FEBRUARY 2006 EDITION OF HUMDINGER LITERARY E-ZINE
Editor-in-Chief: Chris Goebel
If you were to print out the February 2006 version of Humdinger, it would take 62 pages (with NO advertisements!). Humdinger archives serve readers and writers/poets. The purpose of the archive for readers is for use as a Free Reading publication. The purpose of this archive for writers and poets’ use is as:
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MAINSTREAM FICTION: CLICK HERE
The Rejection By RS Prasanna
My Friend Jinx By Nathan Wade
A journal for Janie.By Suzanne Cosquer
School Daze By Cindy Haynes
The Oyster Queen By Heather Cook-Lindsay
SHORTY By Edward Shaw
COMIC SHORT STORIES: CLICK HERE.
A PREACHER’S LAST SERMON By Ralph Nieves-Bryant
Welcome Back By Jeremy Tuman
Chapter Seven From Quest Cut Out By Thomas E. (Pete) Jordon
The Adventures of Rodney
By Thomas E. Jordon
THE HOUSE THAT SPOKE
By Oscar Cintronmarina
The Bodyworlds Exhibit By Elizabeth Hamilton
AND SHE SLEEPS By Shawn Marie Christenson
Welcome to Dreamstreet By Angel Logan
Collection of Sexy Poems By Bette O’Callaghan
Car By Jon Berahya
Collection of Poems By Rebecca Hirsch
Collection of Poems By Sarah Toler
Silence By Carol Rudy
Iris By Erika Hudson
Sunday Brunch Buffet By Celeste Curcio
IN YOU By Bill White
Romantic Comedy
CLICK HERE TO VISIT THE ROMANTIC COMEDY SECTION.
Confessions of a Southern Hustler:
A Eulogy for Decorum and All Things Sacred
April 2005
BH Shepherd
Making of a Writer
By Tony Robles
Romantic Sonnets
CLICK HERE TO VISIT THE ROMANTIC SONNETS PAGE.
VII: Sonnet: Emerald Rain. (To Melanie M.)
By Kalae S. Anthony
Essaying the Romantic Sonnet (Italian)
Essaying the Romantic Sonnet II (English)
By Lukas Sherman
“Gopi is an idiot,” exclaimed Ramji at the village Tea Shop later that day. Manjunath sat opposite Ramji, who happened to be one more person he had wanted to avoid.
By RS Prasanna
PROLOGUE
One more rejection.
Manjunath switched off the table lamp and tore the letter in his hand. The publishers were prompt nowadays. He crumpled the torn bits in his hand and wondered if they had bothered going through his submissions.
He sighed.
Manjunath’s room was a small affair, most of the space taken up by a huge wooden writing desk he had inherited from his grandfather. As he saw the moonlight streaming in through the huge window facing the desk, he wondered if he would match up to his grandfather’s legacy.
Standing up, he completed the last step in what had now become a regular affair. He eyed the desk’s single drawer and reached to the knob. Its metal felt colder than usual tonight. He pulled at the knob and slid the drawer open. He stuffed the torn bits into the drawer and closed it shut.
When he began writing, a year ago, he had hoped to use the drawer to store his stationery. But it so happened that when he got the first rejection letter for his first short story, he decided, on a whim, to use it to keep track of how many rejection slips he would get before he made it as a writer. He had cleaned out the drawer, removed all other trinkets it held and reverently placed the first rejection letter in it. That was a year ago.
Tonight was his eleventh rejection.
Manjunath retired to bed.
Pulling the darkness around him, he thought—tonight would be one more night. To be passed, sleeplessly endured.
For, tonight had seen one more rejection.
“That’s the mistake!” Gopi coughed.
The next day, Manju and Gopi sat on the parapet wall lining the village temple pond. A gentle breeze skimmed the water’s surface, causing it to ripple.
“You don’t write from your heart Manju, that’s the mistake.” Gopi coughed again and added, “This cigarette is doing me no good!”
Manjunath knew it had been a mistake telling Gopi about his rejection. Now Gopi would launch into a long—
“You see Manju, anybody can write,” Gopi said, making himself comfortable on the wall, “But the one who wins is the one who writes from here—” He pointed to his chest.
Spotting a chance to change topic, Manju said, “You should quit smoking. You know, I am told smoking reduces one’s life by—”
No use. “I know, I know,” said Gopi, brushing the subject aside, “I will quit soon. But that’s not the point, is it? Your writing—” Gopi’s tone became serious. “How many rejections till date?”
Manju had to give in. “Eleven.”
Gopi laughed. “Bah! That’s all?” He looked at Manju. “I know of a guy who got rejected twenty-eight times!”
“Do you? What happened to him?” Manju feigned interest.
“Well, I don’t remember. The last time I saw him he’d had a great harvest.”
“Oh,” Manju sat up, “He got lucky finally?”
“No no, he went back to farming … But what I am trying to say—”
In the distance, a dog barked.
“Gopi is an idiot,” exclaimed Ramji at the village Tea Shop later that day. Manjunath sat opposite Ramji, who happened to be one more person he had wanted to avoid.
“You should not have gone to Gopi in the first place,” continued Ramji. “You should have come to me right here.”
“Sorry Ramji,” said Manju, “Just that I didn’t know you’d be interested in such small matters—”
“What small matters?” he demanded. “I heard you did not sleep the whole of last night, and you say that is not a big thing?”
How fast news spread in this village! Manjunath was amazed.
“You are troubled, and here I am,” said Ramji, “I will find out a solution for you.”
“Thanks Ramji, but it’s alright. I will get over it.”
Ramji was a nice guy, actually. He just wanted to help. Only, in his enthusiasm he sometimes came across as an irritant.
“Now let’s see,” Ramji went on, “What genres have you tried?”
“Pretty much all.”
“Thriller?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm …” Ramji scratched his stubbled chin. “Romance?”
“Yes, Ramji, I’ve tried them all.”
Ramji slurped his tea.
“Mystery?”
“Everything Ramji,” Manju did not bother hiding his irritation. “Crime, suspense, comedy. Now, if you don’t mind,” Manju began to get up, “I was on my way to some important work and—”
“Biography!”
Manjunath stopped. “What?”
“The genre,” said Ramji, “Biography.” He placed his empty glass on the table. “The one genre you have not tried. Don’t you read in the papers? They are the craze nowadays. Rags-to-riches stories especially,” he added. “You should try it Manju. I’m sure it’ll be your jackpot!”
Manjunath knew a lot about Ramji, knew he was a … but nothing had prepared him for what he said next.
“You can write the conventional biography about already famous people, or …” Ramji began, “Or, if you dare to be different …”
Manju was stumped by the rest of his statement.
As Manju made a hurried exit, only the tea shop owner heard a ruffled Ramji call after him –
“Hey it’s just a suggestion. Think about it … If you want, you may start your research interviews tomorrow itself. I will be free in the afternoon.”
“Ramji is a megalomaniac!” said Balu.
Manju grimaced. His brother was the last person he wanted opinions from. What a day! Chock full of unsolicited advice.
Manju and Balu were in the former’s room, and it was night time.
Manju rolled in bed, irritated, pulling the bedcover over him. “Why don’t you go away, Balu?”
“Where will I go anna?” asked Balu. “Mother asked me to speak to you and find out why you did not eat properly today.”
“Just tell her a loser deserves no food.” Manju disappeared into the warmth of his bedcover. “And switch off the light when you leave.”
“But at least tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Good night, Balu.”
Balu felt a tinge of sympathy for his elder brother. He had never seen Manju anna like this before. He cut a sorry figure now—bunched like a beaten kitten, hiding in the darkness of the bedcover.
“Can we speak, anna?”
The bundle did not stir.
Sighing, Balu turned to leave. “I just thought I could help, that’s all.”
The bundle moved. “Wait,” he heard Manju saying. “Sit down”
Balu reached to pull up a chair and sat down.
“I’m sorry Balu, I’m irate,” said Manju, sitting up. “I hate this … this whole—Have you ever felt like a loser, Balu?” he asked suddenly.
“Well,” considered Balu, “I have lost a lot of times …”
“No! That’s different. You lose, you win—that’s different. This is something else,” said Manju. “Being a loser—Know what that means?”
Balu stared back, blank.
“Good,” said Manju. “You’re still a kid. You wouldn’t know. I am just beginning to.” He shifted in his bed. “So please don’t mind me being a jerk for the next few days.”
Balu looked at his brother. “That’s alright.”
Manju nodded a silent thanks and was about to lie down when—
“But surely there’s a way out.”
Manju stopped midway. He looked up at Balu.
“I went through your writings anna,” said Balu. He knew this was going to be difficult to say. “And I feel … there is something …” Balu stopped.
“What is it?”
“I feel,” Balu took a deep breath and straightened up, “I feel there is something lacking in your—”
Manju arched his eyebrow.
“I mean … now wait— I’m sorry for sneaking and reading your stories … but— that’s not the point!”
Manju sat up. “My stories. What about them?”
“I feel your writings are … well … almost there— you know, I mean, just about.”
There, Balu had said it.
Manju was amazed. First, the audacity of this kid to review his works. Then of course, the act of sneaking.
“What do you mean ‘almost there’?” Manju asked, stung.
“I mean, everything’s there, but still—” Balu wriggled in his chair, “Something’s missing anna. The words are beautiful, the theme, touching; why, sometimes in some places, it is downright stunning!”
“Cut the cushioning,” Manju wanted to say, but curbed himself.
“What is lacking, though,” continued Balu, “Is a … a certain feel … a power … a fire … know what I mean?”
Manju waited.
“A divine touch. Yes, that’s it!” Balu straightened in his chair, and cleared his throat. “Brother, what you need is Inspiration!”
Nine days later, Manju sat at his writing desk, smiling. He wondered if it indeed was just nine days later.
So much had changed! It seemed ages ago, that night when Balu had spoken to him about Inspiration. Manju smiled again and got back to the task at hand.
To Balu, standing at the door to Manju’s room, watching his brother churning out words at frenetic pace, it did not surprise. No miracle, his brother’s transformation from an angry, sulking failure to this now—a writer in full form. Balu knew this was just the playing out of an age old truth.
But we are jumping. Let’s start at the beginning.
The night, Balu spoke to his brother about the lack of a “divine touch” in his works; Manju had listened politely to his brother—with great effort, one must add. And Balu had known that. That’s alright, he had said to himself as he left his brother to the comfort of sleep, at least he had told his brother what he had wanted to.
And that was that.
Manju hibernated deeper, Balu went back to his study routine, and mother swallowed her pain, deciding to cook smaller portions from then on. Gloom threatened to take over the house slowly. Manju locked himself in his room the whole of the next day and came out only to drink water.
Mother understood though, why Manju took the rejections so hard. She knew her son was anyway too soft, but to top it, he had seen only rejections for a whole year. In addition, he constantly feared he would disappoint his grandfather’s legacy.
As if that were not enough, her husband’s threat this morning.
“Meenakshi, I have had enough of this! Ever since that letter came a week ago, your son is nowhere to be found. If he comes with me to the fields as before—”
“He can bring in a hundred rupees more? You’ve harped on that often enough!” Meenakshi couldn’t help the frustration in her tone.
“Come on Meenakshi, you know that’s not the reason I want him on the field. The guy needs to learn the lessons of labor. And he just can’t sit in his room crying over his fate! I give him one more day,” he had said, “If he does not get out of that room and walk with me to the fields tomorrow, I will ensure that his writing desk is sold off at the next village fair.” Saying thus, he had walked off in a huff, leaving Meenakshi perturbed.
She knew her husband had a point. But what did he mean by threatening to sell the writing desk? Did he not know what it represented … Meenakshi was torn between good sense and an irrational need to protect her son from his father’s harshness—or was it reality’s harshness? God, she had thought, it was tough being the mother of a gifted child!
Her reverie was interrupted by Manju storming out of his room. She opened her mouth to say something when her son—not even bothering to look at her—walked toward the outer door, coldly stating, “Won’t come for lunch.”
“But where are you going?” she wanted to ask. Her son was quick on his feet. Before she could get to the door, his long legs—and dark anger—had taken him past the bend in the road.
Meenakshi sighed. God! It was tough being a mother!
Inspiration, indeed. The chit of a fellow! Manjunath thought as he turned the street corner near his house. The whole world out to advise me on my work, but nobody to read it. And the past week, as if the rejection were not enough, everyone advising me on the nuances of writing. Will show these idiots one day.
And right from that night when Balu told me that my writing was “almost there”… damn it, I had not penned a word without doubting its worth a hundred times!
And what inspiration that kid spoke about? Of all things—sickens me to even think of it. The vulgar idea!
I lack the fire it seems, and how do I gain it? The adolescent idiot! Reads Keats as part of his lame curriculum, thinks he knows literature!
Surely if Manju, by some “divine touch” had foreseen what was to happen just a few steps later—just a minute away—he would not have wasted words.
Manju need not have fretted and fumed so much, for there was a certain truth in the advice his brother Balu had given him almost a week ago. Yes, it did seem preposterous the suggestion he had put forward, but still it did not merit this fury from Manju.
After all, what had Balu said? “The fire that your work lacks, brother, can be ignited.” Of course, being no great writer like his brother, Balu had worded the following quite crudely— “Fall in love!” He had put it that bluntly.
“What?” Manju had shrieked, revolted by the sheer stupidity.
“Fall in love,” Balu had asserted.
He had seemed quite sane, nothing wrong externally. “I am not a man of words, like you,” he had continued, giving a dramatic pause there—though Manju wondered what drama lay in such an obvious truth—“But, I am a man of thought!”
“You see anna, when my fellow mates read Keats, and the teacher analyses Romeo and Juliet, what all of them see are the words—what I see is the trigger for those words. Follow me?”
Manjunath remembered having given a blank expression, but apparently Balu had thought this a positive response, for he had cleared his throat and continued with greater vigor—“I see the inspiring spark behind the process. The best works of the great writers have this certain divine touch, which lifts them above the plane of mere words. And the most famous source of this touch—the dawn of romance!”
Balu had paused for effect, and then continued in near reverence, “Brother, here I place in front of you my suggestion: Fall in love. Let the mysterious powers of a girl’s eyes locked to yours, permeate you—and in that pull, let divinity flood your works! Fall in love brother, at the earliest, then see if any publisher refuses your work—no one would curtail the fire in your words, ‘Too hot to handle, sir’, they would say, ‘Right to the press send it!’”
Speech finished, Balu had waited with bated breath. Manju had stared back silently for some time, and then had proceeded to enquire politely if that were all his brother had to say, or if there was more. Very politely.
Mumbling “Hormones, hormones,” Manju had then pulled the bedcover over him and laid down, leaving a crushed Balu wondering what had gone wrong. As Balu left, disappointed, he did not hear Manju mumbling from under the bedcover: “Teenage … hormones … Impertinent little chit!”
Manju had hardly slept that whole night, a week ago. Nightmares had haunted him. Gopi gifting him a Tractor, Ramji torturing him with a whip, and Balu … escorting him to a … to a … and the girls! How gaudy and saucy they all looked. Such a place, he had been told, existed in Delhi. And in the dream—the girls running after a frightened Manju, arms extended!
I hate you Balu, I hate you! Manju clenched his teeth in fury, and increased his pace, though he knew not where he wanted to go.
Nor did he know what was to happen just a second later. If he had, he would not have had to eat those words.
It is not wrongly said that romance strikes when least expected.
Meenakshi placed her hand on the hard surface of the writing desk. What warmth. As if her father had left behind a bit of his soul in this table! Good that Manju had decided to take a walk. It’s been such a while since I entered his room. If he were here, he wouldn’t have allowed me to touch my own father’s desk!
How much her father had loved Manju! When father died, Manju became probably the youngest inheritor in town. That day, through teary eyes as Meenakshi saw her five year old son laughing and playing with the garlands placed over his dead grandfather, she wondered if some day her son would come to see the value of his inheritance.
She needn’t have worried. As Manju neared teenage years, he spent most of his time at the desk. The young Manju especially liked to hear the legendary tale of his grandfather’s last performance. How his grandfather had single handedly held sway over an audience for over three hours without a break. The Theru-koothu performance had drawn an unprecedented crowd. The young Manju would always cry when Meenakshi came to the end of the story—how the veteran had finished the recital. After taking the bow to a standing ovation, he had waited for the curtain to close fully, and only then had he allowed himself to collapse on stage. Never to rise again.
In his will, he had left behind his favorite desk to his dear grandson.
Truly this desk hid in it her father’s soul, Meenakshi thought as she lovingly caressed the knob of its drawer. Thankfully, it had rubbed off on her son!
She smiled weakly and was about to take her hand to wipe off her tears when the knob she held turned, and the drawer fell open.
Do angels walk?
If Manju had written such a line for one of his characters, he would have been ashamed of coming up with a cheeky cliché.
Yet, true it was that Manju had said precisely this to himself when he saw the girl for the first time.
And lo and behold, when he met her eyes—they were not blue or brown; curse those writers who had robbed black of its beauty—when he met her eyes, a pleasant sedative shot into him!
A lot of things have been said about love at first sight. Each of them failing to hint at what it truly felt like. Why, that was actually one of the reasons—though Manju would never admit it—he would always cut away whenever he came to a point in his writing where it required that he describe the feelings of a person in love.
What can one say, indeed, in front of the divine mysteries of it! That a girl should cross his path precisely at that moment; that she should lock eyes with him at that exact second; that … a miracle, indeed!
To top it, he did not know who she was, where she came from, or whether even she was true! “If this were a dream,” the poet in him awakened, “Fill my eyes with darkness; I choose sleep over truth!”
And there it had started.
My Friend Jinx
By Nathan Wade
I want to die. I should have died with Jinx. It will come soon enough. I keep thinking about Jinx and what he said to me. I should have listened. When he threw himself at the soldier, daring him to shoot, I thought it would never work. At first, it didn’t seem like it would, but when Ol’ Jinx heaped that mud in his face, bang! It happened so quickly. I was jealous. Jinx stared at me with a smile. I wasn’t jealous at the time, but how jealous of him I am now. I wish I would have joined him. I’ve been through so much worse since then. But my time will soon come.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been awake, but it’s hard to tell when you lose consciousness. A bowl of water was slid under the door so it must be midday. It smells like piss and tastes like piss. But when you’re in a state like mine you like it, you savor it. Anything to wash the taste of cold iron out of your mouth. I thought the last time was it for me. I lasted longer than the others and finally when my eyelids shut, I thought it was over. Fuck! Shit! Why did I have to wake up? Why did I have to wake up to this cold, stone floor, this trembling hunger? These blood stained walls.
The rats are pestering me more; maybe they can smell death on me. Oh, death—how good that sounds. Ol’ Jinx saved himself from all this. How smart he was; I should have listened. All that blood from such a tiny, little hole. Ol’ Jinx was smiling at me. He was so happy. Even when they dragged him away, he was still smiling. But it doesn’t matter now; it will soon be over.
I wonder how long I’ve been here. How long have I heard the screams down the hall. Oh ... how long I have screamed until they took my tongue and I could scream no more. If I had my tongue, I would tell Jinx he was right and I should have listened to you, ol’ boy. I should have listened. The soldiers laughed at him, but they didn’t see his smile. They didn’t realize Ol’ Jinx got the better of them.
I still remember that day. Just an ordinary day like any other. I heard the reports on the radio and I was staring out my window, waiting. A jeep turned the corner and then I saw him. I didn’t expect to see him, but as soon as I did, I knew all was lost. He wasn’t as popular back then as he is now. I watched as he directed his soldiers to pull the people out of their homes. All I could do was wait, wait until they got to my house.
Oh, what am I thinking! I should have never waited! I should have ended it then. And now here I am again waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting! I’ve done nothing but wait and Ol’ Jinx told me. He told me, oh why didn’t I listen? Anything would have been better than this, anything. Damn these chains, damn these walls! Damn me. Damn me to hell! If I could I would yell kill me. Kill me! But it’s nothing they haven’t heard before. Maybe that’s why they cut my vocal chords and fed my tongue to the dogs. Maybe that’s why they keep me alive. I just want to die; I just want to die! But my time is coming. It must be coming. I’m the weakest I’ve ever been. Down the hall, the screaming has stopped. How I envy those screams. At one time, I could scream like that. But they must be done. Then maybe they will come to my door again. Just like when they came to the door of my house.
I didn’t know Jinx then. I only met him when we were standing in line. We had been walking for days. I know a way out, he said. How, I asked. Watch this. And I watched. How I envy him now. I should have done the same. It would have been so easy. Jinx, I should have listened. You knew, you knew. And now I know, but it’s too late. It’s too late for me; all I can do is wait. I hope they come to me next. I hope they … wait. I can hear them. They’re just outside my door. It must be my turn, it must! And this time, I’m going to die; this time I will. It will be over soon. Yes. They’re unlocking my door. It will be over soon.
© Copyright 2005, Nathan Wade
Did she wear a lot of make up? Was she confident talking to adults? Did she use chat rooms?
A journal for Janie.
By Suzanne Cosquer
Thursday 14th July
Been back at school almost a month now, but I guess I should use up the space. Spent the first half of summer with Mom, second half getting high on Carter’s sweat (cold tea with a dash of vinegar), and the steaming tar-like substance some Mexicanos were using to resurface the running track. They were cool with us, especially when pigeon man positioned himself at the far end of the park bench in his grey flannel shorts and began pecking away at one of Alvin’s “buy this, get one free tomorrow,” zoom popsicles.
“Theess men, he theenk is race today?”
“No, he just likes ogling fourteen-year-old boys rollerblading ‘round a track in lycra shorts,” Carter informs them, pulling his crumpled T-shirt over his head. I don’t think the Mexicanos understood though, because they just wiped their hands on their handkerchiefs and stood squinting at one another, as if waiting for someone to translate.
I, CONNER DAVIES, WILL BEAT CARTER’S RECORD of 1 MIN 4 SECONDS BEFORE THE CLOCKS GO BACK.
I have to. I’ve got the price of a new pair of blades riding on it. That and getting Janey Porter to talk to me (another fifty bucks). I only said yes, because if I win, I’m one step closer to inviting her to the Christmas dance. If I lose, I could always ask Alvin to give me a job. Simon reckons if you can prove to a girl you’re faster, stronger, or funnier than another guy, then height doesn’t come into it. What would he know?
Dad has gone with Helen on another “erase further traces of Mom from the house” expedition. Helen now wants a fountain centerpiece over the new interlock as well as the hallway floor replaced with fake marble. As he gave one last lingering look at the scratches barely visible on the hardwood between us, Dad held up his hand, traffic cop-like to me.
“And don’t go bombarding me with the new rollerblades versus the cost of Helen’s spa visits speech as soon as I come in the door, okay, Conner?”
I can hear Simon shooting baskets on the driveway. Bounce bounce, bang ping, ricochet, garage door, metal frame, tarmac. Repeat seventy times. He’s whistling, “We are the Champions,” that Dad’s been playing to death in the car recently. Helen says music connects us all. I don’t know about that. When I pointed out Simon to Carter in the CD store the other day, Carter laughed so hard his voice went back up an octave.
“That’s your new brother? Jeez, Conner, your Dad must be really fucked up.”
I think Simon heard, because when I was lying in bed that night, he came in and sat on my chest, dug two fingernails hard into my cheeks, then left without saying a word.
School stop press:
Janey Porter has been moved!
I can now smell her strawberry mango hair gel AND steal glimpses of her buttocks through the hole in the chair (when Johnno and Carter’s fat heads are turned toward the whiteboard, of course). I think Mr. Whittaker knows. Whenever I slouch forward, cupping my hand over my chin he says, “I hope we’re concentrating at the back,” which must be code for: “If I carry on much longer everyone, even Janey will notice and then it’ll be me branded as the class freak instead of Jeremiah ‘corpse eyes’ Baker.” I can’t help it. It’s her hair (burgundy streak this week). Like the flyaway bits have been airbrushed out. Her teeth look like a pearl that’s been sculpted to fit her mouth. I don’t like the way she dresses so much. As if someone’s cut up her clothes and hurriedly stuck them back on to her so that her less attractive parts have no choice but to seep out. But get this. Mr. Whittaker is putting on a Spring production of “Oliver” and wants us all to audition. I fancy myself as Bill Sykes, although that’s more suited to Johnno, as he’s big built and can’t sing a note. I could always practice my blades on the weekend. If Janey gets to be Nancy, though (I somehow see her in the part), I’d rather be Fagin. That way I win the bet, plus we get to rescue the kids.
Dropped by Alvin’s on the way home. I swear Lena is stalking me. She looked up from the Celebrity Living she was pretending to read.
“Oh, hi Conner,” she says all innocent, “you going to the audition tomorrow?”
She couldn’t have said it louder if she wanted to. I tried giving a cool flick of my bangs, but of course, Alvin gets wind of it.
“You putting on a show at dee school?”
“Yeh. Oliver,” I mutter, catching the smell of antibacterial soap on Alvin’s hands (the one that Mum used to keep by the sink). He pulls my visa down over my face. Then he does that wheezy laugh and shakes his head, as if he’s just heard something shocking.
“Aah, dee youth,” he says, “allweez wantin’ t’ try on somebody else’s hat.”
“Whatever,” I reply, slapping Dad’s crumpled note on the counter. Alvin reaches up for a packet of a Menthol Lites.
“She still breeding in the weed den?”
I notice Lena’s cocking her head to one side, frowning hard. “Yeh,” I say, for some reason louder and in her direction, “Dad says it makes her less anxious.”
Alvin swivels on his stool and winks.
“Well d’ez is wurz’ t’ings we can die of, I suporz,” he says handing me the packet. Then he leans forward and beckons me over the counter. “Do you t’ink she will ever buy one of d’em d’ere magazines?”
I shake my head, “Not a chance. Hey, Lena.”
She gasps, shoves the magazine in the rack and turns toward me.
“You taking the beaver path?”
She nods.
“I’ll come with you.”
As we are coming out of the shop, I see him at the bus stop over the other side of the road, pretending not to watch us, his long neck jutting out from his gray overcoat. His greasy hair is scraped up on both sides and his eyes seem to have slipped even further down his chinless face. As we pass him, he slides his hands in his pockets and jerks his head up, as if he’s sniffing us.
“Who’s that?” Lena asks.
“Pigeon man,” I tell her.
Told everyone about the auditions over dinner.
“Consider yourself, a girl,” Simon sang through mouthfuls of Dr Pepper and another one of Helen’s tofu + something yellow + rice efforts.
“Well, I hope it’s just a small part,” Helen says, lighting up and pushing her half finished portion aside.
“It’s okay,” I assure her, “my workload isn’t heavy this term.”
Next thing, she’s glancing at Dad, then me, then at Dad again who suddenly scrapes his chair back and thunders across the soon to be hacked up hallway. He hasn’t even reached the steps to the basement before we all hear him yell:
“I CAN PICK HIM UP HELEN FOR CHRISSAKE.”
Fri. Oct. 21st
Janey didn’t go home last night. She told Annika after cheerleading practice she was going to meet some new friend for a coffee, then she’d walk home after. Well, she still hasn’t got back. I know all this ‘cos the cops came into the gym just as I was about to launch into the chorus of “Got to pick a pocket or two.” We’re standing on the stage in our homemade neckerchiefs and rolled up trouser bottoms whilst the officer with the chunkiest keys on his belt points to us randomly and asks a question about Janey. Did she wear a lot of make up? Was she confident talking to adults? Did she use chat rooms? He tells us they might be making house calls. I have that feeling in the balls of my feet like I’m standing on the edge of a window ledge. I pretend to wipe my nose and cup a whisper to Johnno they won’t come to his house as the bummy smell his neighbour complained about last year is still on record.
“Well, your crazy Dad had better not refuse to let them in this time,” he hisses back. I feel another pumping. This time in my cheeks. The officer is saying something about the first twenty hours being crucial. I can see Lena and some of the others shifting their weight on their feet. Why won’t they let us sit down? In a way, I want them to come to the house. Perhaps Annika told them something. About how Janey really does want to go with me, but doesn’t want anyone else to know. I understand that. I know it’s important for the guy to stand taller than the girl. Dad says he was pint-sized too, right up until college. Perhaps if we went to the movies. That way we would be sitting down and in the dark.
When Mr. Whittaker was seeing the cops out Carter began singing his audition piece,
“Janey’s gone with some old perv. . .
Gone to suck a dicky or two . . .
Next thing, Mr. Whittaker is running toward the stage, leaps up and grabs Carter by the shoulders. Then he shoves him into the wings like some damaged prop. I’ve never seen Carter squeeze his eyes so tight. Wisps of Mr. Whittaker’s hair fly up, then fall flat again. He has his fist clenched behind his back and he’s glaring tight lipped at Carter who now looks like he’s about to throw up. Then Mr. Whittaker takes a step back and crosses his arms. His fingertips are making shiny indentations in his leather elbow pouches. Someone is hammering out the first bar of Beethoven’s Fifth somewhere behind fireproof doors and I can taste sawdust and puke in my throat.
“The first rule of theatre as demonstrated by Carter,” Mr. Whittaker’s voice is unusually low and raspy. “Projection, projection, projection. Pity your foul mouth yet again found a way to soil your own talents boy. Now get out of my sight.”
After that, Mr. Whittaker made us all sing the first verse of “Where is love?” I was glad when I saw Johnno at the back screwing his face up and putting an invisible megaphone to his ear. I don’t want Carter putting in more practice time on the track than me. Mr. Whittaker starts waving around an imaginary baton at the back of the gym.
“Good, Conner,” he bellows out in front of everybody, “one more time.”
Rollerbladed all the way to the running track, then didn’t feel like practicing. Instead, I sat on pigeon man’s pew and remembered the gym session last semester, when Janey was waiting her turn in the long jump queue. She was dressed in pink toweling shorts. At first, I thought she was naked from the waist up, but when I began hunting out her nipples, I realized they were underneath a flesh-colored Lycra top. It was then I got that lurch in my groin that I get when Dad drives too fast over a hump in the road. She was chewing black gum. From a distance, it looked like someone had a drilled a hole in her face. Every time she blew a bubble, she would glance down the line, then roll her eyes into the back of her head when someone landed in the sand. I never saw her jump as the bell went for recess. A few weeks back during free study, she looked up as I passed her terminal. She didn’t have to. There was no one else in the room. I was about to say Hi, but she just clicked on her mouse and glanced past me toward the door. Seconds later, she was gone.
When I got home, Dad was smoking one of Helen’s Menthol Lites on the driveway. I thought about telling him about Janey. I didn’t have to. He’d just seen her photo on the TV.
Mon 24th Oct
Everyone is talking about Janey, Janey, Janey. Like she’s landed a part in Degrassi. They’ve put up posters of her, on the supermarket door, the mailbox, even Alvin has one. Did you see this girl? Call this hotline. It’s a nasty photo, too. Like she was drugged up at some party. She doesn’t look like that at all. The girls keep being excused because they can’t stop bursting into tears and the boys are all strutting around, CSI like, offering up their theories. Like Carter.
“Already kicked the bucket,’ he says, leaning backwards as far out of the classroom window as possible. “Age, statistics.”
Johnno thinks she’s run away to California, but only because he tried to make out with her at the end of the school dance and she blew him off saying, “Like, who are you, a surfer?”
Then we all file into the gym and suffer some woman police officer droning on about not taking lifts with strangers. Duh! While she was doing the role play, I looked over at Mr. Whittaker. He was the only teacher not watching the re-enactment. He had his hand covering his goatee and was staring over our heads toward the mural in such horror you’d think someone had suddenly taken a knife and started slashing it. I thought I might go tell him afterwards to count me out of the auditions, but after the bell went, he just threw on his Parker and headed out toward the parking lot.
Stop press:
Pigeon man enters Alvin’s.
He had his scarf pulled right up covering his face. I’m sitting on the stool wondering whether I should offer to sweep out back. Lena (who accosted me in the foyer and suggested we walk home together) is comparing the labels on two different brands of herbal lozenges. He hovers up to the counter and stares right at me. I indicate with my thumb Alvin will be back in a sec. He looks down at the chocolate bars and grabs four of the same brand. Alvin comes back and stops dead when he sees him. He takes Pigeon man’s money and shoves it in the till, slams the tray shut. Then Pigeon man says,
“Fifty.”
“What?’ Alvin answers.
“I need fifty cents back.”
Alvin slaps open the till again and holds up the two coins and drops them into Pigeon man’s hand. He says, “Thank you, kind sir.”
When he’s gone, I burst out laughing.
“Thank you kind sir,” I chirp, jutting my chin out and pecking at the air. Lena smiles, but Alvin just watches pigeon man through narrow eyes until he’s crossed the road.
“Go home now, Conner,” he says, as if he’s just caught me shoving candy into my pocket, “Just go on home.”
Helen’s friend Sylvia is in the kitchen. I can hear a cork being prised out of the neck of a bottle, liquid pouring and the odour of mint mixed with sulphur creeps around my half closed door.
“But they’re saying now there is a drugs connection.”
“Well why else would she get into a car with an older man?”
“Well it was only someone matching her description.”
“And there’s me happily jogging every night down the beaver path.”
I lie on my bed and imagine their heads pressed so closely together their skulls explode and blood spurts out the top like a fondue fountain.
Weds 26th
They’ve got volunteers with dogs combing the corn field. Simon saw Daryl “Steroids” Porter openly weeping during the TV plea for witnesses.
“Whatever you’ve done, please come home, Baby Jane,” was all he said before they cut to a still of the school. No one is handing in any assignments. I’ve got that stomach doing a double flip feeling almost all the time now. Carter’s betting she’s in a suitcase at the bottom of the stony swamp (50-1) and Johnno reckons she’s in a shallow wooded area near the military headquarters, decapitated (40-1). As I slide off the desk, Johnno looks up.
“Where you going?”
“For a walk,” I say.
I empty what’s left of my lunch into the toilet bowl. When I come out, Lena has her nose in some textbook in her usual place next to the staff bulletin board. I don’t know why, but I slump down next to her.
“Gosh, Conner, you look awful,” she says.
I sniff up the rest of the phlegm that keeps escaping from my nose. Her pimple-free face is inches from mine. It feels suddenly comforting, her milky white green eyes blinking back at me through immaculately polished glasses.
“Why isn’t Mr. Whittaker here?”
She shakes her head softly as I clutch at my stomach. Suddenly, a girl from the year above us runs past, holding a rolled up newspaper close to her chest.
“NOBODY IS TELLING US ANYTHING,” she screams out to the empty reception area. I look at Lena.
“We’d better get to registration,” she says.
I nod in agreement, but neither of us moves.
Dad didn’t go with Helen to Bridge Club tonight.
“Course not,” says Simon flicking the channels for more shots of wooded areas, “Got to keep an eye on you hasn’t he?”
The news comes on, then suddenly the screen turns black. Behind us out of the darkness, I hear Dad’s voice.
“Conner? Do you want to call your Mother?”
I imagine his slender fingers pressing softly into the tops of my arms, then turn and nod to the shadowy figure that I do.
Sun 7th November.
I have left the preceding pages blank. Out of respect. Besides, I have all the clippings from the day after they found her. I heard Johnno and Carter called it quits (they were both half right). They’ve constructed some kind of shrine outside the school gates. All the smokers congregate there now instead of on the running track. We’ve had assembly every day. The priest comes in and talks about forgiveness. Everyone in our class is going to the funeral except me, (Dad said I can go visit Mom). The marble flooring has been put on hold and Alvin is doing a packet on bouquets. Pigeon man has vanished. “And no bad t’ing,” Alvin says. Mr. Whittaker came back today. I hung around after last recess. His briefcase was lying open on his desk. You couldn’t miss it. One of those five by eight dead girl High School photos. She had a brace like Janey’s and was about my age. He gave me one of his three second warning looks, then he pulled it out and handed it to me.
“My daughter,’ he says, “lives in New Zealand with her mother. I’ve spent most of the week sitting in front of my neighbour’s webcam. This Janey business. It was hard to see that empty desk.”
I feel my face screwing up, as if I’m walking against a snowstorm. That popping beneath my rib cage starting up. And suddenly, I’m back in my bedroom hearing the sound of a diesel engine outside and thinking to myself, As long as I can still hear the taxi, there’s a chance she’ll stay. Mom’s always changing her mind. Then it gets louder and I hear the car door slam and it’s reversing and I’m jutting out my bottom lip like a two year old, clutching at my belly that seems to be pushing something out. I let out a whimper and I feel ugly, so ugly. I can’t stop the phlegm. I feel Mr. Whittaker take the photo from me, his Hush Pup