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 Puppies squeaking as he gets up.
“I’m going to shut the door, Conner,” I hear him say.
Later, when I’m helping him carry his files to his car in the dark, I tell him about Helen and her best friend in tears at the kitchen table, drinking sherry and hugging each other.
“And how did you feel about that, Conner?”
“I wanted to punch them,” I tell him.
As I place the files on the back seat, Mr. Whittaker ducks into the front and pulls out what looks like a giant leather photo album.
“I thought it might be nice to keep a journal during the rehearsals,” he says, “ you know, photos, costume designs, progress reports, that sort of thing.”
“I can do it,” I say, “I like keeping journals.”
Mr. Whittaker inspects the spine like it’s a library book. “I thought perhaps we could dedicate it to Janie,” he says, “put it on display on information nights, you know, so that no one forgets.”
“A journal for Janie,” I say.
Mr. Whittaker cocks his head in approval and I notice that without his beard, he’s not much older than Dad.
Walked Lena home again. It gets dark early now. She asked me if I’d like to go to the movies sometime. I wish I hadn’t just shrugged and said whatever.
“If we go in the evening, no one will see us,” she said.
Told Dad about getting the lead role in the Spring production.
“Are you sure you gonna be okay with all of this Conner?” He flicks off all the lights as we head slowly up the stairs.
“Oh yeah,” I nod. “Mr. Whittaker says he’s gonna make sure I’m be the coolest Oliver Twist ever.”
Later on, he comes in, winds the hands back an hour on my alarm clock, then slips five notes underneath it.
“It’s okay,” I say, “I’m not so into the rollerblade thing anymore.”
“So go to the movies then,” he says, spotting the pen that’s spilling over my covers and replacing the cap before dropping it into my giant mug, “Just give me back the receipt, you know, for Helen.”
“For Helen,” I drone and for some reason that makes him smile. Then he gathers up my curly bangs in his fingers and piles them on the wrong side of my parting. And I lie there not moving, breathing in his cologne, his sugary coffee breath, long after he’s gone downstairs.
Stop press:
Simon has just barged into my room asking me if I want to go to his basketball tournament next Saturday afternoon.
“No thanks,” I told him, then for some reason because his face fell, I felt I ought to let him in on my secret. I think I can trust him now not to tell anyone.
“Another time,” I said, “I’m taking my girlfriend to the movies.”
He flutters his eyelids, clutches at his chest and pirouettes out the door in his slippers singing falsetto fashion,“Wheeeeeeeere is love? Does it fall from skies above?”
And I find myself laughing, really laughing, for the first time in ages.
© Copyright 2005, Suzanne Cosquer
Coach Bigbully seemed to grin an evil grin at me when he said, “What am I—flypaper for freaks?”
School Daze
By Cindy Haynes
Dear Josh,
I really miss you. It seems that this camp is not all that I thought it would be. All I needed was a little rest from your rude, controlling ways. So when that Mr. Sunshine came to the house and said your Mother and I’d won this three week camp vacation, we jumped on the band wagon a little too quickly. He seemed a very nice fellow in his granny glasses and with his complimenting us on having survived parenthood until you reached 13. I haven’t even seen Mr. S. here since we arrived at Lake Snoresomemore. We have a staff of three who cook, teach school and supervise recreation.
I didn’t understand that this was going to be like school. But it is. Our first homework assignment was to do a circle the word puzzle. You know, the ones where there are five gazillion letters and you have to find the hidden words. You can circle up, down, sideways, diagonally and backward. But the one we had, had the added feature of skipping every other letter to find the words. The words we were seeking were the Dolch list of the most boring common words in the world. For instance, I found THEIR across like this: TgHmEoIvR. Only the THEIR wasn’t in capital letters. I just did that to show you how it was hidden every other letter. It took me four hours to finish as there were three hundred hidden boring words on a grid of 120 letters by 120 letters or 14,400 letters total. And to fit them on an 8 1/2” by 11” paper, Crukshank, our English teacher, printed them in a size 9 font. You know how my eyesight isn’t so good but my memory is pretty keen. So after awhile, I sort of leaned over to scratch my ankle a lot and memorized the location of about six circled words at a time from Mr. Brown’s paper. He has the bunk next to mine and he was grounded to his bunk for the whole night for using a swear when he first took a look at this handout. I could hear Candy Simpson’s Mom, Tiny, crying softly by 10 PM. That’s because lights go out firmly at 10:30 and she wasn’t finished with the assignment. She and Paula Jacobs had miscalculated how long it would take and had joined a kick the can game until 8 PM. I don’t know where their common sense was. We’d been warned that we’d get the 300 by 300 word grid tomorrow in a size 7 font if we didn’t finish this one tonight.
Tonight for dinner, we ate barely cooked, tough, squeaky asparagus, brussel sprouts and celery. I’m sorry for the times that you were forced to stay at the table until your dinner was finished. I’m sorry I yelled at you for trying to feed Brownie the spinach you hated. How is Brownie? I miss him rubbing his hairy body against my laundered pants. I would gladly pick all of his blond hairs off of my pant legs on my way to work and not even moan once.
I love you.
Dad
Dear Josh,
I am in my bunk for the whole week after dinner. I lost it when Crukshank handed me the 90,000 letter word search with 1000 people’s names to find. I said as how there must be some mistake. I put my word search in the “in basket” when I arrived at class. Crukshank said I must have lost it and just THOUGHT I put it in the box. He said as how our lockers and book bags tend to eat our homework. He rolled his eyes when he said it and spoke loud enough for the rest of the parents to hear. I guess I said more than one four-letter word. I notice that Tiny is out playing King on the Mountain on the camp raft. I wonder how she managed to finish last night’s word search? I do suspect that she stole mine out of the box, erased my name and put her name on the top of the paper. I remember when you had five outstanding Social Studies assignments at mid-term when the teachers send home those little white envelopes if you have a failing grade. We always got several in the mailbox about your work and my stomach always did flip-flops. I will never show you another one or demand to know WHY you got it. Survival is the key Joshua. Survival.
I love you and miss you.
Dad
Dear Josh,
I am grossly overweight as you know. I have never said these words to you. But we all know it. I think that as a family we are relatively kind to each other on these planes. The ones that have to do with “four eyes,” overweightedness, pale skin from too much computer time and nerdy dressing because we don’t care what we look like. But is it enough to be kind to each other? Do we need to practice out in the field? Other 40 year-olds who should know better are picking on me. We have to choose a sport: Ultimate (and I mean ultimate) frizbee, soccer, or archery. I am the only one who chose archery because I am too lazy for the other two sports. But I have also always been excellent at one concept. I can bowl and hit the strike, I can hit a baseball, I can golf and putt and I can hit a bulls-eye from forty yards. But since no one else chose archery, I had to help out by being on the soccer or frizbee teams. Coach Bigbully seemed to grin an evil grin at me when he said, “What am I—flypaper for freaks?” It is clear that not only do none of the other adults want me, they say things like, “How about never? Is never good for you?” or “I don’t know what your problem is, but I bet it’s hard to pronounce.” I remember when I forced you to play hockey and we drove at five AM to the rink when you were only seven years old. Your ankles touched the ice in your wobbly skates and you shivered in your thin beautiful body while you waited on the bench for an hour three times a week. The bigger boys ignored you and the coach never played you. I’m sorry Josh. I was wrong.
Forgive me. And think of writing to me, please.
Dad
Dear Josh,
I haven’t seen your Mother. I hope she is fairing better than I am. Even though a lot of us protested the very first night about breaking up couples for bunks, I think a lot of my fellow bunk mates are thriving on being away from their spouses. I hope your Mom is missing me. And even more importantly, I hope she is missing you.
Love,
Dad
Dear Josh,
We are having final exams tomorrow. Crukshank tells us that if we pass, we get to move on to Parenting School. That is confusing to me. I am already a parent. Why would I need to go to school? I really want to come home. I don’t even know if you are getting these letters. If you are, could you please use a phone and try to get Mr. Sunshine’s phone number from information? I don’t want to go on to any more camps. I just want to come home and be with you and your Mother.
Dear Josh,
I am at parenting camp. The good part is that I am with your Mom again. She too had the week and a half from Hell. She said that she had heard that spouses were all separated to a different campus. One Mr. Corning tried to get your Mother’s attention all week, and when she whispered to him to stop annoying her in class, she got sent to her bunk with an assignment of writing 1000 words on being polite to others. Your Mom didn’t really mind, as she is the politest person I know and knew all of the right things to say in her essay. Mr. Corning, of course, got nothing. Haven’t you always tried to tell us it is the other guy’s fault? If only I could have been a fly on your classroom wall, perhaps I would have understood you better and I wouldn’t be here today.
Love,
Dad
Dear Josh,
Mr. Sunshine showed up today. He said that you are doing well. I am so relieved, but got no details. I was starting to think that you may have been kidnapped and forced to go to a camp similar to this. I was really mean to Sunshine and so I am grounded again. I demanded to know where you were and demanded that I get one phone call to my lawyer. He said that I watched too many movies and that no one gets to call home from camp. Didn’t I know that? I could write. But phone calls tended to make kids feel sorry for their parents. And why would I want you to worry? While I am grounded, I must think about all that I am missing for having treated the leader rudely. I could hear your Mom and the other adults laughing and I smelled the roasting marshmallows and the campfire. I heard the crickets and watched the waning moon out of my bunk window. It really hurt to not be out with the others. Anyway, Sunshine is the head teacher at Parenting Camp. He told Mom and I in the first lecture that parenting skills are not something you are born with. I could have told him that. I suppose he has all the magic answers and I will have to pretend I am listening, when in fact all I want is to run away and find you.
Can you please answer and tell me where you are?
I miss you so.
Love,
Dad
Dear Josh,
I’ve been thinking. You know how I knock on your bedroom door all of the time to see if you are all right? You are so quiet I sometimes wonder if you are possibly doing drugs or are depressed or even thinking, God forbid, about suicide. Well, now I know why you are so quiet. You simply need down time from the intensity that is school. Your mother tried to get into my bunk and cuddle with me a few minutes ago and I practically bit her head off. I want the whole world to go away now that I have been in parenting school for three days. Sunshine took us on a field trip in a real school bus to listen to a child psychologist. I got pushed and jostled all the way in the bus and the noise level was such that I could barely breathe. Do you know that I have never ridden a bus? I walked to school when I was a child and now I drive a car to go anywhere I need to go. For some reason, I was fortunate enough to never have this angst. How do you do it day after day? I am thinking of when someone named Joey-someone-or-other was bullying you daily on the bus when you were in second grade. I told you some idiotic thing like, “Keep your chin up. It will pass.” Or I may have said, “Ignore him. He will go away.” You cried softly in the night and told your mother that you couldn’t ride the bus any more and I told your mother that you needed to toughen up a little. I was wrong. No one needs to toughen up. It is no fun being tough and it is no fun being bullied. Again I am sorry. I will list all of my apologies in a book and give it to you signed. Just get me out of here Josh. Please.
Love you and miss you,
Dad
Dear Josh,
Your Mom and I passed all of the parenting tests today. The first one was “Easter candy” test. Do you remember when you ate all of your Easter candy one spring day and threw up and I said in a horrible loud adult voice, “Well, I guess that will teach you” ? I regret that voice. Then we had the “electrical outlet” test. Do you remember the first time you reached for an outlet and I screamed at you? You burst into tiny tears and I said, “Never, ever touch an outlet,” shaking my finger in your face and using a very big overwhelming adult voice that was so so unnecessary and controlling. I regret that I did not hug you both times and tell you how very precious you are to me and that I would hate to lose you and I hate to see you sick. I wish I could move the clock back Josh, but I can’t. I can only say that I am sorry. Mr. T. split us up into couples. Your mother was given three chocolate Easter Bunnies and told that she had to eat all three. She did and she threw up. I held her in my arms and rocked her until her stomach felt better. Tiny’s husband John was totally disgusted when Tiny threw up and said, “What is WRONG with you, woman?” All of the fathers then had to crawl toward an electric socket and put their finger in the socket. Your mother grabbed my arm and gasped. She pulled me to her so tight I could not breathe. “Don’t,” she whispered, “don’t do it Larry.” And she began to cry. I don’t know if I have ever loved your mother more. Tiny tried to pull John away from the socket and he touched anyway and got such a shock his hair stood on end. Mr. T. smiled at your Mother and I and I knew that I was going to be able to go home to you soon. But now I am more concerned than ever. Where are you Josh? Please write and tell me that you are OK.
I love you,
Dad
Dear Dad,
I am so glad to hear that you and Mom are coming home. I have missed you very much. I have loved your letters but am sorry that camp was so difficult. I cannot tell you who Mr. Sunshine is. I can only tell you that I want to drop out of the school I am in and go to a Charter School that I recently learned about that has lots of boys and girls with similar interests to mine. I figure that this is a good time to ask you if I can do that. Brownie and I have been just fine. Mrs. Sunshine came the day you left and told Mrs. Gruesome, the babysitter, to go home. Mrs. Sunshine has taught me things that will make it easier for you and Mom. I have not been the easiest kid in the world. But that is another story. Hurry home.
Love,
Josh
© Copyright 2005, Cindy Haynes
I picked this beach as the scene for our interview. The interview is a marital exercise I had read in Vogue the week we married.
The Oyster Queen
By Heather Cook-Lindsay
“Like this old piece of crud is going to work,” Miguel grumbles, strapping the metal detector onto his back for the third time today. The sea air is cool, so much cooler than we had anticipated. The temperature change from Phoenix to grey-cast Maine was too much for us. That much was obvious when arrived at the Portland airport yesterday. We immediately bought sweatshirts at the airport gift shop, and Miguel selected a postcard from the spinning rack with a picture of a large, black speckled pot, two blood-red lobsters and a plastic bib. I wondered who it was meant for, but said nothing.
“Just a few minutes, Miguel,” I call out to him as he waddles down the sand, swaying a bit under the clumsy weight of the device. He throws me some sort of hand signal, which is completely unintelligible without my glasses. I pause for a moment, think about running after him, but instead sit back in my chair and close my eyes. I remember what the guidebook says about Maine beaches—that the sand is so clean it whistles. I listen. Instead, I hear the seagulls scream overhead. The whole picture is so perfect it should be on Miguel’s postcard instead of the barbaric cooking scene that called to him from the airport rack.
I smile to myself, enjoying the slow warmth of the sun, the smell of salt air and the sight of the seagulls, wings extended, soaring and gliding through the cool breeze. Just lovely. All is well, I think to myself. Life is pretty good. I look up to see Miguel, resplendent in tomato red Ralph Lauren swim trunks, his skin already brown, throwing fistfuls of sand skyward, yelling in a hybrid of Spanish and English at the seabirds.
“Will you please shut the hell up?” he screams, squinting at the sky. He darts from side to side in some unusual dance of frustration, aiming the sand from one bird to the next. Comical is the word that comes to mind. I smile to myself, noting that he at least asked the birds nicely, tossing a please into the sky like a Frisbee. If nothing else, Miguel is usually polite.
My bathing suit was chosen especially for the cruise we were meant to take one year ago, but cancelled at the last minute after having weeks of small bickering that escalated into something substantial. I remember the suit costing somewhere around $600.00; it was a new collection Dior, gilded gold, Summer Collection 2002. Not surprising that I remember the details. I tell time and pinpoint the past through clothing. Whereas some people smell the rain on a certain day and remember some particular scene from their past, all I have to do is open my closet. Flannel shirt, LL Bean, bought as a Mount Holyoke student in 1990. Wore with jeans, untucked, thinking it struck the perfect balance of New England preppy, timeless classic, and comfortable. I still have the shirt. When I wear it, I find myself daydreaming of days spent in the warm library, days when afternoon turned silently into night, and stepping from the dusty stacks into the silent, night air felt like deliverance. Eighth grade, 1983, worked at Krispy Kreme. Summer of the Loch Ness Monster Speedo. Dated a dishwasher from Oyster Pete’s. Bad summer, bad suit.
I picked this beach as the scene for our interview. The interview is a marital exercise I had read in Vogue the week we married. We had tried it a few times since, but each attempt imploded into a fight. I decided to wait for our vacation, thinking Miguel would be under less stress and more inclined to answer without his guard up.
I stand next to my chair, and yell to Miguel in his position near the water. He looks like a boy, all dark curls, red trunks and beach shoes. He wears an uncharacteristic expression of concentration as he navigates the detector like a vacuum cleaner. He scans the sand once, twice … and stops at five. Each sweep is elegant, almost touching the water. In a moment, he heads toward me, scowling, kicking rocks and sand. I start the tape recorder like the article suggests, and remind myself to remain objective.
***
Me: Mr. Acosta, thank you for agreeing to this interview. Let’s begin. Do you and your wife have good sex?
Miguel: I wouldn’t know.
Me: Why not?
Miguel: My wife, she doesn’t have … sex. It always has to be … larger.
Me: What does your wife look like?
Miguel: Muy lindo. Pretty. Hair is dark and slips through my fingers. Eyes round and gold, like an owl’s. Like my mother's.
When Miguel and I married, Miguel’s mother wouldn’t come to the wedding. She wanted him to marry a Mexican girl. We got married in a small chapel on Santos Street, San Jose. I remember crosses being everywhere, crosses made from wood—raw, splintered looking. We dined on nothing but rice and tortillas for days, making love at each position of the sun. The phone rang and rang for days, unanswered. Broke, we moved to the States a week later so I could return to my job.
Me: Do you still love your wife, Mr. Acosta?
Miguel: Yes. Though what she has done is not … the best for her. But love, yes. I do.
Me: Explain.
Miguel: Falling in love with a … alien is not smart. Marrying a … alien is … really not smart.
Me: I assume your English is much improved, Mr. Acosta, since living in the States. Why do you speak Spanish still?
Miguel: Because my wife does not always understand me.
The ocean is coming in, turning its tide, and Miguel shifts his position on the sand. He wipes the sand from his legs with a look of disgust.
Me: Who is Celina, Mr. Acosta?
Miguel: She is a girl. A young girl. Miriam, why do you ask such questions?
Me: Are you in love with this young girl?
Miguel: No … yes, I feel sorrow for her … yes. She, too, is away from Mexico and she is so … alone. But I love my wife, also.
Me: So you want everything, Mr. Acosta?
Miguel: I want … time. I don’t want change now. Soy casado. I’m married.
There is not much I can think to say. I can barely breathe. The fact that my husband is foreign makes this more difficult, and I almost laugh when I think about writing to the editor of Vogue. I imagine writing, “Dear Sirs: Can I apply this American solution to a Mexican-American problem? Our conversations are difficult, often without a meaning that makes sense to either of us….”
Instead, I stammer, “Why are you doing this to me, Miguel? What are you doing to us?”
He smiles and his eyes glimmer. “I’m doing nothing to you, Madam Reporter. I’m doing something to my wife, who is not you.”
I stop the tape, and hear it click to a close. No matter how many articles you read, you’re never quite ready. Never ready to admit that you’ve been denied exclusive membership to your spouse’s body. Miguel looks toward the water, and I nod to the detector. I wonder how it works exactly—how it finds treasure underground. How far down can what is precious be buried before it is unable to be found?
Miguel kisses me, and again begins to struggle with the straps as he stands up. He walks away, looking eager, pleased. I spot an oyster shell on the sand, just to my left. It is weathered, open. Once, I think, the oyster took in the imperfect, and made a pearl. She birthed day after day, relentless. The Oyster Queen—with her seaweed hair and a crown carved from a shell—strung a kingdom together with strands of floating pearls.
I suddenly hear a beeping noise, along the rocks, near the water. I think of the gulls, the sand, and then, look at Miguel. I watch him, pumping a fist into the air, his bronzed back beautiful. He gets down on his knees, digging wildly in the sand, laughing. The sky and water rolls and glistens, celebrating with him. I think about what needs to be done. From the sea, strings of laughter echo across the surface, sinking clumsily like anchors, floating gracefully like pearls.
© Copyright Heather Cook-Lindsay
"I guess he sliced his wrists again, eh, Sergeant?" Doc asked.
SHORTY
By Edward Shaw
"HE WAS JUST A MAN, Sergeant," Doc said, "just a man. I don't know what else you want us to tell you. He was just a guy we knew down on Blaney."
The three men were sitting around a square wooden table in the green room at the Police Station where they question suspects, as they call them. The Sergeant had ordered coffees and some doughnuts. The radiator clanged in the corner and sometimes the fluorescent lights would flicker, of which only half of them were working anyway.
"That is affirmative," the Professor said. The Professor went to college and knew a lot of fancy words. "He was a man like you and I, and now he's dead."
"Lahk he done said, Off'cer," said Bad-Talkin' Charlie, "only handle we knowed him by was Sho’ty. Dat's de onliest name he eber said."
The Sergeant marked down "Shorty" on the report form and didn't put anything down for where it said last name.
"I guess he sliced his wrists again, eh, Sergeant?" Doc asked. He knew most likely the answer was yes because there was a lot of blood even though they already had Shorty's body covered up before any of them got there. The Sergeant nodded yes.
"Yeah," Bad-Talkin' Charlie said with his mouth full of a jelly doughnut, "we tol' him las' time dat if he done it agin we might not any us be 'round to he'p."
"Oh how frail these mortals be," said the Professor. He meant it too because he always felt sorry for Shorty. That was his way. "It must've been the weather."
The Sergeant asked what in the hell the weather had to do with it.
"Why Sergeant," the Professor said, "the weather is everything! A man of Shorty's temperament surely would have found the gloom and gray of this morning's snowfall a most depressing omen—an intimation of doom."
"It was fuckin' lousy weather," said Bad-Talkin' Charlie. He and the Professor worked kind of like a team.
"That it was, my friend," the Professor went on, "and I fear it did poor Shorty in. The clouds speak to us, Sergeant; Nature calls to us, and we can but follow her command. Shorty was particularly prone to following, I think."
The Sergeant asked where they saw him last.
"Ah seen him 'bout fo' 'clock down at de Square," Bad-Talkin' Charlie said. "We yooshly meets down dere 'round 'fo', fahv in de aftahnoon."
"Those who can," Doc said. "I was there, too. We met Shorty at the Square, just like Charlie here says."
"As for me, I don't recall having seen the deceased later than approximately nine a.m. today. Shorty and I had coffee together at the Lighthouse Mission." The Professor took a sip of the coffee he was holding in his hands and swallowed it slowly. "I went to the lavatory and he was gone when I returned."
Where did Shorty live the Sergeant wanted to know, which they called place of legal residence on his report form.
"Well, sometimes he live' with me, y'know," Bad-Talkin' Charlie answered, "but not mos'ly. Ah cain't rahtly say whey he slep' other tahms."
"No, Officer," said the Professor, "I think that you must mark down that the deceased had no home. He was a man of the streets, of the world. He had no roots, no responsibilities, no liabilities. He was, in a word, Sergeant, simply … here."
The Sergeant did he have a job. Did he ever do any work?
"Oh yeah," said Bad-Talkin' Charlie, "him 'n' me'd sometahm go down to the Midtown Café and wash Mr. Anatoli some dishes, y'know, so's we could buy us some wahn 'n' sech, but nothin' reg'lar or nuthin'. An' sometahms we'd, y'know, do some sweepin' down at de Fahmer's Market, lahk dat."
Any relatives? the Sergeant asked after nobody said anything more to fill in the occupation blank.
"None that anybody knew about," Doc said. "He was from Ohio, I think … Cincinnati maybe?"
The Sergeant sat quietly. He turned his pencil end over end on the report form in front of him making little black dots on the paper. It was very cold out and snowing and there wasn't much else doing in the Precinct that night. Except for this dee-oh-ay from Blaney, as they call dead bodies they bring in, there wasn't any action at all. At least the radiator more or less was working again, the Sergeant thought to himself.
The Sergeant finally looked up and wanted to know if any of the men knew why Shorty would commit suicide. Did he have any reason you might know of? he asked them.
"Man lahk Shorty don' need to reason," Bad-Talkin' Charlie said. "Man lahk Shorty kin lib nor die as all the same, ah reck'n."
"Ah Sergeant: Who among us needs a reason?" the Professor said. "Isn't this life reason enough?"
"Usually we'd be around, y'know … one of us would," Doc said. "It's been going on … a long time. Always the same. Shorty'd show up, y'know, bleeding or dragging up to my place or the Professor here's or Charlie's, and we'd do what we could for him, y'know. We'd take him to the hospital, y'know, or just keep him for a while overnight. Then he'd be okay for a while and sometimes he'd even go for a whole month just … y'know, fine … but sooner or later he'd always end up drunk or hurt and we'd fix him up. We all kinda looked out for him, y'know?"
Bad-Talkin' Charlie stuffed the last piece of doughnut into his mouth and washed it down with a big swallow of coffee. "Ah wonder who he bin trah'n to git to t'night?" he said. "Prob'ly Doc's."
"No, no, my friend," said the Professor, "tonight I don't imagine Shorty was on his way to Doc's. You saw the blood. He really meant to do himself in this time. He wanted help no more—none that we could give him, anyway. He saw the snow and felt the wind and finally called a halt to suffering."
"He suffered all the time, I'll say that," said Doc shaking his head. "There was something wrong with his lungs or something, y'know?"
"Yeah," Bad-Talkin' Charlie said, "he was al'ys coughin' and spittin' up stuff, lahk dat."
The Professor was the last one to finish his coffee. "I suppose we all just thought he'd grown used to the pain."
When the coffees and doughnuts were all gone, the Sergeant offered the men a cigarette. They each took one out of the pack and the Sergeant reached inside his pocket for a book of matches and tossed them onto the table along with the cigarettes. He told the men to keep them.
The room got smoky and close with everybody using cigarettes but nobody minded. They could hear the wind blow outside when it would rattle the windows. Then another policeman came into the room and asked how’s it going. The Sergeant said okay and asked the other man to bring more coffees. The man said sure and left. He came back a few minutes later with four paper cups on a square brown tray like they use in caféterias.
The Sergeant said thanks and they all took one. They all drank it black because there wasn't any cream or sugar on the tray but nobody said they minded.
The Sergeant asked how old was Shorty because somehow he forgot to ask that blank before.
Nobody said anything. Then after a few seconds the Professor said, "People with resumes don't live on Blaney Street, Sergeant. He was a friend of ours, and friends on Blaney Street don't ask questions. We don't know how old he was or where he was born or what he had done with his life or why he got sick. Does it matter?"
Nobody said anything for a long time after the Professor's little speech. The Sergeant kept looking down at the report form on the table in front of him. He didn't have any more blanks to ask but he knew what he had wasn't enough. He knew the Lieutenant would be asking why he didn't find out more stuff. He would tell the Lieutenant the guy was just a bum, and then the Lieutenant would say but a bum's got a name, a bum's gotta live somewhere, a bum's got a mother and father, f'r Chrisake! Even a lousy bum's gotta mother and father, he would say.
It would always be like that. Whenever there was a body on Blaney Street or anywhere around there he and Smitty would be out trying to find somebody who might know something about it. But they never would find anybody. Just like tonight. There wouldn't be anybody else but these three old bums, as he called them. They were the only ones in the small crowd around the body who said they even knew the guy. So he and Smitty'd brought them down to the Precinct and ordered doughnuts and coffees and now the Sergeant was trying to fill in the report form of which it was mostly still blank in triplicate.
Isn't there anything else you can tell me about this Shorty? the Sergeant finally asked, but he knew it was no use.
"That's all we know," Doc said, looking down at the Sergeant's form. "Sorry … y'know?"
The Sergeant nodded and the three men got up and pulled their coats up around them and left. The Sergeant sat down at the table again with his forms. He looked at the paper and tapped on it with his pencil. He heard the wind really blowing up outside and wondered where the three old men would be sleeping tonight.
He reached for a pad of scratch paper and began writing on it, then stopped and stared down at it for a few seconds. He shrugged his shoulders finally and crumpled up the top sheet in his fist and lobbed a one-hand set-shot into the wastebasket in the far corner of the room. He was incredibly amazed to see it drop in without touching anything. Nothin' but net, he said to himself and smiled. Just then Smitty came back into the room and asked the Sergeant what did he find out. The Sergeant said he was just an old bum named Shorty. Smitty nodded and walked back to his desk.
The Sergeant picked up his forms and followed him out. He turned to shut off the lights then stared out through the windows of the darkened room but couldn't see the three old bums anymore through the snow. He went back to his own desk thinking to himself how effing glad he was the Lieutenant was home sick with the flu tonight.
Copyright © 2005 by Edward Shaw
I am here to testify that the Lord sent me a message to expand our ministry to the Bull Connor Memorial Federal Penitentiary in Klansburg, Alabama…
A PREACHER’S LAST SERMON
By Ralph Nieves-Bryant
Good evening, my brothers and sisters in Christ. This is Pastor Herbert Applebottom for another episode of the Fellowship of Christ Ministries. As you know, the Fellowship recently completed a $125 million dollar television studio and ministry residence, complete with a jacuzzi that seats 35, an air conditioned garage for my vintage collection of Lamborghinis and HerbieWorld, a brand new amusement park, where parishioners can enjoy exciting new attractions like the Mel Gibson-sponsored “Virtual Crucifixion” studio. This complex was built by the hands of God and people like you around the world. For our friends that faithfully donated, you should take comfort in the knowledge that your donation has secured your place in heaven. For those of you who were unable to reach into your pockets to make a donation, even though God still loves you, you should know that Satan probably has a seat in hell with your name on it. Can I get an Amen?
But as you can see, I am not broadcasting today from our new television studio. I am here to testify that the Lord sent me a message to expand our ministry to the Bull Connor Memorial Federal Penitentiary in Klansburg, Alabama. While I am not exactly certain how long this mission will last, the Lord himself spoke to me through the spirit of Judge Loren Wiggins and said it would probably be a 5 to 7 year sentence with time off for praising His holy name. Hallelujah!
I wondered why God deemed me so worthy for such an important task. Well, my journey to this magnificent maximum security facility began inside the glorious rooms of the Liberty Motel. Some people asked, “Reverend, what are you doing in a place of ill repute like the Liberty, where rooms are rented not by the day, not by the hour, but by the minute?” But I knew I was in the right place to preach God’s word because, for a small donation of a quarter, I was able to lie on the bed and feel the Holy Spirit vibrating through my entire body. Amen. As a man of God, I am duty bound to go where the sinners are, even if it takes me to the worst drug dens of America. And if I have to hit a bong filled with the finest cannabis from Thailand to help those backsliders find salvation, I will do it because, Hallelujah, I am a servant of the divine creator. And the only person I have to answer to is him … and my probation officer.
But let’s go back to the Liberty Motel. I will admit I was inside room 202, providing communion to three women, as we inhaled the body, the blood and the crack pipe of Jesus. Amen. Some of those liberal reporters from CNN tried to confuse you by saying the women were hookers and prostitutes and that I was a charlatan. First of all, that news network should change its name to SNN—the Satan News Network—for its lies perpetrated on the people of God and my friends in the Republican Party. Hallelujah. These women were not hookers, they were lambs of the Lord, who came to me for salvation. They fell on their knees, took me in their hands, and other body parts that I will not name without a subpoena, and said, “Reverend, only you can fill us up with the love of God, only you can anoint us with the fluids of the resurrection and only you can help us feel the spirit of Jesus Christ.” Can I get an Amen?
The police burst into the door and chose to interrupt me, despite my pleas to wait until my sermon was complete. Then those pawns of the Satanist Conspiracy forced us out to the streets, exclaiming they were arresting me for various offenses of which I am innocent. The liberal media were outside, foaming at the mouth to get images of me. Of course, they wanted to distort this incident to turn this country into a modern day version of Sodom and Gomorrah. Led out in handcuffs, there were many photos taken—one of those images supposedly showed me wearing a leopard print Speedo. This singular image was broadcast all over the world. However, if you look at the original photo, you can clearly see that the Speedo did not feature a leopard print, but miniature pictures of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Amen. I would also like to say that the camera truly does add 10 pounds.
The Government has also accused me of fathering children outside my marriage. I admit that I am guilty of these charges. But we should accept this as an opportunity to rejoice in the work of the Almighty. If the Lord did not want those 18 women to bear 23 children for me, he would have rendered them infertile. Remember, in the book of Genesis, God said “…be fruitful, multiply and replenish the earth.” I was simply replenishing the earth with more Applebottoms. Amen. But I do regret that one of the women was only 14 years of age when she gave birth to Herbert Applebottom the 17th. However, I am just a humble servant of God and he specifically spoke to me through a scoop of Rocky Road ice cream. It was the Lord that told me to fellowship with her in the back of the Dairy Queen where she worked. In the Song of Solomon, He says, “Take us the foxes, the little foxes, for their vines have tender grapes.” And let me tell you, her grapes were definitely tender.
Finally, my fellow travelers in Christ, I humbly submit this question: who are we to doubt the will of the Lord? As you know, I have conversations with our Saviour every day and all my actions are inspired by his divine providence. Sometimes God tells me to buy a new Lexus to drive around preaching His word. Sometimes the Lord tells me take to the streets to find a lost soul, especially those with measurements 36-24-36, to be held captive in the chains of the Holy Spirit in my soundproof dungeon.These days, God tells me to secure packs of smokes for my bunkmate who fellowships with Jesus by threatening me with acts of human depravity.
My friends, you also have a direct 9-1-1 hotline to the Lord, if you just listen for his guidance. Hallelujah. For example, my beautiful wife of 35 years, Evangeline, received word from God to enter the Witness Protection Program after she testified against me. I told prosecutors to throw out the case because God told me to hire someone to kill her. Unfortunately, the District Attorney rejected my explanation because he is a Jew. Can I get an Amen? If there is one thing I can leave you with today is that you must listen as God speaks to you, especially if he tells you to send me money to pay for my appeal. And, by the way, if you listen closely, I think God is telling you to send that check … today!
Let us pray: Heavenly Father, we come to you today to say thank you. Thank you for the many blessings you have bestowed upon us. Thank you for giving me a cushy job in the Warden’s office. And thank you for placing me in a cell block with very few Negroes. Amen. But we know there are temptations all around us, and I am not talking about the strippers at the Pleasure Palace. We know that Satan is at work every day, and I ask you to protect your children from evil. Especially from the prison bully, Razor, who is interested in looking for the Holy Ghost in my anal cavity. And may we all remember the words of Matthew, chapter 5 verse 11 of the Beatitudes, which reads “Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you because you can always pay for a hitman to take them sons of bitches out.” To the one who is the Master of All Things, Jesus Applebottom, I mean, Jesus Christ!
© Copyright Ralph Nieves-Bryant
Note from the Editor:
Reverend Applebottom may have distorted his prayers, his beliefs, verses from the Bible and his Speedos (which were definitely leopard print).
After a few viewings, the cast of characters becomes familiar: the Asian mullet in Lennon specs, the ten gallon hat, the Ivy leaguer with bug eyes and no hair, and the ex-strip club bouncer type in the two-tone Cuban shirt.
Welcome Back
By Jeremy Tuman
The World Series Of Poker has simply blown up on cable TV. In the last few years, it has completely taken over where truck racing, the WNBA, beach volleyball, strongman contests and timber-sports left off. Like most things that aren’t baseball, basketball or football related, I flat out refused to watch the first hundred or so times I encountered this event on the sports networks. I was just not interested.
But then I got invited to sit in at a weekly poker tournament hosted by some acquaintances, got a little familiar with the ubiquitous “Texas Hold ‘Em” variety, gained an understanding and lost my money. All of a sudden, this stuff somehow seemed more watchable on TV. After a few viewings, the cast of characters becomes familiar: the Asian mullet in Lennon specs, the ten gallon hat, the Ivy leaguer with bug eyes and no hair, and the ex-strip club bouncer type in the two-tone Cuban shirt. This show or series of shows, whatever it is, seems to have no regular structure; there is no “regular season,” no regular airtime, the various events are all unrelated, they all go under the same “World Series” moniker, and the thing just goes on and on, occupying every last open bit of airtime between “Sports Center” and whatever live event that people actually care about. Yet somehow, this thing has made minor celebrities out of the participants. At least that’s the way I thought it went.
The other day I happened to stop on one of these shows, and paused to catch a few hands during a commercial break in a baseball playoff game. I noticed one of the players was named Kaplan and then I heard the broadcaster refer to him as Gabe Kaplan. That’s rich, I thought, Kotter playing poker. Might as well deal in George Jefferson. See if Schneider from “One Day At A Time” wants in. Hell, let’s just make it a foursome with Johnny Fever from WKRP and Mel from Mel’s Diner. And if a couple more players are needed to fill out the table, I’m sure Mr. C could break away from family for a few and he could stop and pick up the big Ragu on his way.
Then one of the other players, the sleazeoid with the Oakley shades and the missing tooth, checked the bet to Kaplan, and Holy Shit! IT WAS GABE KAPLAN! Mr. Kotter! Welcome Back! The guy who taught John Travolta before he went disco dancing in Brooklyn. The guy who was married to Julie, that intellectual, 70’s hottie in the turtleneck and glasses. The guy who coached basketball in that TV movie where they had to get the girl who could actually play, to pretend she was a guy, so that she could be on the team. The guy who couldn’t make it as a stand up comedian in real life, so he had to play a guy on TV who couldn’t make it as a comedian so he had to go back to his old high school to teach. Now, I guess, he couldn’t make it as a comedian again, so in between the dinner show and the late show on the lounge stage of the Tropicana in Vegas, he decided to sit in for a few rounds at the tables, and now he’s playing poker on ESPN! And he’s in the World Series! Way to go Kaplan. For a minute there, I thought Gabe Kapler was going to surpass him in renown. No chance.
So now instead of the participants becoming minor celebrities, minor celebrities have instead become the participants. The announcers of course could not contain themselves: “Of course Kaplan is cool because you know you have to keep a cool head to teach high school…”Haaaaaahh! Good one. “I ran into Horshack the other day, he sends Kotter his best.” Haaaghaahh.
By the time I flipped back, Kotter was out. I did not get to see what low percentage, two card combo he went “all in” with, nor did I get to see which degenerate took all his chips, but suffice to say he was not in the finals. Tough, but I’m sure he’ll be back next season. In the meantime, maybe Ponch could hook him up with one of those sweet time-share infomercials, or he could accompany Gloria on one of her crusades to save the starving children of Africa. In the meantime though, I’ll be tuning in, in hopes of catching another glimpse of Kotter, and maybe get a taste of that dry, irascible wit that made him such a player in 1970’s prime time. I’ll be tuning in …whenever there’s a lull in programming, whenever there’s no other worthwhile sports event on, whenever the only game on is on ABC, whenever … basically any time all the time and for the rest of time.
© Copyright Jeremy Tuman
Enjoy reading Pete Jordon’s adventure in monthly installments in Humdinger Literary E-zine!
Excerpt:
"I mean, how often have we been on of your quests that it didn't seem like all hell broke loose and we were lucky to be alive after it was all over?"
Chapter Seven
From Quest Cut Out
By Thomas E. (Pete) Jordon
"Well, Pete, you ready for our quest?" Theodore asked, sliding back from a breakfast bar littered with the remains of buttermilk pancakes slathered in real butter and home‑grown sausage washed down with whole milk. On the other side in the kitchen, Irene, wearing only one of Theodore's work shirts and a pair of black lace panties, was assembling the cooking utensils into a cluster beside the sink. The sounds of her work, the dishwater she was running and her soft humming of a slow Beach Boys tune played in the background.
Leaving his silverware in just the right position occupied several seconds as Pete made an effort to avoid eye contact with Theodore. "Do you have to call it that?" Pete asked, his voice subdued and a shade above pleading. "I mean, how often have we been on of your quests that it didn't seem like all hell broke loose and we were lucky to be alive after it was all over?"
Theodore's face slipped into its hurt mode as he motioned Pete toward the front room. "How can you say that? Didn't your photos of our quest for the Church of the Leaning Tower and Seaton's Dump win an AP award?"
"Yep. And those two drunks living there were set to roll me for my camera gear." Pete collected his photography equipment from the end of the couch while Theodore opened the front door. As practiced as any Tulsa doorman, Theodore stepped aside, allowing Pete an unblocked path out of the house. At least it was clear until it met Khollie. Pete smiled and graciously deferred the offer of being first out of the house.
"Pick a level of difficulty," Theodore said, once they were outside.
Pete dumbly looked at Theodore.
Theodore stood beside the truck. "It's a house rule. Every weekend, one or more dogs gets to help hay cows. We base the decision as to who goes along on the level of difficulty we wish to add to the job."
"So what's the levels?" Pete asked.
"Let's see. Khollie's a guard dog, so he doesn't want any of the other dogs to mess with the cows. Bud's a herd dog, so he wants to make them all bunch up and stay that way. Fred's a setter. He likes to point out a particular cow, usually one with a calf to protect, and then get into a fight with it when he tries to flush it."
Pete smiled. "It sounds like so much fun."
"Then you also have to look at the levels of intellect we're dealing with here." Theodore bent down to pick up a small pebble. "Bud!" he called, getting the dog's attention. "Catch!" he added, tossing the tiny stone toward the Old English Sheepdog. Without a thought, Bud caught the stone in his mouth and swallowed it.
"Kinda hard to measure in that case, ain't it?" Pete sighed.
Theodore nodded, gravely. "At least Fred has a trick."
"And what would that be?"
"Fred," Theodore called. In a flash, the Irish Setter was beside Bud. Theodore pointed at the Sheepdog. "Chew his ass, Fred."
For two seconds, Fred was at Bud's ears growling and pretending to go for the slightly larger dog's neck. Bud simply stood and waited until it was over.
"Good trick," Pete said.
"So who's it going to be?" Theodore asked, swinging behind the wheel.
"Bud."
Theodore almost fell out of the truck. "Bud?"
Pete smiled as he collected a day pack from the Mustang and stepped around to the passenger side of the truck. "I get the feeling he doesn't do this very often," Pete said, through the truck's open window.
"True." Theodore pointed over his shoulder toward the back of the truck. "Bud!" he snapped. "Load up!"
For a heartbeat, the dog didn't respond. But when his good luck penetrated his brain, Bud ran around to the back of the truck and leaped in. Bud's brown eyes, usually hidden behind a veil of long hair, snickered and told the other dogs that today was a special day. He was the winner of Fred's Irish Lottery.
While the truck warmed up, Pete settled his pack and camera on the seat and looked toward the kitchen window. He could just make out Irene at work. "You know, old buddy. I think you need to talk to her about what she wears while she cooks breakfast."
Theodore looked Pete in the eye. "But she gets these nasty little grease burns when she just wears the panties." Theodore's face showed no emotion at all.
Pete didn't know how to respond. While he racked his brain for a reply, Theodore's face slowly slipped into a smile. He dropped the truck into gear and backed out into the road. "She's a grown girl—"
"I could see that."
Theodore's smile renewed itself. "Besides, I so look forward to wearing them to work the next day after she gets through with them."
Pete held up a hand to prevent Theodore from saying more. "I just wanted to put in a word from my prudish side."
"I understand." Theodore slipped the truck into a forward gear and eased off on the clutch. "Well, it's off to see the lizard?"
"Uh, ain't we after buffalo?"
"Buffalo. Lizards. They're all the same from a distance."
"Yeah, but my editor wants pictures of feral buffalo for our piece on abandoned bison farms, not wild lizards sunning themselves."
A quick stop off at the barn to collect their hay and they were on their way to Rocky Top, the very back corner of the farm. With the hay on the truck, Bud had to run alongside them. But he didn't mind. It was fun to be part of the adventure for a change instead of being left behind. Although he did miss the breakfast scraps Irene would be tossing out about then. His favorite was when she took all the leftover pancake batter and poured it on the grill to make one large dog pancake. It was usually still warm when she fed it to them broken into as many pieces as she had dogs to feed.
The truck stopped astraddle a narrow creek. Bud laid in the shallow spring‑fed water and rolled the coldness into his fur until he could feel the goosebumps start to rise. Theodore pointed different directions while he spoke. "Here's what I was telling you. I bring in a bulldozer right about here and build a shallow dam before these two fields level out down there. That'll give me a good year 'round, spring‑fed pond that should run back to about halfway up that hollow."
Pete looked back along the bed of the pond. He saw a clear stream of water six inches wide and about half a finger deep stumbling over moss‑covered rocks settled into beds of brown, smooth creek gravel. From time to time, the water backed up behind obstructions creating pools where water striders played on the surface and minnows and crawdads lurked in the shallow water. The breeze flowing out of the hollow through the stand of grey and white‑barked paw‑paw trees growing close to the water was at least ten degrees cooler than the air in the open field.
"Sounds good," Pete said, "but won't it be kinda destructive setting it all up?"
Theodore nodded. "Yeah. That's why I'm thinking that instead of bringing in a dozer, I'll just contact the Fish and Game Department. I understand that once in a while they do live captures on nuisance beavers and need a place to release them. It could be a perfect fit. I get my dam with only a minimum of destruction and they get a good place to live."
"Let me know when you do it. I'll work it up into a photo essay for the paper."
"Do you ever do anything you don't try to photograph and sell somewhere?" he asked as they moved on. Quickly Bud rolled out of the water and started tossing from side to side. A twenty‑five square yard area of grass received an unexpected dog‑scented half inch of rain.
Pete looked ahead to their destination, a rutted track up the side of the mountain leading into the woods. "Only one thing comes to mind."
"And I bet I'll have to guess what it is," Theodore stopped the truck at the bottom of the road and shifted into its lowest gear. He handed Pete his pocket knife before opening the back glass and handing the speaker out.
Pete smiled. "You don't expect me to reveal my deepest, darkest secret to somebody like you, do you? I've seen you talk to pop machines before you feed them your money." Pete stepped out of the truck and climbed in the back. "I don't really think that's normal."
"It is where I come from," Theodore replied, hitting the horn a couple more times before starting up the hill. The grass seeds in the hay the cattle didn't eat would sprout along the road in a few weeks. That new grass amongst the rocks would help assure that when the spring rains came, washing along the ruts would be kept to a minimum. He started to turn the volume up on "Cowboy in the Jungle" when he heard Pete in the back of the truck singing his own song, "Counting the Cows Every Day."
Theodore turned the tape player off. They'd save "Cowboy" for the trip back out.
© Copyright Thomas E. Jordon
A pile of fresh human excrement with green flies swirling about, pants down . . .
FORE!
By Les Combs
Cleon Horch, how did you ever get yourself into this mess? More to the point, how will you get yourself out? A grease monkey at Wal-Mart automotive center, you spend your weekdays under car hoods performing $24.95 oil-change specials. What made you aspire to the gentleman’s game of golf?
Sure, your widowed aunt gave you Uncle Farris’s mixed set of clubs. And sure, you’ve watched Tiger Woods hit straight and true down the fairway, chip into the hole from off the green. But golfers are people of breeding and refinement, Cleon. They’re not your kind of folks. You know that, don’t you? That’s why you always play alone, why you decline invitations to join a threesome.
So you wait until late afternoon on this Saturday before going to the local links. The crowd is thinning, the first fairway stretched open and inviting. Shoulder muscles bunched, you drive the ball in a magnificent high arc, and it slices, slices, slices . . . out of bounds deep into the woods. It was a brand new ball, too.
You whistle a few bars of “My Window Faces South” while you walk to the point your ball entered the trees. You drop the bag off the fairway and crawl through the barbed-wire fence, eight-iron in hand in case a snake is encountered. The club comes into use parting blackberry vines and pushing aside low-hanging pine branches.
Forty yards into the dense growth, you discover a man’s body. He lies facedown on a cushion of pine needles, shirt bunched around his waist, trousers below his knees.
You recognize Judge Wilburn, retired from the superior court bench of Baxter County. The judge is in his 80’s, an avid golfer, but his presence here is puzzling. Then your quick mind assimilates the facts. A pile of fresh human excrement with green flies swirling about, pants down . . . The judge must have been taking a dump and had a heart attack.
But wait. Less than three club-lengths from the body, you spot a golf ball. When examined, there’s no doubt whose ball it is. It now has a smile in the cover, but it’s your ball, Cleon. Could it be . . .? You take a closer look at the judge. Sure enough, there’s a goose egg bump on the back of his head. It doesn’t say Max-Fli, but it has dimples.
You leap to your feet as though spring-loaded. A wide-eyed 360-degree sweep reveals no witnesses. This deplorable situation could spell trouble. You don’t want to be seen with the judge, but you can’t just walk away and leave him here. You pull the body into a sitting position and, not wanting to leave the eight-iron behind, stick it shaft-first down the judge’s shirt collar. Hoisted into place, you hold his wrists firmly and head for the fairway, the judge riding piggyback.
But hold on a minute, Cleon. Image has never been foremost among your concerns, but you are a thoughtful person. Might it not be more seemly if the judge’s trousers were in place? From the rear your cargo appears to be twin loaves of light bread separated by a leather-bound club grip. The stainless steel face of the pitching niblick gleams above the judge’s distended collar. You unload your burden, tug, zip and belt him, a process made difficult because you neglected to first pull his shorts up.
At the fence, you take stock of your surroundings. The sun is low over the clubhouse. Cloud-cover in the west spreads gloom over all. Darkness is not far off, and can you believe it, two guys in a golf cart are making their way toward the first tee.
You are panicked. It shows in your eyes. You stuff the judge under the fence, crawl through and reload. A brisk dogtrot brings you to the first green after 150 yards of huffing and puffing. Breathless and frightened of being discovered, you lay the judge in a bunker. Only one solution comes to mind. You begin scooping sand onto the body.
Decency prevails and you leave the head uncovered until last. When the first spray of sand hits his face, the judge’s eyes pop open. “Judas priest,” he exclaims. You fall away, slack-mouth astounded. He raises an arm out of the sand and paws at his face, spits grit from his mouth and sits erect. With awkward, arthritic dignity he extracts the eight-iron from his shirt, examines it at length and tosses it aside.
He casts about in bewilderment at the bunker, at the green, at you. He gingerly touches the back of his head. Then, almost in spasm, he claws at his crotch in obvious discomfort. He writhes in the sand, both hands groping and tugging, then looks back and asks, “What the hell have you done to me?”
Hurt by the judge’s tone, Cleon, you tell him the God’s-honest-truth. “I was just tryin’ to help, Your Honor.”
The judge struggles to his feet. “I don’t believe I could survive any more of your help, Boy. If the law permitted, I’d have you caned for this. Now stay away from me.” He begins walking toward the clubhouse, shaking first one leg and then the other to dislodge sand.
You trot to catch up, make one last effort at reconciliation. “Honest, Your Honor, I never meant no harm.”
The judge turns and shakes a fist. “Keep away from me, Boy. You hear?” He resumes walking, then over his shoulder shouts, “Cretin.”
Dejected, you trail at a distance until you come to your clubs lying next to the fence. You study them for a long moment, then pick up the bag and heave it into the woods. You did the right thing, Cleon.
© Copyright 2005, Les Combs
Enjoy Sir Rodney’s Adventures from
Thomas E. Jordon!
The Adventures of Rodney
By Thomas E. Jordon
“Oh, by Pope Carl’s hairy left nostril!” Sir Rodney spat when he looked down thirty feet between his toes and saw the troll under him. The foul creature had walked up, tilted its head back and now stood there with its mouth open. Rodney could hear his father’s whiney voice, “You can’t blame him, Son. He’s only there for lunch.”
Rodney, standing in the blood-stopping loop he had tied in a creaking rope no more a size around than his pinkie, was starting to question his judgment. But there, just five feet away from where he hung, in the mouth of a cave magically drilled into the cliff face, stood what was undoubtedly one of the ten most beautiful women in the world.
“My, Lady!” Rodney called across the way. “Ask me your question.”
The fair maiden leaned against the wall of the cave and pulled her long blonde hair back from her face revealing milky white perfect skin, pale pink lips and huge gold doeish eyes. He thought for a moment that her smile didn’t quite look right, but then Rodney reminded himself that he had other things on his mind as well.
She giggled, then blew a puff of air toward him.
The shattered stump of the once-proud oak that Rodney had thrown the other end of his rope around made itself a little more comfortable in the ground. “Your question, My Lady,” Rodney called again as he wondered if his present arrangement was up to the next part of his plan.
“Oh.” She made to go back into the cave, then stopped and smiled vacantly at him. “What starts on three, goes to seven and ends with one?”
“Three, seven, one,” Rodney said.
“Three, seven, one,” she childishly sang back to him.
It was at that moment, as the rope slipped dropping him a quarter of the span of an angel’s wings, that Rodney figured there came a point when one could carry that "faint heart never won fair lady" thing just a little too far.
© Copyright Thomas E. Jordon
Click here to read Thomas E. Jordon’s Brief Bio.
Sometimes
By Thomas E. Jordon
"By the Apostle John's shriveled left testicle," Sir Rodney groaned as his lance buried deeply into the vestigial-winged dragon without encountering a single vital region. Before he could withdraw the harpoon, the dragon ripped its serrated tail across his horse's belly. Immediately, the stout-hearted mount snorted blood and began sinking to the ground.
Rolling free of the doomed animal, Rodney drew his sword. He felt bad about the charger. Despite its irrational fear of scarecrows flapping in the wind, it had been a loyal and steadfast companion.
Rodney lowered himself into a fighting stance and began swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet. With the flat of his sword, he swiped aside one of the creature's clawed feet. Moving in on the nightmarish reptile, Rodney noticed Sir John's shield with its fighting dachshund emblem beside the entrance to the beast's lair. Poor Sir John, Rodney thought.
He recalled their last encounter. John had bought most of the tankards that passed between them and before parting company, shared one last bit of advice. "Always remember, Rodney, sometimes the dragon wins."
© Copyright 2005, Thomas E. Jordon
The interior moved in a strange purplish light that emanated from the statuette, ricocheting like countless bullets onto any surface it could find within the house.
THE HOUSE THAT SPOKE
By Oscar Cintronmarina
POETRY
Poetry with a Purpose:
The visit to the warehouse begins with a female cadaver . . .
The Bodyworlds Exhibit
By Elizabeth Hamilton
The visit to the warehouse begins with a female cadaver
skinned to the bones and elongated, suspended
intact from the ceiling by wires.
She greets mourners with a martini glass,
an amusing cocktail to numb a single file line,
and each patron’s need to murmur in her ear.
The tour ends, abruptly, with new life
in the womb but the woman dead
on a bed, shown as a seductive lover lounging,
hips sprung, legs coiled. Her belly
bursting ripe, the skin peeled
open, revealing syrupy fruit,
a baby girl. I wish the mother
could somehow nurse her child even from beneath
some hidden layer of earth.
But that seems impossible, when
between the beginning and end, I saw her
two breasts, hardened flesh
and nipples, on display in a glass case.
Body parts—fresh spheres, snatched
from the limbs by a notorious hand,
sliced across the top to expose pasty
cancer worms, and the rotting nectar.
When I stood in front of that exhibit,
I fixated on her plastinated flesh.
My body parts too, were stolen
by cancer, turned to worms, turned to plastic
turned immovable.
© Copyright Elizabeth Hamilton
AND SHE SLEEPS
By Shawn Marie Christenson
as stars float above the black city skies
before the angels come to close her eyes
she steals away moments to watch him sleep
wrapped in tender silence and darkness deep
the simplest touch soothes the sense within
her hand moves like silk across his bare skin
he cradles her heart within his embrace
she sleeps like a child as peace masks her face
meshing from chaos to night’s quiet extremes
they slip though the lines of magical dreams
the shimmering moonlight shields them from harm
content in this time and each other’s arms
when she sleeps alone, she wakes up in shock
four a.m. glows from the digital clock
misty eyes search for his familiar face
surrounded by wishes … and empty space
she clings to a pillow, tries to pretend
closes her eyes and she’s with him again
traveling through the night and the miles apart
her lover’s warmth gently enters her heart
and she sleeps….
© Copyright 2006, Shawn Marie Christenson
Welcome to Dreamstreet
By Angel Logan
Welcome to Dreamstreet
By Angel Logan
...The journey of life and love to the path of serenity.
Step through the clouds and see the silver shadows surrounding the heart with the wings, where you will envision your Guardian Angel who will walk with you and protect you on your journey through life.
...You will learn of life's experiences and joys, and teach others what you know and love. Your fears and hopes will create questions and challenges and confuse your heart, but through belief and faith in yourself, you will overcome and learn.
...The skies will open up and shed tears of happiness upon you watering life's growth and will paint bright colors in the tangle of rainbows upon the world.
The hourglass is the symbol of love, as long as you keep love in your heart,
the sands of time will never run out. The unicorn is the symbol of purity and innocence, the goodness you will find in all you encounter. Your strength is your faith allowing you to reach past fear where your dreams will then become reality. Your wings are the very part of your spirit that lifts you and allows you to soar.
...Your mission is to look into the sea of reflection and witness the beauty
that is seen in the eyes of your soul.
Carry with you, the three keys to unlock the door to serenity, ...
... Something to do,
... Someone to love,
... Something to believe in,
Separately, each key is special, ...
Together, they are the force that leads you to serenity.
Welcome to Dreamstreet, may your journey be safe, happy and filled with love!
Written by Published Author, Angel Logan
Excerpt from the book,
Wings of an Angel Poetry Collection by Angel Logan
COPYRIGHT © 4/29/03 BY ANGEL LOGAN
Click here to read Angel Logan’s Brief Bio.
Angel Logan, Published Author
Wings of an Angel Poetry Collection
Thought Provoking and Picturesque Poetry Collection
Captures The Essence of Life's Journey Through a Season of Promise
ISBN# 1-4134-2967-X
"A Vision Into The Window Of Life, To Help You Find Your Wings To Fly!"
Angel Logan | The Official Web Site: www.wingsofanangel.us
Collection of Sexy Poems by Bette O'Callaghan
IN THE TEACHERS' HOUSE
Languid limbs display their wares
alluring smiles evoke desire
coy glances intimate passion
as a musky scent inflames imagination
Boisterous young men gaze indifferently
disguising their eagerness and inexperience
swigging desperately from bottles of 80 proof courage
furtively groping in jean pockets for virile confirmation
Couples drift up the stairs towards consummation
carnality and panic vying in the young men's minds
the girls offer tender, yet skilled lessons
all the while thinking, It's you I despise
Love doesn't live in the teachers' house
it's only money that makes the grade
the girls think of men as tedious studies
just a means to perhaps, graduate
© Bette O'Callaghan
LIGHT 'EM IF YOU GOT 'EM
Popped my cherry in the back seat of a car at the local drive-in
got home, stripped off my blood soaked panties n' hid them away
copped a pack of ciggies from my parent's room,
lit up my first n' never looked back
got down on my knees n' prayed,
Please God don't let me be pregnant n' I'll never do it again
Spent many a night on my knees smokin' n' prayin'
it was the natural consequence of sex for me
when they invented the pill, I gave up religion
the sex n' smokin' continued with ever increasin' intensity
At 15 I learned the really important lessons of life
sex may sometimes be a disappointment… or not
it's not a good idea to use religion as a contraceptive
smokin' is always a pleasure, even if you're on your own
© Bette O'Callaghan
THE TRUTH WILL OUT
I want to die like that wise crackin', red headed floozy in the dime store novel
the woman who is never conventionally pretty but is exotically compelling
who gets a bit more jaded and much closer to death with each turn of the page
the one who always makes the wrong choices and entertains dangerous liaisons
till her only redemption is to take the bullet meant for the hero
whom she loves ingenuously but treats with fond derision
the man who only has eyes for the nice blonde girl next door
In that perfect moment as I lie bleeding on the cold concrete
he would take me in his arms and say,
Kid, I guess I always loved you, just not enough
n' with my last breath I'd reply,
Well then, fuck off, I'm better'n that
© Bette O'Callaghan
SAFE SEX
Hitching a ride from San Francisco to Berkley
the party is over and we're off home
picked up by a handsome stranger
long dark hair and a smile just for me
it's '67, the summer of love
I'll sleep with everyone
we drop off the others and I let him
take me back to his third floor walk up
with a view of the alley dimly lit by a streetlight
we roll up a spliff, turn the music down low
strip off our clothes, dancing slow
I jump into the bed with no hesitation
whilst we're entangled, I'm lost in passion
he places his hands round my throat
and squeezes until I'm choking
saying, You really like this don't you
when he's asleep, I lay for hours
stiff, afraid to move lest I wake him
till I think it's safe to slip from the bed
grab my clothes and climb out the window
run naked through the alley, where I reach a safe doorway
get dressed and head for my place
and yes, I'll go home with strangers again and again
© Bette O'Callaghan
COUNCIL FLAT HEAVEN
These towers soar into the sky
penthouses for the damned
where they place the nameless and the walking dead
no stairways to heaven, merely curving upwards to hell
where dealers offer solace for a dime a bag
junkies purchase sorrow, a momentary solitude
refreshing as a knife blade slicing into flesh
on the roof they gather, fledglings learning to fly
not the most gentle, nor attractive way to die
certainly the surest, they believe as they dive
fear of heights is never a fear of falling
its the passion for the leap, the magnetism of the ground
humming that haunting refrain… Jump, I'll catch you
© Bette O'Callaghan
Car
By Jon Berahya
Cell phone to my ear
No passing cars can hear.
Sitting with a smoke,
No glances I evoke
When the cell and cig marry
To form a branch and a twig where
The ashen leaves dig to the pavement.
© Copyright 2006 by Jon Berahya
Collection of Poems
By Rebecca Hirsch
Getting Drugs in Park Slope
By Rebecca Hirsch
Blast off!
Once my pal and I got drugs in Park Slope.
We drank gin before class and rum in the bathroom, took the red wine the drug dealer offered and swished it around in the glass and started to see cows floating in the glass stem and then ceased to be human and turned into liquid. And then we went to McDonald’s. Which was wild.
INTERREGNUM to tell you that I am not wild. Not at all. So many people are so much wilder but they don’t even tell anyone about it.
Park Slope Story Part Two:
So then we went UPTOWN to my pal’s home. We walked around in circles and called my mom. Ate his ex-lover’s Chinese food. Made devious calls, etc., etc.
THEN IT’S OFF FOR THE DRUGS.
And we fell all over each other on the stupid little orange and yellow train seats on the N train which is NOT MY TRAIN, don’t care if you stare at passengers and the passengers stare back when you can’ think straight. Which is liberating, and a bit dumb.
We went to a Citibank to get drug dealing money and noticed that it was cold. It continued to be cold but we soldiered on. We got caught for 10 hours on the DeKalb platform and turned into pats of butter that could fit inside the hollow platform columns.
Park Slope kid had a beautiful apartment full of murals (“We were tripping so we decided to paint the wall, and draw a mountain- with a face!”) and prayer flags.
We sat on his couch and smoked ‘til my head blew off. I drank wine and saw cows.
Pal: “You still spinning?”
Drugs Kid: “Yeah, you shoulda’ seen the set we had on Halloween.”
Pal: “Hey, you know, I have some friends if you—”
Drugs Kid: “Nah, nah, I don’t wanna hustle.”
Me: “… I don’t want to hustle.”
Sitting, sitting on the couch. Talking silk screen T-shirts and such, I choke on myself and drink tap water, steal Q-tips, explore…. Nice kitchen, a large cutting board with flour (I assumed it was flour) still on it.
We left for home and meandered Union Square where I stole some dates at the Food Emporium and my pal lets me know, “I can’t stand when you do that” and he walks away and won’t hear me which I HATE so we fight, make up, get hamburgers, etc., etc.
I realize I am full of gin and will undoubtedly die. I tell people that a lot.
I recount a conversation to my pal which transpired between myself and a Man who was referring to the Orange Juice kid, my pal’s ex-roommate, my enemy, who ruins lives. It went:
Me: I am so drunk. I am so light—I am so light and full of fruit. I'm floating on the fruit.
Man: I thought you liked me 'cause I was genuine.
Except I note that this conversation only happened in my head as well as I NOTE that I myself was drinking McDonald’s orange juice while recounting this unreal conversation which connected to the Orange Juice Kid, my pal’s former roommate, who ruins lives.
And then we went home.
It’s a DANGEROUS LIFE I LEAD
Maybe
Desperately Seeking Kicks Kicks Kicks All The Time.
Kicks kicks kicks running around Park Slope gasp sputter death.
The end.
The Chris Tale
(my pal Chris, not Humdinger Chris)
There once was a kid they called chris
The moors they did plague
But the moors were quite vague
So chris did not send them away
One day he discovered his cat
Making mad passionate love with a bat
So what did he do?
He gave them the flu
And promptly went home
To make tea
If there’s one thing you must learn from chris
It’s that chris is a kid with a wrist
Don’t take it!
Don’t shake it!
Don’t take it home and bake it!
Or chris will immerse you in canola oil
The Girl in the Bathroom
was a bit overweight and had a lovely face.
she was wearing the most BLUE blue shirt I’d ever seen and I had to fight the urge
to turn at the sink and tell her,
“You look good.”
(which is the same thing Foley said one night, sitting on the bathtub—only it was a more slurred, “Ya … look … good.”)
© Copyright 2005, By Rebecca Hirsch
Collection of Poems
By Sarah Toler
Love in War
By Sarah Toler
When I found you
Your body entangled amongst barbed wire
Still convulsing from the bullet wounds
I stared into the eyes of the enemy
As I struggled to pull you free
I put my hand to your eye’s cover
Encouraging a lid to close
So that you might not see all the things I’ve done
To leave you alone and dying
In this war
The bullets enter my ears again
No, just the abrasive crunch of leaves as I rest you to the ground
As I plunge my dagger into what used to be you
Searching for a stone
That used to be heart
Refusing to let you die alone
Blood dripping between the clefts of my cupped fingers
Your last seconds beating as I count them one by one
My dagger searches for my stone now
So that they may strike one another
As they have done seconds before
My blood and yours
I watch the colors dance
Knowing they are distinct
Now the same
I wait for you there alone
Now we rest together
In a tin box
Beneath soil cold but solid
Caressing one another
Wrapped in leather and a horse’s hair
Waiting patiently
Like stones
© Copyright 2005, Sarah Toler
Ruth Pontico
Fat Circus Lady
Children come to gawk
At the misery in her eyes
Her own children denying her
Ladies from town
Petite, sophisticated
Whisper “whore” as they walk past
The circus ends
Just before dawn
Fat Circus Lady
Sits outside his trailer
Fat knuckles crackling upon his door
Her experience resting in the crevices of her heavy bags of fat
The stench of her so overwhelming to him
That he will never answer
The rasping
Of fat knuckles
Upon his door
She gathers up her stomach
Fat Circus Lady
To make her way
To post photos of her children
On the Circus bulletin board
Hoping that they might be more
Never knowing that they are just as ugly
As her
Fat Circus Lady
Take a minute now
To stop and stare
At the children
Who watch her
And learn to be whores
© Copyright 2005, Sarah Toler
Aries
I’m gonna watch you while you get me wrong … it’s gonna cost you, but it might hurt less. I’m gonna love you till we get along.
If she says sorry and she says goodbye, that’s not what she means at all. Thought she had him all along. But now she’s singing Joni Mitchell and you don’t know what you got till it’s gone. I guess it was an important day and saline graced his pillow. For me, a sight to see, but one I could have gone without. She says that’s not what it’s about, but now it’s all she needs … that one last time. To buy some time. You can buy him, but you can’t make him love you.
He is scared. He turns and walks away with a fast pace, letting words fall from his mouth behind him, coated in broken beer bottles and rusted barbed wire. He’s hoping they’ll puncture my eyes and somehow I’ll be less than what I am and that way he won’t have to feel so unworthy … because then I’ll be ugly like her. Ugly, ugly, ugly; he says ugly everyday, but these words float around her head never captured by her ears. I watch him everyday, measuring his head, watching it grow. I get drunk and laugh at his atrocities. He will never be any better.
He sends letters in bottles via the shit brown waters of the Gulf. He threw the bottle off a boat where he mops floors and caters to the tongues of princes. Don’t write me. Your words are nothing coming from that mouth. That mouth which belongs to nothing and no thought and no loss and nothing in between. It is no wonder how everyday presents such a challenge to you when you are so nil of substance. She is you and you are both the same. Wandering Aries drowning in your own filth.
© Copyright 2005, Sarah Toler
Silence
By Carol Rudy
In silence, I give you my hand.
Though I feel your words,
I can not fully understand.
The world in soundless
Splendor lays.
Before my vision, words
With hand and finger play
The other senses in full reliance.
The thundering roar
of complete silence.
© Copyright 2005, Carol Rudy
Iris
By Erika Hudson
Oh Gardener.
You began as a sweet gentle care-taker,
careful of your words of inspiration,
motivation and fondness;
Always aware of your daily actions
to remove weeds of discouragement,
abandonment and com-placement;
Nurturing my roots, leaves, and vibrant petals
in verbal and mental capacities:
pleasure in sunlight shared—
both of us.
You sensed passion from my natural scent
that was not meant for you . . .
Wanting for self,
uprooted,
moved my precious being into nature’s streaming, cold rains
for more enjoyment.
Misunderstood visual pleasures . . .
Spontaneous actions severed . . .
Poisoned.
Words of gentle gardener, once of praise,
now turn into a daze
of regret.
Unsure of your present actions and words,
now lead to change.
I can no longer grow for you—
my smell of sweet still
burns your senses:
radiant petals now dry in knowledge.
Father nature rescues my bulb
from your intentional pain;
Your gardening days were never pure—
your ways, deceitful.
To grow,
I will continue,
flower form to this remember:
dry my stem and always consider
that warm day
in December
when we connected.
I will always be
an Iris.
© Copyright Erika Hudson
Sunday Brunch Buffet
By Celeste Curcio
Poison dressed, jagged edged,
your pointed tongue spews words
at my hesitation.
I dissolve into the coat of paint,
where I lean, wishing you would
take off your glasses to aim at
my insecurities.
My tangled concerns
disappear inside your quiver,
alongside your list of must-dos,
your issues, your fears—
all scrambled like a brunch buffet
with a side of screams.
The taste of relief wets my lips.
I pick up a crumpled word to shoot back.
You stop my shot in your teeth,
chewing it into a gravelly return.
Do you want ketchup with that?
© Copyright 2006, Celeste Curcio
IN YOU
(October 21-November 18)
By Bill White
In you
Rests a city fractured in glassy timpani skies
Pulled across faces airy with time
Blurred in the petrified etch of bone
Unstretched, loose, thinly divined and found
In you
This city that was my city
Now facaded by mesmeric elves
Pounding sandworms into primer holes
Peering through badly textured gelatins
Looking for hard nails that can be found only
In you
This place where the children play inside
Corpses dried to dust before they died
False butterflies crawling out of jinxed cocoons
Into the fluttering open hand of a child in the child
In you
A dish of butter
A dish of mayonnaise
An artichoke heart divided
A city divided against its own city
A river divided against your flesh
A river divided against my bone
Mysterious grasses between the bread
Browning the nests of birds and crashing them
Into you
This open mouth, this broken beak,
These buildings warped and smiling through plastered arms,
Mud layers slapped around windows where kangaroo ghosts
Watch baby birds feeding
In you
Sediment is scraped from the city’s eyes
And we see ourselves still hatching
Through shell upon shell upon shell
upon shell upon shell upon shell
Of tree circles slashed across your belly
in birth strokes of hot paint
Pressing compass points of numbered fingers against the wall,
Aside the wall, into the wall
A circular shiver of touch
Opening
In you
Children,
lost in candied forests
where stale gingerbread breaks the witch’s teeth,
Feed on the caramelized windows of slivered houses
In the rotten wrappings of a city restored
In you
The ashes recovered
The avenues reborn
The air the air of the air before
Off inlets
In you
Projection booth lights of third avenue movie houses fill jazz clubs and art supply stores with “Une Parisienne,” “Curse of the Faceless Man,” and the rhino safari of hatari hunters pairing off like gaffers and costume designers in rented trailers on location in Africa, France, and Mexico
In you
Attendants return from their jobs in elevators to padlocked gaming rooms where padlocked actors perform dreadful re-enactments of “A Christmas Carol” to audiences glimpsing Jim Morrison’s shredded snake prostate through a curtain of 27 years in which I dwelt undestinated
Without you
While the helpless fell in love with the dead
And the haircuts fell in love with the haircuts
And the lipgloss fell in love with the lipgloss
But the mothers never fell in love with the fathers
And the brides never fell in love with the grooms
But now the pawnbrokers have returned to first avenue
And I fall in love
With you.
© Copyright Bill White
Rarely do two strangers exchange three such perfect lines, and I’m determined to use the advantage while it’s mine, calculating what move or phrase to use next.
Confessions of a Southern Hustler:
A Eulogy for Decorum and All Things Sacred
April 2005
BH Shepherd
The Pope is dead, but it's still Saturday night on Peach Tree Boulevard. Downtown Athens is dressed to the nines and full of booze when we receive word. The infallible has fallen, and the air fills with a profound sense of "What now?" My dear friend and willing accomplice in most things illicit, la Chinita (as she was known in her circles of operation) is frantically phoning and consoling every Catholic she can reach as she teeters on the brink of a mojito-fueled meltdown herself. We have just come from a birthday party for the soul of Marvin Gaye at Little Kings, where DJ Mahogany spins everything from Ray Charles to Wu Tang. Bars choke with mourners tying one on for John Paul and street musicians draw showers of change from emotional drunks for a few bars of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" on banjos and harmonicas. La Chinita surrenders her phone and we retreat into the Firehouse, just another college-town dive where the bars are for dancing because the regulars show up two sheets to the wind; but tonight is something truly special.
Normally, my accomplice and I would be overdressed for the occasion in a white leisure suit and pink pinstripes on black silk, respectively, as we were fond of doing; the only thing better than looking good is looking too good. But the Firehouse is a different affair altogether—tonight's crowd glitters like fine silver on a vinyl tablecloth. The university students are dressed in purple velour jumpsuits and impeccably white kicks for the Second Annual Player's Ball, and are bumping, grinding and drinking to a numbing bass line and the garbled drone of some studio gangster. La Chinita is already on the bar, a tiny Asian girl lost to the beat, thrashing it out with a cocktail in one hand and a brass-topped cane in the other. A partner is superfluous at this point; the hip-hop does more for her than I ever could. I had learned long ago to just hand her a bottle of tequila and turn on the radio, hoping that somewhere out there 50 Cent was earning a royalty.
Well aware that no one has come to the Player’s Ball to see me shake my ass on the bar, I focus on the real task at hand—acquiring whiskey and the attentions of one of these lovely Southern gals for research. That was the true purpose of this whole trip, the mad pursuit of answers, answers that had eluded me one slushballed Thursday morn in upstate New York as I struggled to make sense of some whiskey scrawl hacked on the page in angry block letters, a frustrated hand that can only be writing about a woman. Indecipherable as it may be, I still know what’s there, having written it many times before but never finishing, a scene that repeats itself endlessly with the tragic precision of Sisyphus’ rock. Bar after bar, night after night, pretty girls draw me in like a moth to a flame—think for a moment not about the cliché, but about the moth, at long last achieving his goal, finally wrapping his wings around that beautiful light he just could not resist.... An example? Very well.
Two-dollar pitcher night is never a good place to get a date. It can, however, be a great place to pick up women. The lady of Thursday morning’s scrawl was a white-blouse, faded-jean, post-grad intellectual with cool green eyes boxed up in a pair of librarian’s glasses. I told her she looked smart. She said it was all an act and I conceded it was very convincing; could I get her a drink? Her clothes looked fresh out of the dryer and her hair was a bouquet of herbal shampoo, but there was also the unapologetic smell of cigarettes, which meant the lady was drinking my drink: whiskey and a whiskey. She let half a smile slip, just a crack of the lip and I added it to the paper-thin fantasy building itself between the silences, of us closing out the bar in a whiskey-fueled literary debate, scrawling cocktail poetry in cheap notebooks and on each other, waking up to do the New York Times crossword puzzle in bed. I don’t let myself dwell on any of that—I have to focus on how to seal the deal and get her out the door before our conversation loses its forward momentum and cinematic snap. Rarely do two strangers exchange three such perfect lines, and I’m determined to use the advantage while it’s mine, calculating what move or phrase to use next. As a Texan and a gentleman, I’d be disgusted with myself for thinking this way, for turning a pleasant conversation with a pretty girl into a game of strategy, but four years of college has trained me for a brutal hunt. A traditional courtship might be likened to a game of cat and mouse, the boy and girl communicating their intentions through a rich and subtle play of manners as they pursue and resist each other. But the prelude to getting laid in the Northeast (only couples go on "dates" anymore) is more like a street fight: you use every dirty trick you know to subdue your opponent before it’s too late. Every bit as romantic as it sounds.
My generation has inherited the fallout of the Sexual Revolution, leftover ideology from kids who proudly stood up to their parents’ twisted traditionalist regime of modesty and monogamy. But what we got was an inbred mutant cousin of Free Love—the hookup culture, a true, social meat-market. A generation of youngsters with rebellion in their veins raised by parents who accepted and even approved of pre-marital sex. How do you rebel against that? Sex is "okay" and even "understandable" if you’re just two dumb kids in love. Fuck that, Mom and Dad—we can fuck for the hell of it, fuck love! We’re cute when we’re defiant, but our sexual identity has been defined by icons of promiscuity—the lineups of Beverly Hills 90210 and American Pie, groups of kids who switch partners like they’re at a square dance, and for whom a "date" is just a means to an end (the slowest one). We’ve forgotten that the primary reason to buy a lady’s dinner is for the pleasure of her company whilst you dine. In a post-Kinsey and Carrie Bradshaw society, sex is a commodity traded amongst the young; you just have to know how to broker the deal. Simple pleasantries and small talk no longer hold the shy promise of intimacy, but the hollow ring of a transaction being completed. My smart Saratoga librarian, for instance. Soon, we would be trying to squint our way through the Times, I was sure, clever puns and sly innuendos over breakfast. Only a fantasy, I never cook breakfast, but in the middle of it, her defensive line steps in; a friend tugs on her arm. Their ride was waiting.
New York ladies in particular seem given to this puzzling kind of pack behavior, single girls trying to keep each other single. You’ll know immediately if you picked the trophy (every group has one), because two of her friends will remind her that they were "gonna go soon" and "it’s getting late." My Saratogian librarian said she was waiting on a drink and then she could leave—actually, she was wondering if I could buy her friend a drink too, since she was only twenty, but I said that would be a violation of my parole and she was much too old for me anyway.
If I’d said yes it would’ve been just slightly worse: setting complex manner-traps to get rid of the friend, trying to climb out her window at sunrise, or bluffing my way out the front door with shoes in hand. But that’s the game in the Northeast—no matter how hot the sex is, the connection is anything but warm. Maybe it’s naive to think the hookup a new, modern phenomena; I recall an old mentor’s lurid tales of Skidmore’s girls-only days, when busloads of Union men came to campus every weekend like sailors on shore leave. Although they had their fair share of collegiate sexcapades, young men still had a girl, that someone special. So what could explain the stunning absence of courtship rituals in my generation? Relationship milestones are measured in how often you sleep together, rather than how many dates you’ve been on, and kids build stables of "reliable" hookups, fuck-buddies for repeat engagements. Perhaps our sexual forbearers were not less promiscuous, just more discreet. But discretion has been rendered obsolete, deemed too oppressive and old-fashioned. No one is even sure what you mean anymore when you use the word "date," a sure sign that the old order has finally toppled.
I’ve come to Georgia to prove myself right about the South’s grand tradition of courtship, that decorum may be unfashionable but still functional. Now, if only I could find a lady for research.... I’m still waiting on the bartender in Athens, when across the bar, beyond the bared legs, buried among leopard fedoras and costume bling, a curious country blue eye catches mine. It belongs to a quiet blonde, real calendar-girl material—the kind that makes you wish there were fifteen months in a year. She’s wearing tearaway sweats and a tube top, but there are diamonds in her ears. I grab the bartender. Whiskey, and a Cosmo for the belle at the end of the bar; you’ll know when you see her. The DJ scrapes the bottom of his crate and hits a layer of the 80s, old dirty hip-hop that sets the Firehouse whistling as the snow white crowd remembers the golden age of MTV, grinding with renewed off-beat fervor. I’m scanning the bartop for my accomplice when behind me I hear the unmistakable ruckus of an empty cocktail glass.
"I need a drink!" la Chinita wails, leaning on her cane for support, emotional rather than physical. The intense white-knuckle grip on the brass seems to be the only thing holding back tears of alcohol. She sees me and pounces, burying her face in my chest as she cries out in the metaphysical agony of spiritual loss.
"MY POPE DIED!" As a convert from a Buddhist family, Chinita had adopted Catholic history as a lengthy footnote to her own rich heritage. She was shaken by the death of the only pope she had ever known, the pope who had sold her on this whole Catholic gig in the first place. A nation of the faithful teetered on the edge of an uncertain future without a leader, and there were fears that a schism might be in store. Ideological differences within the Church have grown increasingly severe in the 21st century. With the progression of the modern age in the Western world, well-intentioned liberalism has replaced militant morality. Will no one ever speak for the center? Without its father, Chinita’s surrogate family seems in danger of collapse. I’m not unsympathetic. I have no religious identity of my own, but there are times it’s hard to be a human being. It can be comforting to wrap yourself in Catholicism like a warm blanket, centuries of tradition assuring you you’re no worse than the rest. For we are all sinners, I feel compelled to remind everyone, according to those freaky books that people insist on subscribing to like some divine manual of existence. But whatever their differences, they all agree on that— we’ve all got a losing ticket, so there’s no point fighting over our place in line. I hand my whiskey off to Chinita, who gulps it down like water as I nod across the bar at the lady enjoying her Cosmo. She sees her, we exchange looks, I pucker my lips and all is understood.
"Give me five and room to breathe," I tell her. "She’s got information I need."
My subject is on her way over, pink drink in hand like a signal flag, as Chinita takes to the bartop, screaming at the DJ for some Usher, that bastard. Doesn’t he know who died? I leave my accomplice to her devices to focus on my own, like appearing not to notice the ghetto-fabulous Southern belle sidling up to me like a nervous schoolgirl. She asks how I knew her favorite drink and I say something about buying a pretty drink for a pretty girl, thanks for indulging me. But neither of those is true. To make a distance pickup like this one, you have to rely on the drink to do the talking for you; lines don’t work when you have to yell them. With a simple beginner’s course in bartending, you can learn to size up a lady’s liquor tastes simply by her clothes and her smell. Cigarettes covered up with perfume means a vodka tonic, or whiskey and water in the South. If her appearance looks to require more than ten minutes of assembly, daiquiris and margaritas are the way to go. And for diamonds, you always order up a Cosmo.
It’s not an exact science, but it’s a more than effective theorem. Small talk is easy after that, because she’s already associated you with the delicious and intoxicating beverage. Conversation is how you lure the mouse out of the hole, but even if she comes over, remember she can still walk away. Let the lady talk; the goal is to keep her engaged while making her comfortable with you. Contrary to popular belief, this is not as difficult as it sounds, if you just follow a simple formula: confidence plus wit times mystery, divided by safety, equals doable.
(C + W)M = D
S
I leave it intentionally vague, because these things are more like notes to a song than landmarks before a destination. How you play them is something that evolves out of your own style. Every player's game has its own unique signature, like a musician, which is why many single ladies on the circuit have a template of an abstract Mr. Wrong, compiled through bitterly recounted experience, that they have either cured themselves of, or wish they could. Or they haven't met him yet, but optimism like that sends you home to an empty bed, and who wants that? Take the Cosmo Girl for example—she came over to find out who knew her favorite drink. Though I can be a rather shady character if I haven't seen a razor in a few days and I reek of the good times, a solid white tie with just the right amount of drawl betrays class around these parts. Wit can't be learned, only practiced, but confidence can be counterfeited with astonishing ease.
Confidence can be the game-winning card if you play it at just the right moment, provided she doesn't call your bluff. Like when her fella comes around, curious who she's talking to. With eyes on the prize, casually hand him a ten and tell him to relax and go get a drink. When he protests, hand him another and tell him to buy two, all the while praying the lady doesn't want another Cosmo for convincing. But she doesn't, she's after a number, a name, a place—anything to validate her connection to this charming stranger. What takes place between two sinners behind closed doors is no business of anybody's in Georgia.
My conscience is screaming for attention when there's some bad noise up on the bar and the conga line is irreparably shattered. A polished piece of brass breaks above the crowd and comes down with a golf-like swoosh that cuts through the bass like a switchblade. I did not witness the ass-grabbing that Chinita screamed about as she clawed at the Abercrombie hustler, but I have no doubt that it had occurred—white pants had always been her curse. The poor fool recoils with a wounded dog whimper, holding his eye as Chinita demanded an apology. Didn't he know better than to just grab a lady? Indeed, didn't any of us know better? Weren't we all ashamed of ourselves, drinking to excess, lying to women, starting fights and groping nice ladies without a proper introduction? Alas, there was no time for guilt as I abandoned the belle and pushed my way through the crowd to the scene of the crime, for I saw the injured player had backup, an Aryan linebacker with a clock hanging from his neck and his fist cocked to throw a right. My only thought was that I had to save him, for little Chinita had benefited from years of hand-me-down military training, the gift of a loving father. I yelled that his friend got exactly what he deserved, and didn't bother to add that she had plenty left for him as well. I was trying to defuse this tense standoff between drunk jock and papal-raging Asian.
To no avail, none at all. When the rules are tossed out, whether in the name of anarchy or progress, all bets are off. Here was a situation where no one was acting like they had any sense, and the more we ignored the rules of decorum in pursuit of our own ends, the closer we came to destruction. I came back to the South to prove that things were not as bad as they seemed, but the whole time I was only learning the hard way, the only way we kids ever learn anything. The linebacker puckers his face into a "fuck you," but chokes on the syllables when I elbow him in the throat and shove him to the floor; any and all hopes for order and a peaceful resolution to anything are lost and I'm ready for the nosedive into chaos. Everything we respected is dead, all that is left for us is empty-headed violence and shallow sex, a generation of endorphin junkies begging each other for a hit. We tore down the dam, but replaced it nothing and now we are drowning.
But then out of nowhere, the bouncer decides to start doing his job and the aggressive energy of the whole mess breaks on him like a beach. He sees me barely holding back the irate Chinita and yells at me to get her out of here, points to the back door. This is an outrage, I have no problem telling him. "You throw those abercrombienaziscum out too, or I'll turn her loose on you. How good's your dental?" His face puckers, but he decides against it and signals his partner over to help take out the trash. I give my best shit-eating grin and escort my accomplice out the fire doors at the back into a thick and sweaty Georgia night, streets full of sinners checked only by the ever-vigilant hustlers, operating solely with impunity.
© Copyright 2006, BH Shepherd
This was the girl who smiled, but blinked as the photographer snapped the shot.
Making of a Writer
By Tony Robles
I don’t know why exactly, but I elected to take a typing class in my sophomore year in high school. I hadn’t given much thought to my future plans outside of school, but I thought I’d perhaps like to work in an office. What my capacity would be in an office, I had no idea. An office job or perhaps working at a newspaper. This didn’t make much sense, actually, because I neither read the paper nor knew how to type. My Grandfather kept telling me, “Get a trade, be a carpenter or a plumber.” My father saw I was useless with my hands from an early age and discouraged me from entertaining the idea of plumbing, saying that I’d smell “like shit” or a “gutter rat” and “What woman’s gonna want to have anything to do with you then?” I saw my choices as limited. I wasn’t good with my hands and I still did mathematical computations using my fingers. I figured the least I could do was learn to type. The first day of typing class we were greeted by our teacher, Mrs. Lefferdink, an older lady who resembled the women you see on old TV reruns in black and white. If you could genetically splice DNA from Lucille Ball, Our Miss Brooks, and Jackie Gleason’s TV wife, you’d end up with Mrs. Lefferdink. She wore dark-rimmed glasses attached to a gold chain, which swung like a jump rope. She ended up teaching typing and shorthand to the future office-workers of America before being put out to pasture.
Practically all the students in the class were girls. If there was another guy in there, he was well hidden. Most of the boys took wood or metal shop. I did miserably in those classes, nearly cutting off my thumb and a classmate’s arm at the elbow. I still don’t know how I managed that. I was petrified of the pretty girls in the class. They came into class with their books and shapely bodies. They made no eye contact; they were all business, each with the air of an executive secretary in the making. They sat with perfect posture. We sat down at separate desks each mounted with typewriters. On my first day of class, I sat at my typewriter and thought there had been some kind of mistake. I looked at the cold metallic machinery weighing down on the desk and discovered there were no letters on any of the keys.
Suddenly, Mrs. Lefferdink instructed us to begin our typing exercises. The keys popped and clicked; each strike reverberating across the room off the windows, sprinkled with the tinkling of bells. All those lovely girls with long lovely red fingertips ready to be worn down. Their toes were oftentimes the same color. It was difficult to concentrate on blank keys when there was so much to look at. I could barely move those typewriter keys. My mind flexed every which way, conforming to the curvature of each girl, their lovely legs and shoulders, my fingertips caressing their backs, their necks, running through their sweet smelling hair. I could paint a thousand masterpieces with my fingertips, but I couldn’t type a lousy 10 words per minute. Finally, Mrs. Lefferdink’s nasally voice ruined a good imaginary streak I had going when she said, “Ok class, stahhhp!” Many of the girls typed in the 50-WPM range, some even got as high as 75 WPM. When Mrs. Lefferdink checked my paper, I had typed all of 8.5 words a minute. I could feel the eyes of every girl in the class scrutinizing my paper. All of my spellings were incorrect except for the word “The.”
The girls seemed to remember all the keys and type consistently fast while I was always slow, not able to remember what letter corresponded with what key. I consistently got “D’s” or worse on typing tests. Perhaps there wasn’t much of a challenge for me. I couldn’t get too excited about typing such things as:
John Dough
Acme Bakeries
Dear Mr. Dough:
We have obtained accounts receivable information, and have discovered a discrepancy in regards to your bread (and so on).
The scripts we had to work from were so unimaginative that only a sadist could have thought them up. At any rate, the girls in the class were comfortable with the exercises, the scripts. They were fast and accurate and on the right track to that office job with the Acme’s of the world.
I thought I was doomed with my slow typing, destined to become a janitor or a security guard or cafeteria worker wearing a transparent shower cap—something along those lines. As I continued hitting the keys like slow feet upon mud, I heard a sound. It was clear and beautiful; although I didn’t realize it at the time.
Tink…tink…tink. Tink…tink…tink. 3 tinks and a pause, in a steady, rhythmic cadence; distinct—not drowned out by the rain of the other keys chiming and clambering upon the windows and floors like a rainstorm. No, this tinkling was like delicate raindrops, falling in a pond, dissolving into shimmering light. The sounds came from a girl sitting 5 or so seats away. I hadn’t noticed her until I paused during a memory lapse. Her name was Karen. She was the girl in school everyone was ambivalent about, including her teachers. She was below average looking, and seemed to waddle rather than walk down the halls. She held her books tightly to her chest. She very rarely spoke to anyone. She was the girl in the yearbook whose head was too big, more than the ordinary or professional camera could handle. This was the girl who smiled, but blinked as the photographer snapped the shot. In the overall ambivalence toward her, the photographer decided not to retake the picture because no one would care anyway.
Tink…tink…tink! Those were magic sounds. It reminded me that there was another like me, a bad typist. But it made me feel satisfied in a sinister way, in that while I was a bad typist, at least I wasn’t an outcast like this girl with the large head. My ears focused on the tinkling of her typewriter and I raced her toward something. For every one of her tinks, I pounded 3 tinks, sometimes 4. The satisfaction came when Mrs. Lefferdink strolled by and declared “Anthony, you’re much improved. 15 words a minute!” Karen typed all of 8 or 9 words. I felt good but it was soon forgotten. It was on to more exercises and tests. Karen sometimes tossed a squint over at me; we’d catch each other’s eyes, knowing we were both in the same boat, but I’d avert my eyes, denying any connection. Once, after class, Karen spoke to me.
“Hi, I’m Karen.”
“I’m Anthony,” I replied.
Karen looked at me with clear, full eyes. She smiled then dropped her eyes to the floor, then glanced up again. She had beautiful teeth. White like piano keys.
“Typing is pretty hard, huh?”
I shook my head and looked beyond her to the bodies walking to and fro in the hall. Karen walked alongside me, saying nothing. I had nothing to say.
“Well, I gotta go. See ya.”
I walked off to the next class leaving Karen someplace.
I wanted glances from the other girls, the pretty girls, which never came. The class eventually ended and it was on to my junior year. I still saw Karen from time to time, often sitting alone nursing a carton of milk. I once saw her reading a book of love poetry. She always seemed to be alone, jotting things down in a book. During our graduation ceremony, she was there, sitting a few seats away. I caught her squinting eyes again. The other girls in that typing class were surely going places. Their tassels dripped ambition—college, office work, families and success. I never ended up with a job at Acme. I’ve worked mostly average jobs—security guard, janitor—things like that. Right now, I work at an insurance company downtown. But I always remember the little bit I learned in Mrs. Lefferdink’s class. And Karen is probably still hitting the keys, no doubt a poet, making sounds like leaves hitting water, which I can hear right now. Her light sparkles in my memory like a big moon floating. And I’m proud to tell you that I’ve typed this story for her with my eyes closed. Tink … tink … tink.
© Copyright 2005, Tony Robles
VII: Sonnet: Emerald Rain. (To Melanie M.)
By Kalae S. Anthony
Bring now an emerald rain to grayglass skies.
Bring now the twilight rose to noontide's heat;
You've lent the seas her blue and sighing eyes;
Now give the world her beauty: full, complete.
The sun is blonde and crowned with golden bands
And lights my pilgrim path and traveler’s days;
The tender winds caress me with her hands;
Upon her faithful breast, my head I lay.
Bring now my shipwrecked heart to promised land.
Draw closed the curtain of this stifling air;
Call up the dawn and leave me in her hands
And let my heart remain in her heart’s care.
And when the emerald rain has come and passed,
Then let forever carve its mark at last . . .
© Copyright 2005, Kalae S. Anthony
Lukas Sherman
20 January 2006
Essaying the Romantic Sonnet (Italian)
I haven’t written a sonnet for years;
Since college probably. I wrote about time.
I struggled, as I still do, with the rhymes.
I play music, maybe I’ll have a few beers
Or something to loosen the pen, to get
The words to behave, to get in the mood
For writing on love. My roommate asks “Dude,
Are you writing poetry?” “A sonnet,
I reply. “It is a 14 line form
Made famous by Shake--” He’s left the room.
Where was I? Oh, trying to write for you.
I really want it to be good. To start a storm
In your heart, to make your insides go “boom,”
I’d dig up Milton. Here’s all I can do.
Essaying the Romantic Sonnet II (English)
Let’s try again. The first wasn’t so hot,
Not very romantic, just lots of words
Milling around, pooping, eating a lot,
Taking up space like some sleepy-eyed herds.
Wait. This is supposed to be romantic.
Well, I’m not in love with you or myself,
Despite what you said. Not to be pedantic,
But a strong ego is good for the health.
(sigh) Come on, who writes sonnets anyway?
Who the (swear word) is this Petrarch guy?
Really, seriously, no one today,
Reads it. After all, we don’t write or die
I’m sorry. I failed. Now it’s the couplet.
Oh, forget this; I’ll make you an omelet.
© Copyright Lukas Sherman
The interior moved in a strange purplish light that emanated from the statuette, ricocheting like countless bullets onto any surface it could find within the house.
THE HOUSE THAT SPOKE
By Oscar Cintronmarina
The doorbell rang. Nothing. It rang again and again, yet instead of a reverberation, the shrillness of the bell slipped into the innumerable crevices of the home. Like wind finding a welcoming outlet.
The doorknob turned but it was locked. Then slowly, but steadily, the doorknob vibrated like the door—violently. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. No crickets. No sound. Silence!
The dreary, wet night spoke no warning as the front door of the house came splintering inward from the impact of the one who had forced its way in. The Steam-Beast crossed the threshold of the living room and stood still in the middle of it. It looked around with piercing, steaming eyes! The powerful creature’s eyes narrowed as it espied what it had sought. It slumbered toward statuette … but a sound stayed the Steam-Beast and it cocked its enormous deadly head, like a bird of prey, attentively. An unseen slush-sucking, slimy sound, slid across the wooden floor toward the intruder. Yet the bestial thing could not keep its eyes from the statuette that glowed an eerie purple upon detecting the Steam-Beast. The slimy suction was nearing the abnormality and the sound it produced would make a worm squirm in its dark narrow tunnels.
The interior moved in a strange purplish light that emanated from the statuette, ricocheting like countless bullets onto any surface it could find within the house. The Steam-Beast glaring at the icon and guessing something was amiss, shot a blast of steam from its eyes effectively extinguishing the statuette’s attempt to increase its power.
Dragging its knuckles, the Steam-Beast turned and faced the now approaching Sucking-Sickness that meant to keep it from the statuette. A horrific grrrrraaaah exploded from wells of its throat and the Steam-Beast charged the Sucking-Sickness that heaved and pulsed gooey fluids of stickiness from every pore throughout its changing mass.
Sensing the attack, the Sucking-Sickness rose in height into a large dough-like mass to meet the dreadnought in battle. Its enormous eye surfaced from below the blubbering body, exposing a large white iris with countless glowing yellow veins streaming from it to the outer edges of the massive red burgeoning eye. The iris was randomly dotted with multiple pupils varying in sizes depending on the angles of light striking them. The yellow ooze moved like molten lava within the veins, feeding its organ of keen sight.
The Steam-Beast, unhindered by the obvious bluff, drove its grayish-black pointed crystallized head into the eye. Yellow sloppy blood splattered in every imaginable direction. The Sucking-Sickness lifted the beast from the ground and shook it forcefully and erratically all over the room, with quick and wild epileptic movements on par to that of a beheaded snake. Chairs, tables, and anything in their way were destroyed or displaced. Walls were barreled through and it appeared that the wounded slug-like creature wound never cease its quivering dance. But, the dance suddenly became less pronounced and the energy slowly subsided until the Sucking-Sickness lay still on the kitchen floor.
The sickening sucking sound was no more. The Steam-Beast pulled its yellow-stained head from the cumbersome creature, shook its pointed skull several times, like a lion after a bloody feast, and satisfied with the results proceeded back into the living room. The statuette was gone! Rage filled the steam-eyed thing and it roared terribly, drooling all the while.
A swirling purple Spectre—a shadow, no less, caught the eyes of the creature. The Steam-Beast’s eyes instantly flared as they followed the floating Spectre up the staircase. The dark swirling, purple Spectre seeped into a wall and simply vanished.
Forgetting the intrusion of the Spectre and not recognizing it for what it was, the Steam-Beast began its search for the statuette. Desperation cried out in all of its movements. Like a crazed storm it swept through each room raking, crushing, and pounding everything in its fruitless search—but no statuette rewarded its efforts. Up the staircase it went to wreak havoc as it had just done below, when from nowhere and everywhere a voice spoke. It was a voice filled with dreadful notes with the power to snap bones by a mere utterance. Ghastly and methodical, it spoke slowly and distinctly.
“Steam-Beast!” the voice sternly said. “You fool! You are too late to return me back into your foul caverns. It took considerable time but I was able, through cruel focused will, to increase my power of movement by mere thought. I admire you Aocnochians! How you found me so quickly astonishes me and feeds my interest to learn how, but there will be time for that soon enough. The Sucking-Sickness kept you occupied long enough to allow me the precious time I needed to escape the confines of that confounded statuette. My power had weakened during the tremendous strain of the move.” The Spectre began to laugh as it watched the Steam-Beast looking in all directions for the source of the voice.
“Don’t be so confused,” continued the voice. “You saw me a moment ago enter one of the walls. And if you must find the statuette in order to believe what I say, so be it. Go to the mantle above the fireplace where you saw it last, but look within the fireplace—there you will find what remains of the shell that once encased me.”
The Steam-Beast growled its anger, and slanked[1] back down the staircase and finally toward the fireplace. There it pushed its taloned, hand-like appendages into the burnt wood and with some effort retrieved the lifeless and broken statuette. Again, the Spectre laughed unpleasantly.
“You failed, warrior! I am free once more!” it said triumphantly. “Unfortunately you’re just a warrior … a follower with orders and very little knowledge about what you were sent to retrieve. Your Counsel knows me well and I will repay them in kind in due time. As for you, you will be a sample of my revenge—the penalty for daring to imprison me. Finding me was your doom, my friend, and now it is time for me to administer a small dose of my power.” There was a moment of silence, then the house came to life. The walls like clay simultaneously shot out tentacles toward the Steam-Beast and restrained it from all directions. Eagle-spread and lifted from the floor, the Steam-Beast blasted the tentacles that restrained it, but all its attempts were futile. Its roars shook the very foundation of the house; but, the hold the voice had on the Steam-Beast, held.
A foreboding sound caught the attention of the prisoner, its eyes narrowing and forcing steam into the cool air as it sought by sight what it new by sound. “You know the sound,” said the Spectre tauntingly. The now familiar, slithering, sucking sound could be heard coming from all directions. The Steam-Beast contracted its face in a grimace, exposing many medium-sized fangs running along the entire perimeters of its upper and lower jaws. “You destroyed one of them, but I have more of these rudimentary peons at my disposal. But, before they have their way with your worthless carcass, allow me to warm it up for your incoming friends.” The swirling purple Spectre blasted the poor creature with shots of its purplish burning fire coming from pinholes from all facets of the house. The Steam-Beast went into spasms of pain, straining with all its might at the supernatural restraints. When the blasts ended and it was sufficiently recovered, the Steam-Beast, in turn, blasted its boring steam into the house in retaliation, causing the house to tighten its clutch on the beast’s appendages all the more. The tentacles were covered in an eerie purple light that moved in and out of them. Slowly, they tried to pull the beast apart in opposite directions like a wishbone. Yet, the Steam-Beast was strong and it would not be pulled apart to its death so easily. Even with its waning strength, it managed to stave off the attempted split of its body. “Amazing!” marveled the Spectre. “That was indeed an incredible feat of strength! What a waste! Warriors such as you, as my minions, would work wonders; but your loyalty is, undeniably, unshakeable and thus not even your innate strength can save you now,” said the Spectre, feigning the sound of lamentation.
The house moved in a warped fashion, as if it swayed to and fro by a blowing wind. But there was no wind, except that produced by the Sucking-Sicknesses as they wheezed and crawled toward their shackled victim. Their horrible sound and stench heralded their presence.
Five Sucking-Sicknesses left in their wake a trail of slime slush-sucking spittle on all sides. Their slow bunched movements only prolonged the inevitable. The Steam-Beast’s horrendous features appeared calm, except for the eyes. Grayish-white steam was building and the pressure shook the beast like a small quake; it realized that this was its final battle. One, it could destroy and perhaps two—but five would be a veritable feat and restrained … there was no chance.
Slush, suck! Slush, suck! Slush, suck!
All five were now inches from the stoic Steam-Beast and their slush-sucking sound was deafening. Their excitement was a pandemonium of shrill screams mixed with a sputtering, frothy, gooey, yellow slime that was ejected omni-directionally by their entire bodies.
“They’re waiting for the command,” the Steam-Beast thought to itself. And no sooner was this thought gone than the voice of its tormentor filled the house anew. “Your Counsel should have destroyed me when I was in their power! But the Aocnochian Counsel in their ignorance and fear of my power became irrational and you will now pay for their foolishness! Did they truly believe that a spellbound statuette could hold me forever?” the Spectre yelled. “In oblivion there is no vengeance—there is no coming back!” It shrieked, and the waves of its voice forced the house to fold and wobble upon itself.
The Steam-Beast wasted no further time and blasted away at the foremost Sucking-Sickness bursting its huge emerging eye—its body contracting from the intense searing heat. It blasted another one and this one too reacted similarly. But the one behind it was free from the Steam-Beast’s deadly onslaught. Opening a hole below its wicked eye, a strong suction funnel-like tube shot out quickly. The larger end of the orifice was lined by powerful gripping-ripping teeth used to grab and hold flesh; and once taken in, the grinding molars in the center of the tube would turn the ripped flesh into a pulp for consumption.
The right leg was the first to be sucked into the orifice of the Sucking-Sickness. First the crack! The bone was broken and the Steam-Beast began blasting blindly in all directions simultaneously with its torturous roars of agony. Its leg drenched by its spurting blue blood, left its body and was quickly sucked into the maw of merciless Sucking-Sickness behind the bleeding warrior of Aocnoch.
One reared up and began tearing out the side of the Steam-Beast, while another repeated the procedure on the left leg. A great pool of blue blood covered the wooden glossy floor and as the steam blasts from the Steam-Beast waned, it slowly laid its triangular chin upon its massive chest with the last vestiges of steam escaping its eyes like a cold breath escaping the night.
Feeling that the life of the Steam-Beast had ebbed, the brilliant purplish tentacles protruding from the walls released the creature, and what was left of it splattered into the pool of blood as it struck the floor where the din of the feeding Sucking-Sicknesses still prevailed.
A gentle laughter of triumph echoed throughout the house and the swirling purple Spectre, exited the wall it had entered and hovered over the noisy feeding frenzy of the Sucking-Sicknesses. Two purple eyes gleamed for a moment like blazing white torches before being summarily extinguished. It floated through one of the broken windows and glided into the night sky, becoming one with the darkness.
© Copyright Oscar Cintronmarina
