his buddy’s chances of getting a piece.
“Yeah, I think she’s fine,” I told him, a little worried myself.
“I think she’s starting to get a bad cold or something.”
“She should lay off the cigarettes for a while,” he suggested.
“Yeah,” I said distractedly. “Maybe we should go.”
“Well, maybe we’ll see you around,” Chad told me.
“Can I walk you back?” Jesse was asking as I approached.
“I think we’ll be ok, but thanks,” I answered.
I took Taylor back to our hotel room and she got into bed.
I was really worried that she was coming down with something.
She’d been coughing a lot lately, but we passed it off as a
smoker’s cough. She really did smoke way too much. Sometimes
I even heard her wheezing when she breathed. And we were
only sixteen years old.
*
I slowly made my way back to the car to grab my smokes
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and CD’s, and then tried to figure out where room number 18
was. It turned out to be one of the rooms in the building all the
way across the parking lot. This place only had forty-five
rooms—fifteen in each building. I walked past the first row,
noticing that they all had the same matching red doors and a single window, curtains pulled tightly across them. Outside many of
them was a can of some sort, full of cigarette butts. Great. A
no-smoking whore hotel. The girls who work this area must be
the kind who cares about their health. What an oxymoron. As I
put the key into the door of room number 18, I could hear the
sounds of a TV coming from room number 19. Across the way,
I saw a girl who couldn’t have been much more than eighteen
pulling a middle-aged man in a business suit into a room. From
where I was standing, I guessed it was room number 43.
I walked into my room and locked the door behind me. I
leaned with my forehead against the door for a while before
turning around. What a day I’d had. The stress and depression
of the whole situation was eating at me like a worm in an apple.
It just crawled deeper and deeper until my entire body was hollow and rotting from the inside out. It clawed at my mind and
sucked the life right out of me. I was twenty years old, just a few
months too young to drown the sorrows in a pint of beer. Not
that a pint would have been enough.
I turned on the floor lamp on the left side of the door—the
only light in the room—and looked around the room. As in the
saloon, there was no carpeting, just more scratched wood. The
walls were covered in gaudy, faded red wallpaper that was peeled
away at the corners; in spots it looked like someone had tried to
burn holes in it. The bed was a worn-out mattress without box
springs, practically sitting on the floor. The dresser was made
from the same dark hardwood that covered the floors of the
hotel’s saloon and lobby area. There were deep white gashes and
scratch marks where careless drunks had accidentally knocked
their things into it. The TV sitting on top of it had no remote
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control, and looked as if it wouldn’t work without aluminum foil
attached to the long antennae protruding from the top of it.
Worst of all, a perfectly white plastic sign was nailed to each of
the walls, declaring “NO SMOKING!” to all who enter.
I sighed and dropped my bag on the bed and watched it
sink halfway into the old mattress. I sat down next to it, feeling
the springs poke through the shabby cushioning. What a disappointment. At least it was a place to sleep. Somehow, this
crappy hotel room felt like the perfect ending to my day. It was
something I could deal with—for the night at least. It wasn’t the
worst thing I’ve ever had to deal with.
*
I remembered when Taylor got back from the doctor. The
summer of our sixteenth year was so hard on her. Her cough
was getting worse and breathing was a chore. By the time our
last soccer game came around, she couldn’t even play for more
than five minutes. We were both worried—a cold shouldn’t last
that long, even one of those horrible summer colds that people
would only wish on their worst enemies. When the two of us
were together, we joked about it, trying to make it seem like a
natural thing, something that would blow over eventually. It
couldn’t be serious; she just smoked too much and her immune
system couldn’t kick this cold. That’s what we kept telling ourselves: we just smoked too much. So we laid off for a while—she
even quit altogether. I mean, we were sixteen and we’d already
been smoking for two years.
Taylor’s parents thought differently; it wasn’t just a cold to
them. I’m sure they knew that she smoked, and that’s the only
reason I can think of that they didn’t act on their worries earlier.
They probably assumed that the cigarettes had something to do
with their only daughter’s ghastly wheezing. Like my parents,
they were in some sort of denial about it though; if they didn’t
see it happen, they could ignore that their daughter was potentially killing herself slowly. But the worry was there, and that
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worry soon elevated into a deep apprehension that something
was seriously wrong. So when Taylor’s coughing rapidly got
worse instead of gradually better, and when after only a few
months her breathing was labored like that of an emphysema
patient three times her age, they took her into the local hospital
to run some tests. Taylor stayed there for three days while the
doctors looked at her lungs, and finally they called her mom and
dad in to run one final test.
When Taylor finally got out of the hospital, I went to see
her at home. By that point, I was just as scared as her parents
were. Her father answered the door when I rang the bell, his face
drawn and pale, and his usually cheerful tone traded for one
more somber and quiet.
“Hello,” he said slowly. “Taylor’s in her room, lying down.
You can go on up.”
I passed Taylor’s mom as I was walking up the stairs. Her
eyes were red and puffy from crying, and I knew that whatever
Taylor had, it was worse than we had ever imagined. When I
entered her room, Taylor was just sitting in her bed, staring at the
Jim Morrison poster she had on the wall. I didn’t know what to
say to her.
“Taylor?”
“Hey, Jo,” she said quietly. “They found out what it was.”
“Yeah? Then they can fix it?” I asked hopefully.
“It’s cystic fibrosis, Jo,” she told me matter-of-factly. She
turned her head to look straight at me. “There’s no fixing it. It’s
genetic, but none of the symptoms showed up until this past
year. But hey, the average life expectancy for someone with CF is
thirty-two. Who wants to live longer than that?”
I could feel the color completely drain from my face. My
best friend—the only person in the world I was close to, the only
one who really knew me, was seriously sick. What if she died?
“They told me I got two defective genes when I was born.
One from each parent. That’s the only way to get it,” she
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explained slowly, with a far-off look like she wasn’t even on the
same planet as me, let alone in the same room. “They didn’t
even know they were doing this to me. No one ever gets tested,
the doctors said. Like that’s going to make me feel better?”
“They didn’t know,” I repeated stupidly. It was still sinking
in slowly.
“My lungs are flooded with mucus, and they always will be,
until it suffocates me, or some disease decides that my lungs are a
great place to live. Did you know mucus is a great home for bacteria?” Her bitter sarcasm was really hard to take.
“No,” I whispered, fighting back tears. “I didn’t know.”
“So, yeah,” she spat out, getting angry. “It probably
doesn’t help that I’ve been smoking for two years now. You
know, most kids know from early childhood when they have this
fucking disease. If I had known then, I’d be ready for all this. I
would have grown up with it. I would never have started smoking.”
The power of her last statement really hit home. All those
cigarettes, all this time. We were still kids, and she couldn’t
breathe. All that smoking could only have made matters worse.
And why did we even do it in the first place? To rebel? God, we
were fourteen! There were so many other things we could have
done to “get back” at the church, at our parents!
After a moment, I realized that Taylor had gotten up and
she was holding me, completely supporting my body as I sobbed
loudly for her. I looked at her and saw the tears silently streaming down her face.
“Jo?” she asked me.
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared.”
*
I sat up in the bed, wiping tears from my cheeks. I quickly
hopped up and sighed loudly, trying to remember to breath. I
ran into the tiny bathroom and splashed some water on my face
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before turning around and walking back outside. I needed a
smoke before I went to bed.
Outside, I lit up and slid down the door with the first exhalation. Across the parking lot, the teenage whore was leaving
room number 43 and walking on to her next trick. I wonder
what it was like for girls like her, staying up all night sleeping with
complete strangers to pay the rent on some shitty apartment.
What happened to drive them into a life like that? What kind of
pain had they endured to make them so completely numb to
what they were doing to themselves? It had to have been something bad. Or maybe they were just that desperate for drug
money.
After all I’d been through in the past four years, I felt like I
could honestly take up their profession and feel nothing. No
regret, no sorrow, no pain worse than I’d ever experienced
before. Nothing even close. So there were a few risks—what
did it matter? What did I have to care about? I remembered a
time I would have sat outside that same crappy motel room and
looked up into the black sky and commented on the way the
stars seemed to sparkle. I would have noticed the fireflies blinking in the distance, and the sounds of the crickets behind the
saloon. Everything would have some beauty in it, something
magical. Everything would make me smile.
Now, all I noticed was the way the disgusting gray-white
ashes from my cigarette were falling on my bare feet and the
smoke curled carelessly around my head. All I saw was a sickening cloud of death. All optimism, all cheerfulness, all that I had
of life was gone. I was not the same person that I was even yesterday.
I closed my tired eyes and let my mind drift back to that
morning’s events.
*
I remembered the way Taylor looked up at me. It was a little creepy, seeing her there in her black slacks and a white, frilly
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blouse. Taylor never dressed like that on her own. I stood over
her, staring back into her deep, unblinking eyes. She looked
happy, peaceful, for the first time in almost a year. I knew this
day would come, but I was having a really hard time coming to
grasp with the fact that it was happening already, so soon.
After her twentieth birthday in February, Taylor had given
me a big hug and slipped her pipe into my purse—the first pipe I
smoked, the one that was shared only by the two of us. I found it
later, when we were sitting around in her bedroom, going
through her birthday cards and talking about the upcoming year.
I was going through my purse, and I saw the blue glass sitting on
the bottom. I pulled it out and just looked at her quizzically.
“How did this get in here?” I asked her.
“I’m giving it to you,” she told me. Her gaze never broke
mine, but I could tell she was having a hard time keeping her
composure. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
I froze. Taylor’s lungs were failing fast, and there were only
two things she could tell me. One was that she was accepted for
a double lung transplant and they found a donor. The other was
not as pleasant.
“I… I was… turned down,” she said, breaking down into
tears. “It… It’s the smoking. They’re willing to… to let me… let
me die… because I smoke.”
It was the worst news she could get, let alone give me.
That night was a long one. We stayed up on the roof, talking
about our lives, and got high one last time. We made it official by
playing “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” because “she grew up in an
Indiana town.” It at least brought a smile to her face. It was a
fitting night, considering her last day wasn’t so far off.
After that, we spent more and more time lying around her
room, and spent less and less time talking about life. We talked
about death until both of us felt like we were dead. She said she
was fine, that she wasn’t scared. I tried to be supportive and see
things her way, but I was terrified. We had stopped going to
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church years ago, and possibly never really believed in any type of
religion. Once she was dead… then what?
I asked the same question that morning. I was looking
down at her, and her eyes were pointed right at me, but I knew
she couldn’t see me. She couldn’t hear me as I told her how
much she meant to me, that she was my best friend, my soul
mate. I felt the true weight of those words that morning. She
was gone, and I was alone. I leaned down to kiss her cheek,
holding her stiff, frozen hand, and said goodbye forever to her,
to my small town, and to the life I knew.
*
Outside room number 18, I drove my cigarette into the
ground until my knuckles were cut and bleeding, and threw what
was left in my pack into the parking lot. I wanted nothing more
to do with them. They cost my friend her life, even if it was in an
indirect way.
“Why did you have to ruin everything?” I screamed at the
scattered tobacco as the tears came harder. “Why did you have
to take her? Why her?”
I crawled back into the room and let myself fall on the
floor, with the door still open. I buried my face in my arms and
pulled my knees to my chest and sobbed. Instinctively, I reached
into my pocket and pulled out the pipe—Taylor’s blue glass
pipe—that I had with me for comfort.
I knew I couldn’t just forget. I couldn’t just pretend that
everything was fine, that life would go on. I couldn’t just lie to
myself and believe that my life wasn’t completely intertwined
with Taylor.
Tomorrow I would have to go back home, back to the
church, back to the rock in the field, back to Taylor’s roof. I
would have to go back to all of the places where we used to talk
and laugh, blowing smoke rings into the sky. And I knew that
the first thing I’d do was pick up a pack of Marlboro Lights.
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That was all I had to remember life the way it was meant to be—
the way it was with Taylor.
That was all I had left.
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Avatar • Mitchell Metz
Avatar
• Mitchell Metz
If salvation writes itself down,
I am illiterate. The body is all,
and heaven must saturate me
cell by cell.
Hell, I'd found sanctity
in strained sinews, slapshots,
bruised wombs, hair shirts, orgasms,
but never Christ ...
until you signed the homily.
That Sunday your small, sure hands
manipulated into me
the Word.
Like a letterless penitent who grasps
at icons, relics, cannibal communion -chasing the unconscious biology
of belief, so I craved
your carnal palms, pivot of wrists,
the motive geometry of knuckles;
the ebb of your pelvis, shoulder shrugs,
sternum's spread, and mute mouthings -coupled, all, in full body-contact ballet.
You've become my Salome
and the vulgar idiom of your dance
delivers me God's head on a platter,
saves my skeptical ass
from the vain faith of intelligence.
Now every morning is Easter
and I am in you. When you come,
your fingers flutter ecstasy,
speak in tongues.
174
13 Days in a Rice Chest • Nathan Nass
13 Days in a Rice Chest
• Nathan Nass
Rice Chest, Palace Lawn, Picnics
Do this for honor
“Kill yourself. Kill yourself fast.”
Heads of eunuchs for the princess.
Wooden weapons for the naked boy
Who did not become the man that…
He became two
He became his fear of clothing
And his coffin
Or the hole in the ground
Where he also slept.
So you had no choice
But to seal him in the rice chest
He was unable to do it himself.
Besides, what would Confucius do if
A boy forsook him for madness?
He’s wrestling with his clothes again.
The sweltering days
It’s July already, isn’t it.
What will you tell him
The next time he’s lying before you,
And his tears soak your robe?
“Kill yourself.
Kill yourself fast.”
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Nocturnes on Cassette • Nathan Nass
Nocturnes on Cassette
• Nathan Nass
to play
bloch's
baal
shem
even
from
decayed
tape
when the sun
is showing the map
of its blessed intestines
or as the pressure suddenly
decreases with dry
darkness and pin
holes are moving like
radio static across our own
impaired field of vision lifts us
as when moses handed the torch
to the turbulent future and it did
not even flicker as sometimes
happens when light makes
its way through
eons
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Good Girl • Liz Nicklos
Good Girl
• Liz Nicklos
o one day I was tardy to U.S. History class with Mr.
DeCarlo, it’s right after lunch, see, and all my friends
and I always take my little green Neon to Sonic to get the high
school special, a cheeseburger with mayonnaise, no onions, fries
and a vanilla Dr. Pepper. We’re usually on time, but Nicole told
me, “Katie, your pants are black in the back!” and I freaked out
because they were brand new and I spent 80 dollars on them, and
I looked at my butt, and there was this black dirt all over it, probably from the dirty chairs in my woodworking class. So I had to
run home and change, that’s why I was late to Mr. DeCarlo’s
class, because I’m not usually late, you know? I’m a pretty good
girl, although I’ve only gotten B’s this year, and maybe a couple
of A’s in woodworking, but woodworking is easy as long as I wear
low cut tops and lean over when Mr. Torrez shows me how to
make a dove tail joint. I’m pretty good about being on time, and
not missing school, even though I’ve been doing this a lot more
lately, you know, because after tennis practice, I smoke with Loni
and Christa, and they don’t really care about school, you know?
They’re not good girls, like mom would say. But I’ve kind of
liked hanging out with them, because I think every good girl has
a bad side, and my bad side likes smoking cigarettes in my short
tennis skirt by the recycling bins in the parking lot of the park
where we practice. So when I came into class late I thought it
wasn’t a big deal, because Loni and Christa do it all the time, and
this was only my third time with Mr. DeCarlo, so I thought it
would all be fine, see, because he’s a pretty hip young guy and he
looks like Bert from Sesame Street, you know, long face and big
nose. So I strolled in late with my little red Capri pants on, and
everyone looked at me and I smiled because I knew that they all
were thinking that I had been out with Loni and Christa, smok-
S
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ing on the picnic table by the bus loop, but I hadn’t really, I had
just been at my house, changing my pants, but who needed to
know that? So I smiled and leaned over to Nicole to grab a pencil from her book bag, because Nicole always has the coolest
pencils with huge fluffy pink balls on the end. Then Mr.
DeCarlo came to my desk and said, you missed the quiz, Katie,
and I said, oh, well I’m sorry Mr. DeCarlo, but I can make it up
right after school. And he said, you stay after class and we’ll see.
So I took notes and stared at the back of Tate Graham’s head,
who is this really hot guy who I used to share crayons with in elementary school, who used to eat paper to make me laugh, and
then the bell rang. Everyone left but me and Mr. DeCarlo erased
the board for like five minutes before he turned around to me
and said, well Katie, how bad do you want to make up this quiz?
And I said real bad Mr. DeCarlo, and I added that I was sorry for
being late, it’s just that I had some personal business to take care
of. I said that to make sure that he knew I was a good girl, and
then he smiled at me real slowly so I knew he knew I was a good
girl. Then he sat down real slow in his chair and rocked back,
and I thought that maybe this was a little weird, because Mr.
DeCarlo is never so slow and silent in class. He always talks in
class, you know, about World War this and Germany that, and
Government this and Politics that, and makes real big sweeping
motions with his arms when he says the word well. So I swept
my arms and said, well Mr. DeCarlo, I should get to class, and I
started to walk out, and I said, so I’ll see you after school, then.
He got up and said, how bad do you want to make up that quiz,
and I was like, umm, I just told you real bad. And he said why
don’t you show me? And then he came out from behind the
desk and started to unzip his khakis, and I thought maybe this
was happening because of all the times I had stared at his crotch
during class, not because I’m a bad girl or anything, but just
because I’m curious, you know? And good girls are always curious, so I shouldn’t feel bad about that, but I have to admit that
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part of me always thought Mr. DeCarlo was cute and wondered
what his thick black hair felt like. So I didn’t know what to do
because I really needed to make up the quiz because my mom
would freak out if I didn’t get at least a B in this class, so I asked
him, how do I show you? And he went to the door of the classroom and locked it and said, you know how to show me. And I
said, Mr. DeCarlo, I’m a good girl, I don’t do these things. And
he said, yes, Katie, he grabbed my elbows right then, you are.
And when he grabbed me, I wasn’t scared at all, even though it
reminded me of the way my mom’s ex-boyfriend Rob always
grabbed me when he was drunk, but that was because he wanted
to throw me down, and Mr. DeCarlo didn’t want to hurt me, I
could tell. And then I thought now I know why Mr. DeCarlo
always makes the girl with the shortest skirt write the answers on
the board, and why when he hands out tests he goes down every
row so he can look down our shirts, and then I wondered if Loni
and Christa would do this, and the answer was yes. So I put
down my US History book and got on my knees in front of him,
and he pulled his, you know, out and I almost laughed at how
silly it looked, but I didn’t because I knew from what Loni and
Christa had told me that you aren’t supposed to laugh, you’re
supposed to use your tongue, not your teeth, and make a lot of
moaning noises, but I decided that was too much, so I didn’t
moan. I kept my eyes closed the whole time, and I didn’t really
know what I was doing, but he told me that it felt good, that it
felt real nice, and I was happy about that, but I got distracted by
his hands all over my body and so I must have hurt him because
he jerked away really fast and turned away from me. I said I’m
sorry even though I didn’t know what had happened and he
pulled up his pants and said, you should go now. I thought, well,
I hope that counts for making up the quiz, and I picked up my
books and said, so I’ll see you tomorrow in class, and left.
After tennis practice I told Loni and Christa what happened and they told me that they knew DeCarlo was a nasty ass
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pervert. And I was surprised because I thought that they would
be happy that I was on my way to being a bad girl like them, but
I guess they don’t like that he chose me, because I heard Loni say
that she would do him if she had the chance, so I told Loni
you’re just jealous, and she threw down her cigarette and didn’t
say anything.
The next day after class I stayed again because Mr. DeCarlo
said in front of the whole class, even though I wasn’t late, that I
still owed him time from yesterday. So I stayed and he locked the
door again, and this time he didn’t unzip his pants so I thought
maybe he would kiss me. But he didn’t, instead he told me to
come here so I went over to the desk and he told me to lift up
my shirt, and I said, what? And he said, lift up your shirt. And so
I lifted up my shirt because I really did have a cute bra on. Then
he said, get out of here, and I said, already? and he said get out of
here.
I stayed again the next day, not because he asked me to, but
because I wanted to ask him why he didn’t kiss me, because I was
starting to like the thought of Mr. DeCarlo’s hair in my fingers.
Besides, I knew Loni and Christa would flip, really flip, if I kissed
him, so he was erasing the board and I said why didn’t you kiss
me yesterday, and he said because it’s not appropriate and I said
no offense but neither was that other stuff, and then he laughed
and turned around came around the desk and I got real nervous,
not because I didn’t know what to do or anything. I mean, I’ve
kissed boys before, but nothing like this, nothing like a History
teacher with thick black hair, and then I thought of my first kiss
with David Ketchum, and how he cornered me in gym class
while everyone else was playing with those little four wheel
scooters, and Mr. DiPrince yelled at him because he pressed me
to the dirty-looking beige wall and stuck his tongue in my mouth,
so he didn’t get recess for the rest of the week, but I didn’t tell
Mr. DiPrince that I really liked it. So Mr. DeCarlo took my face
in his hands and I didn’t have time to be nervous, so I closed my
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eyes, and he bent down to kiss me, and it tasted like coffee and
scope, and I liked it, and then before I knew it, his hands were up
my shirt and I liked that too. And then my shirt was off and I
was in the corner against the white concrete wall, just like with
David Ketchum, except no gym class and no slobber. And then
he was kissing me all over, even on my chest, and I didn’t know
what to think because the most I’ve done with a boy is let him
cop a feel while we’re making out, and I’ve only made out with
two boys. But I didn’t really want to stop, because Mr. DeCarlo’s
head was right where I could put my hands in his thick black hair,
and then my pants were off too and I thought I am really glad
that I wore my cute red underwear with the bows at the hips, but
it really didn’t matter because pretty soon they were off, and I
didn’t really know how to feel about being naked in front of my
history teacher, but I didn’t have time because he was rubbing
and kissing and his hands were everywhere, on my butt, on my
chest, and I could tell he liked what he saw, and when he touched
me you know, down there, there was a rush of noise in my ears
but I couldn’t hear anything, and then I remembered this time I
went to a Christian rock concert at the college gym, and how my
ears felt after I walked out, how I felt like I was submerged in a
tank of water. That’s how it was when Mr. DeCarlo touched me,
but not scary, like it was after the concert when I thought I was
deaf. And then I opened my eyes and we were on the couch
behind his desk and he was above me, and even though I hadn’t
done it before I had watched a lot of movies, and so I put my
hands in his hair and he looked at me and said you’re beautiful.
And I swear, I felt like I was in a movie, because I’ve seen a lot of
movies, and even though I didn’t know what I was doing I knew
what would happen next, and I kept my hands in his hair and
thought so this is what it’s like to be a bad girl.
The next day I told Loni and Christa that Mr. DeCarlo was
a good kisser and Loni crossed her arms and placed her cigarette
on her pouty lower lip and said, are you screwing him? And I
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said screwing him, what do you mean screwing him, and put my
hand on my hip, and even though I was being sarcastic to try to
get them both to lighten up, I don’t think they appreciated it,
because Christa said, it’s one thing to talk about screwing teachers and another thing to screw teachers. So I ashed my cigarette
on the asphalt and said, he told me I’m beautiful, and Loni said,
was that before or after you two fucked, and I didn’t like that she
called it that, because that’s not what it was and I should have
said something really witty right then. But instead I threw my
cigarette into the grass and gave them a nasty look. They looked
at each other and then looked at me and sneered, if that’s what
you call that sort of look that says I’m better than you, you know,
the type of look that your younger sister gives you after she tells
on you, and I sneered back and walked home.
That night at dinner my mom asked me how classes were
going and like I always do I said fine, and she asked just fine?
And I said fine. She was dumping macaroni and cheese on my
plate and she asked me how I liked my teachers and I said I liked
them all, especially Mr. DeCarlo, and then my sister Jenn said, oh
my God, you have Mr. DeCarlo, the gorgeous history teacher?
And I said yeah, and then mom said what does he look like, and I
said well he has thick black hair and a long face and a long nose,
and he’s pretty buff. And my mom said really, and she looked at
Jenn and Jenn nodded and said yeah. Mom stabbed some macaroni on her fork and said so when is parent teacher conference
night, I need to meet this guy, and Jenn laughed and Mom
laughed too, but I didn’t laugh because I was thinking he’s mine,
but I couldn’t tell Mom that. Mom must have seen my face
because she asked what’s wrong, and I had to lie because if mom
even knew, she would think I was a bad girl, and right now, Mom
thinks I’m a really good girl, you know, especially because after
Rob picked up and left, mom blamed Jenn, you know? Even
though it wasn’t Jenn’s fault, Mom blamed her for Rob leaving
us, but we all knew how Rob got when he was drunk, so it didn’t
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really matter to me that he left, he always sat at my tennis
matches and counted how many serves I missed and that was
annoying, so I was ok with it, but for awhile Mom was mad at
Jenn. And she’s still sad, I guess, because she’s been alone for a
while now but I didn’t ever think that she would go after one of
my teachers, especially Mr. DeCarlo. So I said no, nothing’s
wrong mom, and she said ok honey, could you pass the green
beans?
Mr. DeCarlo and I started meeting after school, you know,
because I always had forty minutes until tennis practice started,
and he just told the other teachers that I was having a lot of trouble in history and I needed to get one-on-one tutoring. Then
one day Mr. DeCarlo said we have to stop this, and I said why,
and he said my wife is pregnant, and I said, your wife. He
crossed his arms and leaned back real slow in his chair and said,
yeah, my wife, and then I laughed because he had to be joking,
because he said I was beautiful and that I was such a good girl,
and he must love me, so how could he have a wife? And so I said
you never mentioned a wife, and he smiled and said would it
have stopped you? And I said, what makes you think it will stop
me now, and he was surprised at that, you know, and even I was
surprised at that, because I sounded like a 20-year old must
sound, and I’m only 16. He said, no, I just can’t do it anymore,
because she wants me to come home earlier to be with her, and I
said, well we can meet at other times. He said, no we can’t, it just
isn’t a good idea, and I’m surprised that we haven’t been found
out yet, he shook his head then and said Mrs. Blevens asked me
the other day why my door was locked, and I had to lie and say I
left early. And then it occurred to me that he was dumping me,
so I asked him, Mr. DeCarlo, are you dumping me? He got up
and came over to me and said we both know this has to stop, and
he rubbed my arms up and down like a father should do to his
daughter, and it just felt wrong, and I said, Mr. DeCarlo, I think
I’m in love with you, and he hugged me and said, no no no, and I
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said yes, and I looked up and he kissed me and I had his shirt
unbuttoned. He couldn’t stop it, then, and then we were over on
the couch, my hands in his black hair again, him telling me I’m
beautiful, and I said you don’t want to stop this, and he kissed my
neck, and then there was a rattle at the door, and he covered my
mouth with his hand. Mr. DeCarlo? the janitor yelled, and then
we heard keys jingling and Mr. DeCarlo yelled, just a minute Sam,
and we jumped up and started putting our clothes back on, but
before I even had my pants buttoned Sam opened the door, and
as soon as he saw my bra his eyes got really wide and he said,
Jesus Christ, and all I could think of was every time I had said
hello to Sam in the hall while he was mopping, and then I felt
bad because he must have thought I was a really good girl, but
not now. Mr. DeCarlo said, Sam this isn’t what it looks like, but
before he could say this, Sam shut the door and we heard his keys
jingle as he went away, and Mr. DeCarlo started cussing a lot, saying every single word I had ever heard bleeped out in rap songs
on the radio, and I said what are we going to do, and he looked at
me and said we? he said it really slow, we? what are we going to
do? and he was really mad, I could tell, and before I could say
anything he said get out of here, Katie, and I knew he meant it,
so I grabbed my bag and went to the bathroom to change into
my tennis skirt and tank top.
After tennis practice I decided to smoke with Loni and
Christa again, even though I wasn’t going to after what happened
the other day, you know, because I wanted them to apologize.
Because I’m not usually the type of girl who takes crap from people, but after what happened with Mr. DeCarlo I felt like maybe a
cigarette would be good, you know, and maybe they felt bad.
They didn’t say anything to me for about five minutes, but then
Christa said, hey Katie, how big is Mr. DeCarlo, and she turned
to Loni and they grinned at each other, and I didn’t say anything
for a minute, you know, I just smoked my cigarette, took a big
drag and let it out real slow, and then I said we got caught today.
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Christa said, no shit, and I said, yeah, and Loni said, by who, and
I said by Sam, and I told them how the door was locked but he
probably needed to clean or something, and how I was half
naked when he opened the door, and Mr. DeCarlo was too, and
how Sam said Jesus Christ and slammed the door and left.
Christa and Loni just stared at me with their hands on their hips
and their mouths wide open, and then Christa said, that sucks,
and Loni said, no shit, and I said, what do I do, and Loni shook
her head and said you better get on your bony ass little knees
tonight and pray to God that Sam just whacks off about it and
doesn’t tell anybody.
The next day I saw Sam in the hall and I decided to go up
to him, so I said, hi Sam, and he said hello, and then his eyes got
real narrow and he said, oh, hi, and I said Sam can I talk to you
for a minute? I was thinking if Sam just knows that I’m really a
good girl, he won’t tell anyone, and then Mr. DeCarlo won’t be
mad, and we can be together. And I was thinking it wouldn’t be
too hard to convince Sam that I am a good girl, because I am,
right, because every girl has a bad side, and it just so happens that
my bad side has progressed from smoking cigarettes in a short
tennis skirt to having an affair with a history teacher who has
thick dark hair. So I said, Sam it will just take a minute, and he
said, don’t you have class, and I said I can be late, Sam, I need to
talk to you. So Sam the janitor followed me out to the picnic
tables by the bus loop, and I thought while we were walking that
Sam is actually a nice looking old man, with gray curly hair and
leathery skin that turns red when he gets hot, and he wears those
blue coveralls that car mechanics wear with his name on the right
pocket in cursive. So Sam followed me out to the picnic tables
and I offered him a cigarette and he took it, and he narrowed his
eyes when he lit it and I said, Sam, I think you know why I
wanted to talk to you, and he was silent, looking down at his feet,
and I said, Sam, I need you to promise me that you won’t tell
anyone about what you saw yesterday. He looked up at me and
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opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out, and I thought
for a minute maybe the reason that Sam became a janitor is
because he can’t talk to people very well, or maybe he doesn’t like
to. I said, Sam, and he said, yes, and I said, promise me you
won’t tell, and I took a long drag off of my cigarette and I
noticed that Sam kept glancing at my chest in the cute halter top
I was wearing, and I pretended I didn’t notice, and he started
alternating looking at my chest and then at his feet, and then taking a drag with narrow eyes, and then he looked straight at me
and said, I just don’t think it’s right, and I asked, right? and he
said it again, but slower, I don’t think it’s right, and I laughed and
knew what I had to do, so I said, Sam, I could show you something that is right, and he didn’t say anything but I could tell from
his narrow eyes that he was interested, so I put my hands on my
hips and pushed my chest out farther. I was late to class, anyway,
right, so I might as well be really late, and fix this situation for
Mr. DeCarlo, so I said, come with me Sam in the most bad girl
way I knew how, and he stamped out his cigarette and I walked
towards the big row of evergreen trees that surround the school,
and he followed me, and I didn’t say anything, I just unzipped his
coveralls and then when I was done I got up and zipped his coveralls and said, so you promise me, Sam, he nodded.
I told Mr. DeCarlo after school that I talked to Sam and
that he promised me he wouldn’t tell, and he said how do you
know, and I leaned over his desk and said, I took care of it, and
smiled, because he didn’t need to know that I had been a bad girl,
because to him I was a very good girl. A beautiful good girl. I
leaned over to kiss him and he said no and I said what, and he
said, no, we cannot do this anymore, we are going to get caught
by someone who will tell. He said we lucked out with Sam, and I
said, then meet me outside of school, and he said, what, you are
crazy, and I said, I’m crazy because I’m in love with you, and he
said, what do I have to say, he got up then, what do I have to say
to make you understand we can’t do this anymore, and I said yes
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we can, and he said, well then I don’t want to do it anymore, you
know, he emphasized the want. I said you don’t mean that, you
love me just as much, and he said, no I don’t, and I started to
think that maybe he was serious, and if he was, this could be bad,
because I didn’t want to have a broken heart, you know? I’ve
seen my mom get brokenhearted over too many men, and I
didn’t need that, or want it, you know, the nights over the toilet
bowl, puking my guts out, and the crying for hours. I said, are
you trying to break my heart, and he said, if that’s what it takes,
and then it got real silent and I got really mad. He just looked at
me and said, it stops now, and I tried to kiss him then, see,
because usually he couldn’t resist that, because he told me I was a
very good kisser, but he just pushed me away and I fell on the
floor, and he didn’t come to pick me up.
So I went to the principal and said I need to talk to you
about Mr. DeCarlo, it’s very important, and I had a tissue in my
hand, you know, for effect, and I made sure to wear a short skirt
and one of my lowest tank tops. I made myself look really sad,
and I said, it will only take a minute, Mr. Ozzello, that’s his name,
and Mr. Ozzello pushed up his black framed glasses and said,
well Katie, I suppose, and I wondered for the hundredth time
why Mr. Ozzello didn’t just get rid of his combover and buzz his
whole head. I thought, maybe, if he did that, he wouldn’t look so
uncomfortable all the time, you know, because he’s always standing at the counter that looks out into the commons where all the
students stand, and he always looks at the kids walking around,
and sometimes I see him cringe, so I don’t think he likes us very
much. So I sat down in the chair opposite his desk and said, Mr.
Ozzello, I… I… and then I started to sob. He didn’t get up from
his desk, but I didn’t expect him to, and he said really flatly,
what’s wrong Katie? And I said, it’s Mr. DeCarlo. He… He… I
bent over my knees and put the Kleenex up to my face. Mr.
Ozzello got even more uncomfortable and then the secretary
came on and said you have a phone call, Oden, and he said,
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thank you Maria, can you take a message? and she said yes Oden,
and I thought I didn’t know his name was Oden, and he said,
thank you Maria, and I noticed that his voice got a little bit happier when he said Maria. And then I thought maybe Mr. Ozzello
and Maria were, you know. But then he turned back to me and
said, now, Katie, what is the matter. I said well Mr. Ozzello, I
wasn’t going to tell anyone about this, but, I stopped there to
sigh and look up at the ceiling, and then I continued again, but
something terrible happened. And he said, yes Katie, so what is
it? And I said, well, the other day in history class, Mr. DeCarlo
asked me to stay after class to make up a quiz, because I was late,
you know, and Mr. Ozzello nodded and put his elbows on the
desk, and pushed up his glasses again. Well, I stayed after class
and I just felt kind of odd, and all of a sudden Mr. DeCarlo came
up to me and started to feel me all over, and he was pushing up
against me, and I was telling him no and trying to resist him, but
he backed me into the corner, and he… I paused and looked
back into my Kleenex and realized I could hear Mr. Ozzello
breathing. He said, Yes? and I said, he… you know. And then
Maria came on the intercom again and said, Oden, you have Mr.
Addington on line 2 and he jumped and pushed the button real
fast and said, thank you Maria, but you’ll have to take a message,
I’m… occupied with a student. And she said, yes Oden, and I
thought how funny that he said he was occupied with a student.
Then he looked back to me and said, Well, continue. I blew my
nose and dabbed my eyes, and said I told you, he took advantage
of me, and then Mr. Ozzello pushed his glasses up again and
said, Well. And I said, well? And he said, Katie, that’s a pretty
serious thing. And then I thought that maybe I didn’t wear a
short enough skirt, or a low enough top, because Mr. Ozzello
sure wasn’t being swayed by anything that he was seeing. He
said, I think you need to sleep on this, and think about whether
you really want to bring this up, and I said, what? He pushed up
his glasses again and leaned over and said more softly, this would
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look very bad for the school. I said, what? He said, just think
about this a little more before you start accusing someone of
something… rather… and then he trailed off and I sat there with
my mouth wide open. Because, I mean, why wasn’t he upset? So
after what seemed like forever and a day I said, well, thank you
Mr. Ozzello, and I don’t think he sensed the sarcasm in my voice
because he said, you’re welcome Katie, thank you for coming in.
So the next day after tennis practice I told Loni and Christa
that Mr. DeCarlo didn’t want to see me anymore, and they
laughed, and I put out my cigarette and said it’s not funny, and
Loni said, yeah, you know why? and I asked why, and Loni said,
because Christa’s screwing him now, and I thought she was joking, so I asked Christa, and she just smiled at me and took a drag
off her cigarette. I said, you’re kidding right, and she blew her
smoke in my face and said, yeah, and he’s big, and she said it so
that she emphasized big, and Loni laughed and started jumping
up and down, and I said, you bitch, and Loni laughed and Christa
said, yeah, well, he likes it.
So the next day I skipped tennis practice and looked up Mr.
DeCarlo’s address in the phonebook and drove there in my little
Green neon, and it was a nice white house with blue shutters and
there were big pots of purple geraniums on the steps to the
porch, and I thought so this is where he lives, and I wondered
what his wife was like. I sat there forever in my car, across the
street and I just watched the curtains inside the shutters, you
know, waiting to see if she would look out, and then Jessica Simpson’s new song came on the radio and I turned it up really loud.
And I kept thinking she’s probably baking something for dinner,
like a roast or mashed potatoes or something really great that I
could never cook, because you know, my mom never cooked
anything except Kraft macaroni and cheese spirals and canned
green beans, and right then I hated her for never cooking roasts
and mashed potatoes.
And then just like that I decided that I wanted to meet her,
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to see what she was like, and I didn’t really know exactly what I
would say, but I got out of the car and walked across the street. I
rang the doorbell, and a woman opened the door, and I thought
oh my God, because I don’t know what I was imagining, but not
this. She was tall and slim and had on these cute white jeans and
a blue halter top, and I couldn’t see that she was pregnant at all.
And she was Mr. DeCarlo’s wife. She smiled at me because I
wasn’t talking, and I felt bad because I could just tell she was
really nice. She reminded me of my kindergarten teacher Mrs.
Crowell, who always had this warm smile on her face, even when
I would get into trouble, except Mrs. Crowell short and had gray
hair, and Mr. DeCarlo’s wife had curly black hair, just like his.
She said are you alright? And I said are you Mrs. DeCarlo? She
said yes, and she still had her hand on the door, and I said, I’m
one of Mr. DeCarlo’s students, I’m Katie. And she said, oh, I’m
sorry Katie, but he’s not home yet. He should be home any
minute. Do you want to come in and wait? And right then a car
pulled into the driveway and it was Mr. DeCarlo and we both
turned to look at him, and she said, oh, perfect, there he is now.
It was the weirdest moment of my life, you know, because there
he was, and I didn’t know what to say because I am a good girl,
and she looked so nice, and I bet when she was my age she was a
good girl too, and all of a sudden Mr. DeCarlo looked really small
sitting in that car, and I didn’t love him right then. He saw me on
the porch and sat in his car for the longest time, just looking at us
standing there, and Mrs. DeCarlo said, well I wish he would
hurry up. And she looked happy to see him and Mr. DeCarlo
kept sitting in his car, just sitting there with the engine running,
looking at his steering wheel. And when Mrs. DeCarlo said, I
can’t imagine what’s wrong, I’m sorry, just a minute, and stepped
to go to his car, I grabbed her arm and I said Mrs. DeCarlo. And
she said yes. And I said I’m sorry.
So the next day I came to school with the handgun that my
mom keeps in the bathroom drawer, you know, the one that she
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showed both me and Jenn to use just in case of burglars, right.
It’s the same one that I learned to target shoot with in the backyard, and my sister and I would set up cans on top of an old chair
and shoot them, and it was so much fun, but I was always better
than Jenn at it. So I kept it in my bag all day and I smiled so that
everyone knew I was a good girl. After school I went to Mr.
DeCarlo’s room and said, Mr. DeCarlo. And he said, yes Katie?
And I said, I just came to tell you that I’m sorry, because I realized you’re right, and he leaned back in his chair and smiled, and
said good. Then I pulled the gun from my bag and shot him in
the chest, just like target shooting in the backyard, and he looked
horrible, so limp in his chair, and he was bleeding, so I ran out
the door, and I thought so this is what it’s like to be a bad girl. It
made me glad that I’m a good girl.
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Conversion • Arthur Gottlieb
Conversion
• Arthur Gottlieb
Logic turned my tongue
into a tickertape,
quoting prices
instead of poetry.
I traded workshirt
for pinstripe,
ring finger for wrinkles,
jingles for the jangle
of nervous jewelry.
A jungle of keys
fit for a serf
gaurding his kingdom
of feudal castles,
every door a locked cell.
Spouse & boss
sweated on ironed collars
& button-downs, clad
to keep me chained
at my desk.
Knotted silk ties
at my neck loose
substitutes for a
hangman's noose,
should I stray.
Afraid now
if I walk on air
or water
I'll dance at the end
of their ropes.
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Duelists • Arthur Gottlieb
Duelists
• Arthur Gottlieb
Back to back
in bed,
we hold our breaths,
lips half cocked,
tongues triggers,
count to ten,
whirl,
eyeballs blazing
down long barrels
of noses,
shoot off our
mouths
in a noisy exchange
of snide & sarcastic
remarks.
A gun could go off,
but neither would hear it,
or care if it were
loaded with ironies.
Bellies full of lead,
we drop off to sleep,
fitfully dreaming
of perfect parting shots,
to end all argument.
193
Res Ipsa Loquitur • Pippa Coulter Abston
Res Ipsa Loquitur
• Pippa Coulter Abston
This is for the boy who flings himself
a blonde smile, on my exam table
and says, meaning it, I like my hair
who sighs pleasure like the open road
sighs to itself, when we aren't listening
This is for the girl who got in trouble
with her teacher. Why? I ask her father
(she has been so happy). She keeps on humming
when she reads says father
and when l asked her why she told me
books make her happy
and she likes to hum
This is for the boy who argues
fifteen minutes straight at his checkup
with his mother, over cell phone minutes.
All he cares about mother says
is what he can get. Later he gives me
his secret fear.
Which is that he has put his love for a girl
first, before Christ.
194
The Pocket Rocket Man • Kyle Fargen
The Pocket Rocket Man
• Kyle Fargen
fourteen speed vibrator?” Stanley looked down
at the smooth purple mechanical device sitting
promiscuously on the dresser adjacent to a half-used silver tube
of KY jelly. Denise’s parents had only been gone for a few minutes, and
already her vibrator was sitting openly on her dresser, thought Stanley.
“This girl MUST be crazy in the sack,” he said to himself with a
wide, gaping smile draped across his face. He slowly leaned forward and picked up the 14-speed pocket rocket and shifted it in
his hands for a bit. After looking around the deserted room to
make sure Denise was still in the bathroom and nobody could
see him through the window, he brought the purple object to his
nose and breathed in the intoxicating scent of Denise. A giddy
sense of joy overcame Stanley; he knew that he would soon taste
that same sweetness for himself first-hand.
Holding the vibrator in both hands, Stanley stepped around
the room, perusing the other secrets to Denise’s bedroom. Pictures, pictures, and more pictures. A lava lamp stood on the end
of the dresser next to an array of pink, blue and purple candles.
At the head of her bed, a giant stuffed gorilla glanced angrily
down a row of stuffed teddy bears and horses. The desk sitting
next to the window was a mess – biology homework, an empty
test tube apparently used for a chemistry assignment, collegeruled papers and assorted colors of pens, paperclips and markers
laid scattered about the wooden frame. Glancing upward to the
top of the headboard of the desk, Stanley noticed a small fish
tank with a single, solitary goldfish swimming to and fro amidst a
skeleton and a deep-sea diver from the 1940’s. Nearby sat a
Rubic’s cube and a Magic 8 Ball, both treasures from the mid-tolate 80’s. Elton John’s “Rocket man” emanated softly from a
clock radio next to her bed. This entire room is normal for an 18 year-
“A
195
old girl, thought Stanley. Well, except for the vibrator, of course.
Switching his attention back to the amazing, 10-inch purple
piece of fury in his hands, Stanley turned it over and whispered
the various speeds, written across the side in bright blue letters,
to himself aloud:
1.Ripple
2.Jingle
3.Vibrato
4.Quiver
5.Tremble
6.Pulsate
7.Shake
8.Storm
9.Tempest
10.Hurricane
11.Eruption
12.Armageddon
13.The Apocalypse
14.–
Stanley paused at the last and final setting because the writing had been scratched off. Look at the wear and tear on that baby.
Man, she must really enjoy the 14th setting, thought Stanley jokingly.
He smiled another wide, shit-eating grin and walked over to the
nearby bathroom where Denise was busily making herself ready
for Stanley’s lust behind the closed wooden door. He reached
down for the door handle to the bathroom but decided against
opening the door. As much as he wanted to surprise her and
jump on top of her in the bathroom, he didn’t want to jeopardize
the sure thing he had going for him. Instead, he put his head next
to the door, listening to Denise busily making herself irresistible.
“Are you almost done in there?” inquired Stanley softly,
attempting to show a balance between patience and anxiety to his
soon-to-be lover.
“Just one more minute,” replied Denise through the white
196
wooden door. Stanley imagined her standing in front of the mirror, voluptuous and sexy, with her hair pushed back showing off
that magnificent neck of hers. It was always the little things that
had drawn Stanley to Denise – her hands, the way she turned her
face slightly to the side when she smiled, the way her neck looked
when her hair was pushed back, and those eyes – those unforgivingly deep eyes. Once you gazed into those eyes, there was no
escape. They swallowed men whole.
“I’ll be waiting,” answered Stanley, moving from the door
anxiously. He returned to Denise’s room and took a seat upon
her bed, careful not to agitate the already angry gorilla. He knew
better than to be pushy with Denise, but he couldn’t wait for the
ensuing moments. He was not a virgin but his previous female
conquests paled in comparison to Denise. She was absolutely
remarkable, and she damn well knew it. He had wanted this for
over a year, and finally it looked like his wishes were going to be
realized. Noticing that he had been sweating from nervousness,
he lifted his arms and checked for armpit sweat. Sure enough,
two little dark grey spots, one under each arm, stared back at him
menacingly. Bringing his hands back down to his lap, he noticed
he was still holding the intriguing purple device in his right hand.
Knowing full well that Denise would be lost in her own
world of hair and makeup for at least another five minutes, Stanley pushed the vibrator knob from the “off ” position to
“Quiver.” The purple mechanism delivered a soft hum while
vibrating slightly in his hands. Excitedly, he slid the knob farther
to “Shake.” The hum intensified as each individual rotating gear
turned and clicked at 300 revolutions per minute. Stanley struggled to hold the device still – his arm muscles tightened yet the
machine bobbed and weaved violently in his hands. He giggled as
he fought the shaking device. “How much horsepower does this
thing pack?” he said to himself, chuckling at the idea of what
speed 14 must be like. Finally getting control of the device by setting it on the bed and leaning onto it with his right arm, he
197
quickly switched the knob to the mysterious fourteenth setting.
At first, the vibrator did not seem to change speeds at all. It
continued humming at the same, steady magnitude as it had at
“Shake.” However, just as soon as Stanley had made this disappointing observation, the gear clicked into place and a deafening
thunder was unleashed upon the house. Gears turned on gears
and magnetic and electric fields engulfed the innards, swallowing
the hardwired metal components toiling strenuously inside the
device. Sheer energy came into being where it had never existed
in such incredible amounts before. With an explosion of torque,
the limited slip differential snapped like the neck of a small child
being hit with a wooden baseball bat. In a single instant, Stanley
realized that he had made a tremendous mistake. And in that
same instant, the power of nearly 3,000 horses had been
unleashed upon his 18 year old, 160-lb body. Stanley screamed
loudly, only to have it covered by the inexhaustible and overpowering booming of the purple phallus. The pocket rocket had
become just that – a fuckin’ rocket.
The purple bullet launched forward furiously like a drag
racer at the first sight of the green light, taking Stanley’s arm–and
the rest of his body-with it. Luckily, the purple missile had been
aimed out the window towards the street, or else Stanley would
have immediately come face to face with the merciless structure
of the bedroom wall. The tip of the vibrator smashed into the
window glass, absorbing the majority of the blow and preventing
severe bodily harm to Stanley. He jolted forward out the window,
still holding the purple rocket, accelerating at nearly 250 feet per
second towards the horizon. Scattered shards of glass fell to the
lawn beneath the windowsill.
Denise, who had been concentrating fully on applying her
mascara, heard the brief explosion of a jet engine followed by a
tremendous thud. The house shook violently for a second, then
silence. A picture swung uneasily on the wall of the bathroom
then dropped off the nail, striking the floor. Surprised, she stood
198
motionless in front of the mirror for a second or two. Realizing
that something terrible had happened, she scurried to the bathroom door and proceeded into her bedroom. All appeared normal, except for the absence of Stanley. Upon further inspection,
she noticed the window glass was missing along with her treasured purple love device.
At first Denise stood silent. But after the terrible realization
of Stanley’s accident became clear in her mind, she let out a harrowing scream that shook the walls of the house for a second
time. Perhaps somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, or in the open
tundra of mother Russia, the anode and cathode of the single D
battery stopped producing enough voltage to maintain speed 14.
Perhaps over the wide, arid expanse of the Sahara Desert, or over
the vast, cold depths of the Atlantic Ocean, Stanley began a tremendous nosedive into the topography lying dauntingly below.
Perhaps Stanley’s fingers had slid from the device somewhere
around Pennsylvania, causing him to quickly become an inseparable part of the eastern deciduous forest. Or perhaps Stanley
became acquainted with the absolute zero of the earth’s outer
atmosphere. All of this is speculation, of course, because Stanley
was never seen or heard from again. He had been claimed by the
purple pocket rocket that had claimed so many others of his generation.
The guilt that ensued was terrible. Denise knew that she
was to blame for the accident—leaving a vibrator with that kind
of potential, right out in the open where anyone could get to it!
“How stupid can I be?” she repeated to herself as she dialed 9-11. The police arrived a few minutes later, and after a statewide
search for the young man, the authorities decided to call it quits.
He could be anywhere, they insisted. “I’m sure he’ll turn up
sometime, somewhere,” the police captain had told her a day
later after the incident. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months,
months to years. Stanley had not turned up anywhere.
Denise could not sleep for weeks. She spent each sleepless
199
night plagued with unending guilt and regret. Each time she
closed her eyes she saw Stanley’s face and imagined the horror he
must’ve felt for the seconds (or minutes) he experienced before
losing his life. She thought about the terrible sorrow Stanley’s
parents had suffered in the loss of their son. And she thought
about what the other kids at school would now think of her. Not
only had she ruined Stanley’s life as well as his family’s, she had
ruined her own. Who would want to associate with a killer—
especially one who killed with a vibrator?
One night about a month after the accident, Denise
decided to take the initiative to stop feeling guilty and to start
reclaiming her life. She had seen the damage that could be done
with a device as powerful as a vibrator. She went into the kitchen,
retrieved a giant black garbage bag and brought it hastily back to
her room. Opening the top drawer of her dresser, she pulled the
top layer of socks from the drawer. Then digging in farther, she
pulled a blue vibrator from underneath a facade of underwear,
followed by a black one, then pink, red, blue, blue, red, green,
black, white, white, purple, green, and finally a curved blue vibrator and dumped them all into the garbage bag. She reached in
again and pulled several more pocket rockets from the drawer.
Realizing she was getting nowhere, she wrestled the drawer from
the dresser hinges, raised the drawer above her head, and
dumped all of its contents into the bag. Nearly 100 phallic
shaped objects as bright and varied as the colors of a rainbow,
along with the occasional white sock, filled the bag to its brim.
Nearly 100 vibrators, each with dead batteries, damaged machinery, or the highest setting scratched off due to overuse.
“Tonight, I begin my life anew,” Denise said to herself
while heaving the 60-lb garbage bag into a dumpster behind her
house. “Goodbye battery power, hello manpower.”
200
found (in chuck aukema's class) • Stef Carter
found (in chuck aukema's class)
• Stef Carter
none of the words are yours....
a whole jargon connected with—
pure English—
a whole jargon connected with
revenge on biology...
mitosis of...
underlying metaphor.
...if you can think of trees
battling for light—
...if you can think of trees
describing a love affair—
territory is covered.
it's like a portrait of
potential power tools
(lathe your next lover!)...
underlying metaphor,
down to the level of soldering—
electricity is always a good one.
a whole jargon connected with track...
territory is covered.
all of that stuff is a poem—
it's like a portrait of something going on—
none of the words are yours....
201
The Patience of a Dog • David Thornbrugh
The Patience of a Dog
• David Thornbrugh
It takes the man
in the motorized wheelchair
several minutes
to organize his purchase
of vegetables and fruit.
While he wrestles
the plastic bag
from counter to lap,
the small black and white dog
in the wire rack
hanging from the wheelchair's back
looks up from glittery black eyes,
his lower teeth jutting fiercely,
but he doesn't bark once.
202
Me Cago En La Leche (Robert Jordan in Nicaragua) • TC Boyle
Me Cago En La Leche
(Robert Jordan in Nicaragua)
• TC Boyle
o tell me, comrade, why do you wear your hair this
way?”
Robert Jordan fingered the glistening, rock-hard corona of
his spiked hair (dyed mud-brown now, with khaki highlights, for
the sake of camouflage) and then loosened the cap of his flask
and took a long burning hit of mescal. He waited till the flame
was gone from his throat and the familiar glow lit his insides so
that they felt radioactive, then leaned over the campfire to
address the flat-faced old man in worn fatigues. "Because I shit
in the milk of my mother, that's why," he said, the mescal abrading his voice. He caressed the copper stud that lay tight against
the flange of his left nostril and wiped his hands with exaggerated care on his Hussong's T-shirt. "And come to think of it," he
added, "because I shit in the milk of your mother too."
The old man, flat-faced though he was, said nothing. He
wasn't that old, actually—twenty-eight or -nine, Robert Jordan
guessed—but poor nutrition, lack of dental care, and too much
squinting into the sun gave him the look of a retired caterer in
Miami Beach. The fire snapped, monkeys howled. "La reputa
que lo parió," the old man said finally, turning his head to spit.
Robert Jordan didn't catch it all—he'd dropped out of college in the middle of Intermediate Spanish—but he got the gist
of it all right and gave the old man the finger. "Yeah," he said,
"and screw you too.
Two nights earlier the old man had come to him in the
Managua bus station as he gingerly lifted his two aluminumframe superlightweight High Sierra mountain packs down from
the overhead rack and exited the bus that had brought him from
Mexico City. The packs were stuffed with soiled underwear, gra-
“S
203
nola bars, hair gel, and plastic explosives, and Robert Jordan was
suffering from a hangover. He was also suffering from stomach
cramps, diarrhea, and dehydration, not to mention the general
debilitating effects of having spent two days and a night on a
third-class bus with a potpourri of drunks, chicken thieves, disgruntled pigs, and several dozen puking, mewling, looseboweled
niñitos. "Over here, comrade," the old man had whispered, taking him by the arm and leading him to a bench across the square.
The old man had hovered over him as Robert Jordan threw
himself down on the bench and stretched his legs. Trucks rumbled by, burros brayed, campesinos hurried about their business.
"You are the gringo for this of the Cup of Soup, no?" the old
man asked.
Robert Jordan regarded him steadily out of the slits of his
bloodshot eyes. The old man's face was as dry and corrugated as
a strip of jerky and he wore the armband of the Frente, black letters—FSLN—against a red background. Robert Jordan was
thinking how good the armband would look with his Dead
Kennedys tour jacket, but he'd caught the "Cup of Soup" business and nodded. That nod was all the old man needed. He
broke into a grin, bent to kiss him on both cheeks, and breathed
rummy fumes in his face. “I am called Bayardo," the old man
said, "and I am come to take you to the border."
Robert Jordan felt bone-weary, but this is what he'd come
for, so he stood and shouldered one of the packs while Bayardo
took the other. In a few minutes they'd be boarding yet another
bus, this one north to Jinotega and the Honduran border that lay
beyond it. There Robert Jordan would rendezvous with one of
the counter-counter-revolutionary bands (Contra Contra) and he
would, if things went well, annihilate in a roar of flying earth
clods and shattered trees a Contra airstrip and warehouse where
foodstuffs—Twinkies, Lipton Cup of Soup, and Rice Krispies
among them—were flown in from Texas by the CIA. Hence the
codename, "Cup of Soup."
204
But now—now they were camped somewhere on the Nicaraguan side of the border, listening to monkeys howl and getting
their asses chewed off by mosquitoes, ticks, chiggers, leecbes, and
everything else that crawled, swam, or flew. It began to rain. The
rain, Robert Jordan understood, would be bad for his hair. He
finished a granola bar, exchanged curses with the old man, and
crawled into his one-man pup tent. "You take the first watch," he
growled through the wall of undulating nylon in his very bad
Spanish. "And the second and third too. Come to think of it, why
don't you just wake me at noon.
The camp was about what you'd expect, Robert Jordan
thought, setting his pack down in a clump of poisonous-looking
plants. He and the old man had hiked three days through the bug
factory to get here, and what was it but a few banana-leaf hovels
with cigarette cartons piled outside. Robert Jordan was thinking
he'd be happy to blow this dump and get back to the drugs,
whores, semi-clean linen, and tequila añejo of Mexico City and
points north, when a one-eyed man emerged from the near hut,
his face split with a homicidal grin. His name was Ruperto, and
he wore the combat boots, baggy camouflage pants, and black Tshirt that even professors in Des Moines favored these days, and
he carried a Kalashnikov assault rifle in his right hand. "Qué tal,
old man," he said, addressing Bayardo, and then, turning to Robert Jordan and speaking in English: "And this is the gringo with
the big boom-boom. Nice hair, gringo."
Robert Jordan traded insults with him, ending with the
usual malediction about shit, milk, and mothers, and then
pinched his voice through his nose in the nagging whine he'd
perfected when he was four. "And so where's all the blow that's
supposed to be dropping from the trees out here, huh? And what
about maybe a hit of rum or some tortillas or something? I mean
I been tramping through this craphole for three days and no
sooner do I throw my pack down than I get some wiseass com205
ment about my hair I could've stayed in Montana and got from
some redneck cowboy. Hey," he shouted, leaning into Ruperto's
face and twisting his voice till it broke in a snarl, "screw you too,
Jack."
Ruperto said nothing. Just smiled his homicidal smile, one
eye gleaming, the other dead in a crater of pale, scarred flesh. By
now the others had begun to gather—Robert Jordan counted six
of them, flat-faced Indians all—and a light rain was sizzling
through the trees. "You want hospitality," Ruperto said finally,
"go to Howard Johnson's." He spat at his feet. "Your mother,"
he said, and then turned to shout over his shoulder. "Muchacha!"
Everyone stopped dead to watch as the girl in skintight
fatigues stepped out of the hut, shadowed by an older woman
with the build of a linebacker. "Sí?" the girl said in a voice that
inflamed Robert Jordan's groin.
Ruperto spat again. "Bring the gringo some chow."
"The Cup of Soup?" the girl asked.
Ruperto winked his mad wet eye at Robert Jordan. "Sí," he
grunted, "the Cup of Soup."
As he lay in his pup tent that night, his limbs entwined in
the girl's-her name was either Vidaluz or Concepción, he
couldn't remember which—Robert Jordan thought of his grandmother. She was probably the only person in the world he didn't
hate. His mother was a real zero, white wine and pasta salad all
the way, and his friends back in Missoula were a bunch of dinks
who thought Bryan Adams was god. His father was dead. When
the old man had sucked on the barrel of his 30.06 Winchester,
Robert was fourteen and angry. His role model was Sid Vicious
and he was into glue and Bali Hai. It was his grandmother—she
was Andalusian, really cool, a guerrilla who'd bailed out of Spain
in the '30s, pregnant with Robert Jordan II—who listened
patiently to his gripes about the school jocks and his wimpy
teachers and bought him tire chains to wrap around his boots.
206
They sat for hours together listening to the Clash's Sandinista
album, and when he blew off the tips of his pinky and ring fingers with a homemade bomb, it was she who gave him his first
pair of studded black leather gloves. And what was best about
her—what he liked more than anything else—was that she didn't
take any shit from anybody. Once, when her third husband, Joe
Thunderbucket, called her "Little Rabbit," she broke his arm in
three places. It was she more than anyone who'd got him into all
this revolution business—she and the Clash, anyway. And of
course he'd always loved dynamite.
He lay there, slapping mosquitoes, his flesh sticky against
the girl's, wondering what his grandmother was doing now, in the
dark of this night before his first offensive. It was a Tuesday,
wasn't it? That was bingo night on the reservation, and she usually went with Joe's sister Leona to punch numbers and drink
boilermakers at the bingo hall. He pictured her in her black mantilla, her eyes cold and hard and lit maybe a little with the bourbon and Coors, and then he woke up Concepción or Vidaluz and
gave it to her again, all his anger focused in the sharp tingling
stab and rhythm of it.
It was still dark when the old man woke him. "Son of a
bitch," Robert Jordan muttered. His hair was crushed like a
Christmas-tree ornament and there was a sour metallic taste in
his mouth. He didn't mind fighting for the revolution, but this
was ridiculous—it wasn't even light yet. "Andale," the old man
said, "the Cup of Soup awaits."
"Are you out of your gourd, or what?" Robert Jordan
twisted free of the girl and checked his watch. "It's four-fifteen,
for christ's sake."
The old man shrugged. "Qué puta es la guerra," he said.
"War's a bitch."
And then the smell of woodsmoke and frijoles came to him
over Ruperto's high crazed whinny of a laugh, the girl was up and
207
out of his sleeping bag, strolling heavy-haunched and naked
across the clearing, and Robert Jordan was reaching for his hair
gel.
After breakfast—two granola bars and a tin plate of frijoles
that looked and tasted like humus—Robert Jordan vomited in
the weeds. He was going into battle for the first time and he
didn't have the stomach for it. This wasn't like blowing the neighbors' garbage cans at 2:00 A.M. or ganging up on some jerk in a
frat jacket, this was the real thing. And what made it worse was
that they couldn't just slip up in the dark, attach the plastique
with a timer, and let it rip when they were miles away—oh, no,
that would be too simple. His instructions, carried by the old
man from none other than Ruy Ruiz, the twenty-three-year-old
Sandinista poet in charge of counter-counter-revolutionary activities and occasional sestinas, were to blow it by hand the moment
the cargo plane landed. Over breakfast, Robert Jordan, angry
though he was, had begun to understand that there was more at
risk here than his coiffure. There could be shooting. Rocket fire.
Grenades. A parade of images from all the schlock horror films
he'd ever seen—exploding guts, melting faces, ragged ghouls
risen from the grave—marched witheringly through his head and
he vomited.
"Hey, gringo," Ruperto called in English, "suck up your
cojones and let's hit it."
Robert Jordan cursed him weakly with a barrage of shits
and milks, but when he turned round to wipe the drool from his
face he saw that Ruperto and his big woman had led a cluster of
horses from the jungle. The big woman, her bare arms muscled
like a weiglitlifter's, approached him leading a gelding the size of
a buffalo. "Here, gringo," she breathed in her incongruously feminine voice, "mount up."
"Mount?" Robert Jordan squeaked in growing panic. "I
thought we were walking."
The truth was, Robert Jordan had always hated horses.
208
Growing up in Montana it was nothing but horses, horses,
horses, morning, noon, and night. Robert Jordan was a rebel, a
punk, a free spirit—he was no cowboy dildo—and for him it was
dirt bikes and dune buggies. He'd been on horseback exactly
twice in his life and both times he'd been thrown. Horses: they
scared him. Anything with an eye that big—
"Vámonos," Ruperto snapped. "Or are you as gutless as the
rest of the gringo wimps they send us?"
"Leche," Robert Jordan whinnied, too shaken even to curse
properly. And then he was in the saddle, the big, broad-beamed
monster of a horse peering back at him out of the flat wicked
discs of its eyes, and they were off.
Hunkered down in the bug factory, weeds in his face, his
coccyx on fire, and every muscle, ligament, and tendon in his legs
and ass beaten to pulp by the hammer of the horse's backbone,
Robert Jordan waited for the cargo plane. He was cursing his
grandmother, the Sandinistas, the Clash, and even Sid Vicious.
This was, without doubt, the stupidest thing he'd ever done. Still,
as he crouched there with the hard black plastic box of the detonator in his hand, watching the pot-bellied crewcut rednecks and
their runty flat-faced Indian allies out on the landing strip, he felt
a surge of savage joy: he was going to blow the motherfuckers to
Mars and back.
Ruperto was somewhere to his left, dug in with the big
woman and their Kalashnikovs. Their own flat-faced Indians, led
by the flat-faced old man, were down to the right somewhere,
bristling with rifles. The charges were in place—three in the high
grass along the runway median and half a dozen under the prefab
aluminum warehouse itself. The charges had been set by a scampering Ruperto just before dawn while the lone sentry dreamed
of cold cerveza and a plate of fried dorado and banana chips.
Ruperto had set them because when the time came Robert Jordan's legs hadn't worked and that was bad. Ruperto had called
209
him a cheesebag, a faggot, and worse, and he'd lost face with the
flat-faced Indians and the old man. But that was then, this was
now.
Suddenly he heard it, the distant drone of propellers like
the hum of a giant insect. He caressed the black plastic box, murmuring "Come on, baby, come on," all the slights and sneers he'd
ever suffered, all the head slaps and jibes about his hair, his
gloves, and his boots, all the crap he'd taken from his yuppie
bitch of a mother and those dickheads at school—all of it had
come down to this. If the guys could only see him now, if they
could only see the all-out, hellbent, super-destructive, radical
mess he was about to make . . . Yes! And there it was, just over
the treetops. Coming in low like a pregnant goose, stuffed full of
Twinkies. He began counting down: ten, nine, eight .
The blast was the most beautiful thing he'd ever witnessed.
One minute he was watching the plane touch down, its wings
and fuselage unmarked but for the painted-over insignia of the
Flying Tigers, the world still and serene, the sack-bellies standing
back expectantly, already tasting that first long cool Bud, and
then suddenly, as if he'd clapped another slide in the projector,
everything disappeared in a glorious killing thunderclap of fire
and smoke. Hot metal, bits of molten glass and god knew how
many Twinkies, Buds, and Cups of Soup went rocketing into the
air, scorching the trees, and streaming down around Robert Jordan like a furious hissing rain. When the smoke cleared there was
nothing left but twisted aluminum, the burned-out hulk of the
plane, and a crater the size of Rockefeller Center. From the corner of his eye Robert Jordan could see Ruperto and the big
woman emerge cautiously from the bushes, weapons lowered. In
a quick low crouch they scurried across the open ground and
stood for a moment peering into the smoking crater, then
Ruperto let out a single shout of triumph—"Yee-haw!"—and
fired off a round in the air.
It was then that things got hairy. Someone opened up on
210
them from the far side of the field-some Contra Contra Contra,
no doubt-and Ruperto went down. The flat-faced Indians let
loose with all they had and for a minute the air screamed like a
thousand babies torn open. The big woman threw Ruperto over
her shoulder and flew for the jungle like a wounded crab.
"Andale!" she shouted and then the firing stopped abruptly as
everyone, Robert Jordan included, bolted for the horses.
When he saw the fist-sized chunk torn out of Ruperto's
calf, Robert Jordan wanted to vomit. So he did. The horses were
half crazy from the blast and the rat-tat-tat of the Kalashnikovs
and they stamped and snorted like fiends from hell. God, he
hated horses. But he was puking, Ruperto's wound like raw meat
flecked with dirt and bone, and the others were leaping atop their
mounts, faces pulled tight with panic. Now there was firing
behind them again and he straightened up and looked for his
horse. There he was, Diablo, jerking wildly at his tether and kicking out his hoofs like a doped-up bronc at the rodeo. Shit. Robert
Jordan wiped his lips and made a grab for the reins. It was a mistake. He might just as well have stabbed the horse with a hot
poker—in that instant Diablo reared, snapped his tether, and
brought all of his wet steaming nine hundred and fifty-eight
pounds squarely down on Robert Jordan's left foot.
The sound of his toes snapping was unmusical and harsh
and the pain that accompanied it so completely demanding of his
attention that he barely noticed the retreating flanks of Diablo as
he lashed off through the undergrowth. Robert Jordan let out a
howl and broke into a string of inspired curses in two languages
and then sat heavily, cradling his foot. The time he'd passed out
having his nose pierced flashed through his mind and then the
tears started up in his eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought.
And then he remembered where he was and who was shooting at
him from across the field and he looked up to see his comrades
already mounted—Ruperto included—and giving him a quick
sad look. "Too bad, gringo," Ruperto said, grinning crazily
211
despite the wound, "but it looks like we're short a horse."
"My toes, my toes!" Robert Jordan cried, trying to stand
and falling back again.
Rat-tat. Rat-tat-tat, sang the rifles behind them.
Ruperto and his big woman spoke to their horses and they
were gone. So too the flat-faced Indians. Only the old man lingered a moment. Just before he lashed his horse and disappeared,
he leaned down in the saddle and gave Robert Jordan a wistful
look. "Leche," he said, abbreviating the curse, "but isn't war a
bitch."
212
Beggars • Noel Conneely
Beggars
• Noel Conneely
In briny pools
old sailors
dredge for cockles;
mud clouds their prayer.
They draw circles
in the sand;
make signs
with crooked fingers.
A cemetary of lost words
falters on dry tongues;
ear after ear drops
into their begging bowl.
213
Galway Sligo Bus • Noel Conneely
Galway Sligo Bus
• Noel Conneely
Now as September darkens
familiar roads unleash old memories,
I thought were filed away.
Towns and villages are tears
on the landscape's face.
My ribcage is too small.
My shrunken heart rebels
against the tyranny of needing.
Clouds mute the moon.
Its scant light
the mere suggestion of folly.
Destinations overtake the desire
to journey unending.
Before I know it, I'm unpacking
intimate items of clothing,
in strange surroundings.
214
Manolo • Nick Barnes
Manolo
• Nick Barnes
eside him, standing on the supports of the fence,
was the boy, his arms crossed like Gustavete’s on
top of the barrera and his chin nestled in his small arms. Sweat
ran down the boy’s face and he would raise his sleeve periodically
to wipe the beads from his brow. Gustavete wore no hat. His
thinning hair left his head bare to the sun but he had moved to
the shaded half of the plaza and although it was hot Gustavete
was not uncomfortable. He looked dully out across the ring.
Manolo’s eyes searched the movements of the bull and the
man. Listening to the groans of the crowd, he lifted his head
from his arms. His focus never strayed from the figures on the
sand.
The boy watched Juanito struggling in the middle of the
ring. He made the best of it and did his work in the shade as
much as he could but Juanito was having an especially hard time
of it.
The bull eyed him from a distance. Juanito was too far
away for him to be sure so he waited, breathing heavily, tired,
bleeding and enraged. Juanito held the cape out in front, shaking
the cloth and pulling at the folds. He would have to get much
closer. At twenty feet, Juanito lifted his head high and straightened his back and began moving in small measured steps toward
the bull. In his hand, he held the cape baton and the wooden
espada, the two crossing in his palm, fingers wrapping around
them in a strong grip, the sword reaching out into the cloth of
the cape as a mast holding up a sail. The red cloth hung loosely
ready for the current to catch in its folds and flow through the
still air. Juanito stepped closer to the bull extending his arm away
from his body.
The bull’s eyes did not waver from the cape. Juanito inched
B
215
forward, eyes on the horns, and still the bull waited.
“Toro!” Juanito shouted and shook the cape.
The bull, staring at the cape, wanted to be sure. The cape
shook again.
“Toro!”
Nothing.
The sounds of several pitos pierced through the crowd.
Others, who did not have whistles made the noise naturally but
they were not as loud or effective. Juanito took a deep breath.
Painfully slow and precise, Juanito shuffled his way toward the
bull.
“Toro, toro, toro!”
This time, the charge came full and Juanito led the bull
through slowly but at a distance. Juanito turned, shifting his feet
and leaning out for another pass and the charge returned, the
bull searching for the man beneath the muleta and then slowing,
tossing his head, lifting the ends of the cape, which fluttered
momentarily. The red waves subsided as the bull staggered
through with nothing to show for his effort and blood and foam
hanging from his mouth, dripped onto the sand, producing a
small pool near his feet as he became still. He stared into the
shade of the ring.
The bull did not turn back to Juanito but faced the crowd,
gazing toward Gustavete and the boy, his ass to the matador.
The crowd groaned and a cushion was tossed onto the sand on
the far side of the ring. Juanito saw it, pretended to ignore it and
clenched his jaw.
“A bad bull for a bad matador,” Gustavete said.
“Do you think?” the boy questioned, lifting his head from
his arms and looking up at the old man.
“Have you been asleep? Can you not see this? Maybe you
should go home to your mother if you cannot understand this,”
he said pointing out into the middle of the arena, but looking at
the boy.
216
“I believe that this is the worst I have seen. They are booing before he has tried to kill. Killing is always the worst for
him,” the boy said.
“We should not have expected more. Maybe they should
cut him open and sell his meat after? It would be a better use of
him though it is likely he would have no good taste.”
“The bull is no good though,” the boy offered.
“Yes, but he would make shit of it anyway.”
“Do you think?”
“Have you not seen? Like I said, you should go home.
You have no taste for this if you cannot see that.”
Gustavete smiled and looked to the boy as he faced out at
the man with the bull. The boy didn’t seem to notice Gustavete’s
smile and adjusted his shirt when he shifted on the fence. Looking closer at the boy’s chest, he could see a hint of red under the
shirt and a bulge lower in the boy’s stomach. He knew immediately. Swelling with affection and pride he knew what the boy
had in mind. Gustavete tapped the wooden barrera three times
with his finger so the boy would not see.
“Yes, I think I might leave. This is too bad to watch,” he
said as he stepped back from the barrera.
He could hear the boy’s shoes scrape the sand below as he
lifted himself onto the fence, rolled over the top and dropped
onto the sand, falling on his knees. The boy rose and tore off
across the ring to the bull while ripping the small cape from
beneath his shirt. His shirt was open part way down revealing his
chest and it whipped in the air as he ran.
Staring into his back, Gustavete moved to the fence,
thought nothing, just watched and waited, fastening his grip onto
the side of the barrera. The crowd rose and shouts echoed into
the ring as the boy raced his way to the bull, which now stood
full in the sun. Appearing from the shadows, those who had not
noticed Manolo before now did and squealed and squeaked,
some delighted others looking down to their feet or up into the
217
sun. But they all, mumbling to themselves, rose to their feet.
Juanito saw the boy coming but there was nothing he could
do and the others could not get to him in time.
“Toro!”
The boy’s voice was small but all listened and heard. The
bull lifted his head slowly, startled but too tired to hurry. He
carefully watched the approaching boy.
Manolo wasted no time as the men with capes climbed
from behind the barrera and came running towards him. It
would have to be fast or not at all. The bull did not watch the
other men approach and surround him or the shouts they
offered for his attention.
Juanito stood behind, seeing the bull’s rear and his testicles
hanging between his legs. He clenched and unclenched his jaw.
He shouted at the boy, “Fuera! Dejalo! Hijo de puta!” Juanito
waved at the boy, motioning him to leave the ring but Manolo
was not watching. They each moved toward the bull, Juanito
much more quickly. Standing directly behind and still shouting,
Juanito pulled his sword from beneath the muleta, raised it high
and slapped the ass of the bull with the broad side. The slap
incited the charge. The bull’s body shook as the weight fell to the
hind legs and then began to move forward. Manolo, unready and
surprised, stumbled and sprawled on all fours then scrambled to
his feet without the cape and wheeled back trying to avoid the
charge. But the bull was on him and they came together awkwardly. Manolo lay across the face of the bull, between the horns
not fighting it, not making a sound.
The bull then swung his head down and to the side as if to
lay the boy softly upon the sand but Manolo held tightly to the
horn where it entered his groin and would not be laid gently
down. Then the bull rose off his feet, testicles swinging, and
tossed his head, sending the boy into the sun.
The pain shot through Gustavete’s feet and climbed his
legs reaching for his groin and then moved up through his gut
218
and into his chest where it stayed as he watched the boy slung
over the massive head and then tossed.
Manolo landed on his stomach, just inside the line of the
shadow, lying uncomfortably with his arm behind him and
twisted. The bull had lost him after the toss or else he would
have been on him, butting him with his head and searching for
him with his horns. Manolo’s right shoulder was buried in the
dirt, his chin to his chest. He could have been crying and no one
would have known. He lay still.
Juanito led the bull officiously back into the sunlight.
Gustavete ran around the ring, behind the barrera, knowing
where the boy would be taken as the colorful group stood over
him. One of the ayudantes gathered the boy in his arms and
rushed him to the wall. Lifted high and clear, Manolo’s unbroken arm hung limp and swung off to his side before Gustavete
snatched him, gathering the loose arm in his grasp and hurrying
towards the infirmary.
Ducking his way into the darkness of the corridor,
Gustavete passed the dogs sitting in the shade, mouths open,
tongues hanging out, ears up, excited by the shouts and the bustle.
He swung into the infirmary, being careful as he stepped
through the door sideways. The doctor looked from the boy to
Gustavete and motioned to the table with a nod of his head. He
placed the boy on the table. His eyes searched the boy for that
familiar stain but refused to move down to the groin.
Manolo’s pants were bright red, alive and moving. The
doctor ordered the nurse to hurry her preparations and he
grabbed the scissors to begin cutting off the pants. The nurse
was a plump unattractive woman but she worked quickly and her
short plump fingers knew their way around the utensils from
practice. She prepared them for the doctor. With the scissors,
he moved slowly up toward the groin. And then ripped the rest
of the pants free from the boy as he finished cutting around the
219
wound, throwing the stained pants to the floor.
Gustavete did not turn away when he saw the blood moving out onto the table. He had a sudden impulse to hold his
hand over it to stop the flow as the doctor inspected the wound.
Noticing his agitation, he asked the nurse with a nod of his head
to lead Gustavete from the room. She came and stood in front
of him, between him and the boy, motioning him back with her
gloved hands. She smelled of the aloe in her hair and her gloves
were still white.
They entered the hallway and she looked him in the face
before she turned to go. The artificial light of the room shone
behind her. Gustavete could not look at her because the light
was too bright so he looked to the floor instead.
“It is up to the doctor now. The doctor and God.”
“I would rather have it be just the doctor,” Gustavete said.
Appearing in the dark hallway, the doctor moved blindly
down the corridor to find Gustavete standing next to a chair.
The doctor approached him and said nothing for a moment and
then the crowd booed and jeered Juanito in the ring. Gustavete
knew that the bull would not die, that Juanito could not finish
him. He could hear the moans after each time with the puntaso.
This was not a good bull. The doctor shook his head.
“It was no good. The bleeding has stopped but I cannot
repair it anymore. It was smashed too badly. I’m sorry. He is
conscious now, though. I have given him the morphine and he
feels nothing but he can talk for a little while. I asked if he
wanted to talk to you and he said no.”
“There is not much time. We have called his mother and
she is on her way but she will not make it. You should go
quickly.”
Manolo lay on his back just the way he had left him, his
head turned from him and a large white sheet covering him up to
his armpits. He could hear the boy sniffle quietly. Gustavete circled the table. He came around to face the boy but he would not
220
meet his gaze. It was apparent he had been crying. He was still
sweating. Manolo turned his head to the other side. The whiteness in the infirmary was blinding.
“Your mother is coming. She will be happy to see you.”
“Tell her I am sorry.” Manolo sniffled.
“Sorry for what?”
“For dying and being a coward.”
“You are no coward.”
“Don’t say that. You are lying. I was scared and you knew
it. Everyone saw it.”
“You are the bravest boy I have ever known. I could not
have done what you did.”
“Really?”
“Really. And you will be great with more practice. Someday, you will be a great matador.”
The bull was finally dead and the crowd booed Juanito.
“You do not need to lie to me. I know how it is. I am not
scared. Honest, I’m not. You are always talking to him so I will
be okay. I know what they mean now about the fear. It is everything out there. For me, it was that way. But you did not tell me
there would be so many men with capes.”
Gustavete smiled and the boy turned back to him.
“Do you know I tried to test and see how brave I could be?
“No.”
“I tried burning cigarettes on my arm to try and not to get
scared of the burn. Look.”
The boy shifted beneath the white sheet, trying to lift his
broken arm. He did not know it was broken. Gustavete reached
out and touched the sheet, feeling his arm beneath it.
“I believe you,” he said.
“I know now it was silly of me. They are very different.”
The crowd cheered as a new bull tore his way into the ring.
“Que bonito!” or “Que Guapa!” the women cheered.
221
Gustavete stayed until his mother came and she cried and
she swore at him. He left them and walked home down the paseo
along the river, with the current. He did not want to watch the
rest of it.
222
The Crocus • Dale Haake
The Crocus
• Dale Haake
A chimney breathes its hazy prayer
Skyward in the winter's gloom;
Stolid bricks, the farm wife's lair,
Chilly fingers pluck the loom.
Fence logs hug still buried meadows
Spring, just a hope, some months away;
A crocus dares the silent snows,
Her husband enters, not much to say.
223
Contributor Notes
Contributor Notes
Pippa Coulter Abston is a practicing pediatrician and poet. She
lives with her husband and two children in Huntsville, Alabama. In writing about her encounters with patients and about
medicine itself, she hopes to bring a richer, more soulful context to the patient-physician interaction.
Michael Amundson is a student at Coe College.
Carl Auerbach is an Associate Professor of Psychology at Yeshiva
University, specializing in the psychology of trauma. He lives
in Brooklyn, New York, where he has a private practice of psychotherapy.
John Azrak is the chairperson of a secondary school English
department in New York. He has poems in Aethlon, Buffalo
Bones, Alkali Flats, CQ, The Comstock Review and Lynx Eyes.
Nick Barnes is a senior at Coe College and wishes certain people
would stop crying on his shoulder.
K. Kvashay-Boyle’s work appears in The Best American Non-Required
Reading, 2004, McSweeneys, Best of McSweeney’s, and Politically
Inspired Fiction. She is a student at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop
T. Coraghessan Boyle is the author of sixteen books of fiction,
including, most recently, After the Plague (2001), Drop City
(2003) and The Inner Circle (2004). He received a Ph.D. degree
in Nineteenth Century British Literature from the University
of Iowa in 1977, his M.F.A. from the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop in 1974, and his B.A. in English and History
from SUNY Potsdam in 1968. His stories have appeared in
most of the major American magazines, including The New
Yorker, Harper's, Esquire, The Atlantic Monthly, Playboy, The Paris
Review, GQ, Antaeus, Granta and McSweeney's, and he has been
the recipient of a number of literary awards. He currently lives
near Santa Barbara with his wife and three children.
Alan Britt is an English Instructor at Towson University and is a
Poet-in-Residence for Maryland State Arts Council. His work
224
Contributor Notes
has been published around the world, including Mexico, Hungary, Japan, Ecuador and Peru.
Stef Carter lives and writes in a box outside of the Cedar Rapids
Public Library.
Noel Conneely is from Dublin, Ireland.
Corey Davis is a junior at Coe College and wishes to someday to
write a novel in sestina form. Her six words will be: gun,
incandescent, erudite, chalkboard, sizzle, and gooseberry.
Sharon Doyle put aside writing in order to raise five children and
teach at two colleges. She recently retired and has begun writing again, hopefully putting to good use the experience of her
life.
Kyle M. Fargen is a Coe College senior originally from the barren
tundra of Wisconsin. He was awarded the 2002 Hunter S.
Thompson Prize for his 2001 publishing of "When I Wake Up,
My Mouth Tastes Like Yesterday's Dinner." Although he cannot yet grow facial hair above his chin, he someday hopes to
cultivate an all-natural, Geraldo-Rivera moustache of his own
so that he may offer free moustache rides to those in need.
Aliza Fones might graduate in May, and thinks that if wishes were
horses, then she wouldn't have to ride your mom.
Arthur Gottlieb is from Tigard, Oregon.
Dale Haake is a lawyer from Rock Island, Illinois and has won several prizes for his poetry and short fiction. He also fluently
speaks three languages.
William Joliff grew up on a farm just north of Magnetic Springs,
Ohio. He is currently chair of the Department of Writing and
Literature at George Fox University. His poems have appeared
in many journals, including Southern Humanities Review, Northwest
Review, West Branch, Passages North, and Appalachian Journal.
Mitchell Metz is a former All-Ivy football player from Brown University who is now a stay-at-home dad and accomplished dilet-
225
Contributor Notes
tante. He serves as the poetry editor for Eclectica, an on-line
publication.
Joe Mills tells everyone that he is in a rock band from California
and is a closet escatologist.
Nathan Nass is tall with straw hair and he is going to Korea next
year where he will be studying at an all women's university.
Liz Nicklos likes to wear very sensible black shoes and swears
upon her Irish Catholic rosary that her provocative story is in
no way autobiographical and she plans to enter the convent of
St. Agatha the Innocent after graduating from Coe.
Alice Obrecht writes theses in her spare time and flips anyone the
bird when they patronize her.
ZZ Packer's stories have appeared in the New Yorker, Harpers, Story
and the Best American Short Stories. She is a recipient of a Whiting Writer's Award and a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writer's
Award. A graduate of Yale, the Iowa Writer's Workshop, and
the Writing Seminar at Johns Hopkins University. Her story,
Geese, reprinted here, is from her first collection of short stories, Drinking Coffee Elsewhere.
Donna Pucciani has a Ph.D. in Humanities from New York University and has been published in journals in the United States
and Britain. She currently serves as Vice-President of the
Poets' Club of Chicago.
Emily Renaud is a junior at Drake University in Des Moines, Iowa
and has some serious attitude.
Judi A. Rypma teaches in the English Department at Western
Michigan University and her poems have appeared most
recently in Controntation, Potomac Review, International Poetry
Review, Flyway, Sanskrit, Ellipsis, and Birmingham Poetry Review.
Glenn Sheldon lives in Toledo, Ohio, where he is an Assistant Professor in the department of Interdisciplinary and Special Programs at the University of Toledo. He is currently compiling
his first full-length manuscript.
226
Contributor Notes
S.K. Sedlacek hopes to someday have David Crosby's child.
Becky Stockel is a third-year English and Writing major at Coe
College. Although she's been writing for years, this is her first
published story.
Jenn Streck is a junior English and Writing major from Kiron,
Iowa.
Virginia Chase Sutton is from Tempe, Arizona and her first book
of poems, Embellishments, was published in February 2003. Her
poems have appeared in Paris Review, Ploughshares, Antioch Review,
Boulevard, Quarterly West, Western Humanities Review and many
other publications. Widely anthologized, she has won first
prize for the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Award, has been the Louis
Untermeyer Scholar at Bread Loaf, and is currently working on
a memoir called Hungry.
David Thornbrugh is a Ring of Fire resident currently rooted in
Seattle with his eyes on Central Europe. Recent publications
include Rattle, Runes, Terminus.
227

Robert Jordan in Nicaragua

Transcription

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