Journey’s End

By  Myrna Beth Lambert

I grew up in Southern Florida, not the Florida that evokes images of magnificent hotels and white sandy beaches, but the section of Florida comprised of impoverished families and ramshackle homes.

My community in Palmetto Beach was Sun Valley Estates. This name brings to mind large homes and a grand style of living in the sunshine state of Florida. The reality was a few acres of land housing about twenty little trailer homes with a few narrow dirt roads weaving in and out of the matchbox tracts. These homes were faded white aluminum dwellings with a dull blue trim across their roofs.

In front of each of the trailers stood an inexpensive metal or plastic patio chair and an occasional trinket, such as a wind chime, a flowerpot, or a plastic Heron placed on the grass next to the owner’s front door. These cheap little accessories distinguished one home from another.

Often in the back of a trailer, a clothesline filled with the day’s wash fluttered in the breeze or baked in the hot sun.

There was little privacy in this small community, because the trailers were in close proximity. Family feuds could be heard throughout the trailer park.

Yet, this close knit group of people was very private and their secrets remained within the tight little compound.

I grew up in this world, the only child amidst retired and unemployed elderly people.

My little trailer consisted of three rooms, a tiny kitchen nook, a small sitting room with a hide-a-bed sofa and a little bathroom that had a miniscule shower stall, small sink, and toilet. This was home and here begins my story.

My mother scraped and saved working odd jobs, waitressing, doing domestic work and bartending at night until she had enough money to buy her little piece of the pie (as she used to say), and this little trailer was it.

I never knew my father. I don’t think Mama knew him well either. She said they were two ships, each on a different course.

Mama’s parents had passed away soon after I was born and there wasn’t any other family. She and I were it.

I was nine years old when we moved to Sun Valley Estates, small for my age with wavy brown hair and blue eyes that missed nothing.

We arrived with two small battered suitcases and a large black trash bag filled with odds and ends such as a few pots and dishes, a few towels, and a down blanket. The blanket was Mama’s prize possession. At one time, it was a bright yellow. Now, it was faded and tattered, but still kept us warm on cool nights.

Mama was only home a short while every day, so I roamed the compound, visiting the neighbors. Soon I became the adopted granddaughter of my elderly friends.

Mama usually returned home around five o’clock each day. She hurriedly made dinner, which consisted of a can of spaghetti and a slice of bread or canned soup and a peanut butter sandwich. Then she opened the sofa, gave me a quick peck on the cheek and was out the door to work the night shift.

She drove to and from her various jobs in an old Ford pick-up truck, which was gray and rusted. Mama’s friend Cody, who was a mechanic, kept the old truck finely tuned.

The neighborhood men said that Mama was a good-looking woman. They often stared when she walked past. She was small and trim. Her tight mini skirts and skimpy shirts hugged her small breasts and showed off her figure, and the spiked heels she wore added inches to her height.

We spent little time together, for she came home late at night. She would quietly creep into bed and curl up next to me and we would both sleep soundly under the soft down comforter.

During the day, I sometimes went to school; that is, when the bus remembered to stop for me. Since I was the only child at the bus stop in front of the community gate, the bus often just rode by, forgetting a child lived there.

I was registered at the local school, but on days I didn’t appear, nobody seemed to miss me because no inquiries were made. But I received an extraordinary education, just hanging around the trailer camp.

Uncle Yuri (who really wasn’t my uncle, but insisted I call him that) was a nice old man. He sat outside on a white plastic chair most of the day in his striped shorts and sleeveless T-shirt reading his favorite Russian authors, Tolstoy and Chekhov.

“Their stories remind me of my childhood home,” he said.

Sometimes, he would read a particular passage to me, preceded by an explanation. Imagine explaining Tolstoy to a nine-year-old. Then, he would ask questions. If my answers were to his liking, he gave me a hug and a licorice stick.

After I finished Tolstoy, I would stop at Mrs. Sweeny’s trailer. She was a kind old woman who spoke with an Irish accent and loved to talk about her childhood home in Ireland. In the center of her sitting room stood a huge world globe. During each visit, she carried a tray of homemade cookies and lemonade into the room and we studied the globe, looking for her little town in Ireland as she recounted tales of her youth. She came to Florida as a married woman with her now departed husband, Brock. She had lived in her trailer for many years, too many to remember, she said. After she finished her story of Ireland, she would go into a trance and forget I was there, so I would quietly leave and head down the dirt road to the next trailer.

Juan and Marina lived next door to Mrs. Sweeny and they fought a lot. Marina was always yelling at Juan in Spanish.

“Hola mi amiga, estoy listo,” (Hello my friend, I am ready) he would say as I approached his home.

He would then hand me a little shovel and together we would plant Peonies, English lavender and a variety of seeds known to Juan.

Juan and Marina had the prettiest front garden in the tract.He loved his flowers and would often talk to them. He said at least flowers couldn't talk back. As we worked together, Juan spoke to me in Spanish. He would explain each word in English and insist I repeat it in his native tongue.

Before long, I had graduated to whole simple sentences and after a time, I conversed fluently in Spanish with Juan and Marina.

After I helped tend Juan and Marina’s garden, I hastened to my favorite trailer.

This was Mrs. Orenstein’s spotlessly clean home, which held the sweetest aromas. Mrs. Orenstein was a chubby woman who wore a white apron and a big smile. She always greeted me with a warm hug and an invitation to stay for lunch. Mrs. Orenstein set a beautiful table, using her fine china and white linen tablecloth.

She said, “It is very important to set a proper table when entertaining guests .The right utensil must be used for each course.” 

We would put our napkins in our laps and then proceed to take helpings of fish or meatballs with spoonfuls of steaming rice. This was a daily fare.

Mrs. Orenstein said I was the grandchild she never had and on occasion she would give me a present. Once, she gave me a new skirt and jean jacket and another time, she gave me a bracelet with little charms. The charms were symbols of her Jewish religion and she explained each one to me with so much joy in her voice I thought she would burst out singing. She would always hug me as I was leaving. Then she would say, “Until tomorrow shana madel,” which means pretty girl in Jewish.

My last stop before I headed home was usually the Ferranti house. The Ferrantis were a kind and gentle couple. Mrs. Ferranti was a tiny lady who always wore her hair in a bun and Mr. Ferranti was a big man. He had a fat belly that hung outside his pants and when he laughed, it rolled like the waves lapping and receding from the shoreline. They had tea and biscotti outside their trailer at 3 o’clock every afternoon and always set a place at their little table for me.

On the side of Mr. Ferranti’s trailer was a basketball hoop. Here he taught me how to play basketball. Mr. Ferranti said the hoop was put there for his little boy, but one day his son was all grown up and went north. I promised him I would always play with him and that made him smile. One day he said, “Never make a promise you may not be able to keep. Children grow up and they have to make lives for themselves. You won’t always live here.” At the time, that seemed hard to believe.

One day, I arrived home a few minutes before 5 o’clock to meet my mother, but she didn’t come home for dinner, which was most unusual. She didn’t come home the next morning, either. I became worried and ran to Mrs. Orenstein’s house. She called a meeting of the neighbors and they said they would make some inquiries.

That night, I stayed at Mrs. Orenstein’s after making her promise to leave a message for Mama.

Several weeks went by without a note from my mother. I was very worried, but the neighbors reassured me that she was fine and would return soon.

One day, two women from a place called DCFS visited the neighbors. They said there was a report of a little girl living alone at the trailer park. My friends professed innocence and the investigators left.

Mrs. Orenstein said that if these people appeared again, I was to hide or I would be taken away to an orphanage. I became frightened and leery of strangers.

I was now an illegal ward of Sun Valley Estates. Each of my neighbors became my unofficial guardian and they each home schooled me in the subject they knew best. I learned about great books from Uncle Yuri and the Spanish language from Juan and Marina. Mrs. Sweeney taught me geography and Mrs. Orenstein taught me math and proper etiquette.

About two months after Mama vanished, Mrs. Orenstein received a letter from her. She had gone to Chicago to visit a sick friend and asked if Mrs. Orenstein would look after me until she returned. Enclosed was a twenty-dollar bill.

I visited my house each day, but slept at Mrs. Orenstein’s each night and I spent my days the same as before my mother disappeared. Sometimes, Mrs. Sweeny took me shopping and the Ferantinis took me to a carnival. I had stopped attending school, because I wasn't supposed to exist in Reed County anymore. My elderly friends worried that I wasn't getting a proper education and tutored me as often as they could.

I missed my mother, but she had spent so little time with me that I wasn’t sure exactly what I missed. The nights were the hardest. I would wrap myself in her down comforter and pretend she was sleeping next to me.

The neighbors in my community had now become my family and they tried their best to keep me happy.

Eventually, Mama sent a few letters to me, in care of Mrs. Orenstein. She said to stay with the neighbors and not to worry for she would soon return. Her letters to Mrs. Orenstein always had a crisp twenty-dollar bill attached.  None of the letters had a return address. We knew they came from Chicago because of the postmark, but we had no idea why she was in Chicago. To my knowledge, she had no friends there. We suspected she had gone with her friend Cody, because he disappeared about the same time as Mama.

Weeks turned into months and months into years. Mama never returned.

When I was 13, my family decided I should attend high school. Mrs. Orenstein enrolled me as a relative who had come to live with her. While the school awaited transcripts (which didn't exist), they gave me tests for placement. My educators had done a fine job and I scored very high on the placement tests.

I did very well in school and four years went by swiftly. I made no friends at school, because I was afraid they would discover I lived alone without proper adult supervision, but I did get a job at the local supermarket.

Soon, I graduated with honors. I won a scholarship to Florida State and with my few belongings and help from Mrs. Orenstein, I moved out of the trailer park to the University. The family was so proud of me. It was as though my degree belonged to all of them.

My mother continued to send letters to Mrs. Orenstein every other month and eventually gave her a box number where she could be reached. She seldom wrote to me.

Last week, I graduated from Florida University with a degree in journalism and the promise of a job with the Miami Scope Newspaper.

Of course, Mama didn't come back for this event, but she did send a gift. Mama signed over the deed to the trailer to me. This was the only present I ever remember receiving from her.

Mrs. Orenstein, who has been like a mother to me, helped me sell the trailer.

The first thing I shall do with the money from the sale is to purchase a TV for her. She will miss me and I am hoping the TV will occupy her time while I am away. I will also repay the money she laid out for my clothes and books for college. She had saved those twenty dollar bills which were supposed to help feed and clothe me. Mrs. Orenstein had kept them in a shoe box for my college education.

I will use some of the money to rent an apartment near the newspaper and following Mrs. Orenstein’s advice, I will place some of the money in a savings account for a rainy day. I will also mail a portion of the proceeds to my mother. I still have not sorted out my feelings for her. They range from anger to indifference.

I am sure one day we will meet again and have a long talk, for I still cannot imagine why a mother would abandon her child to a bunch of strangers and never look back.

Before I go to Miami, I will attend a graduation party in my honor, hosted by my family. I owe them so much: my well being, my education, and my survival. Mr. Ferranti (who passed away two years ago) was right. One day children do grow up and move away, but that doesn’t mean they have to sever all ties with the people they love. I shall never abandon my loved ones. As the Sun Valley Estates of Palmetto Beach was my home, so were these people my family. As one journey comes to an end, another journey begins.

© Copyright 2005, Myrna Beth Lambert

Acknowledgements:

“Ode to Michael Jordan” (poem) published by Pioneer Press Newspapers 2002

“Serenade to Youth” (poem) Voicesnet Poetry Prize third place award      2005

“The Bag Lady” (poem) award of merit

Shadow Poetry Contest April 15, 2005 

“Journey’s End” Tom Howard/John Reid 2005 short story contest 13

Winner of one of top ten awards ( not published)

“The Bag Lady” (short story) Winner of Spider Thief Publishing’s short story contest, April 2005 

“Memories in a Tin Box” (non-fiction) semi finalist Cup of Comfort Contest

 “A Medal of Valor” (poem) accepted for publication in Penwomanship Magazine

October 2005 issue

The Father Daughter Dance accepted for publication in Chicken Soul for the Recovering Soul March 2006 issue.

“The Storyteller” Notable entry award from Saturday Writer’s 4th Annual short story contest.

 “My Folklore” (poem) accepted for publication in Humdinger E-zine January 2006 Edition.

I was among the hundreds of homeless people who made the bridge their home.

DISSOLVING

By Thomas W. Sypek

I am a snow angel, lying face up with my arms outstretched in the December snow ready to take flight, the night a canvas filled with millions of crystallized refugees falling silently on me. Very soon, I will merge with them and become part of the white landscape. I will dissolve into nothingness. I will die.

How long does it take a man to die? I have seen men die in bits and pieces like an unfinished puzzle. I have seen other men die in an instant without a sign that they ever lived. I myself have died in short, prolonged volleys of fire stretched out over a rocky terrain.

Don’t get me wrong; it hasn’t all been rocket and gun fire. There have been brief moments in my long life that were peaceful and serene, times when laughter and joy filled me like a Christmas stocking. Times, if I had any sense at all, I would have held on to for dear life, with all the strength I had in me. I did not realize that until I lost everything. Some of us only come alive in death.

Let me introduce myself.  I am Louie Janaslaski, and once upon time I had a life. I had a wife, Muriel, two children, Paul and Lisa, and a modest home in South Boston. But that was once upon a time; that part of my life is gone forever. All I can remember is now and how I got here.

I remember making my daily rounds of Carson Beach in South Boston or as the natives like to call it, Southie. I pulled my old Army jacket collar up. I had three pairs of socks, two sweaters, a woolen hat pulled over my ears, and a pair of gloves and two shirts. You learn to dress that way when you are out in the streets. In the summer, I slept on the beach, but in the winter it was just too damn cold.

During the early morning, I made my way out from under the Broadway Bridge. The bridge connects Southie with downtown Boston and its surrounding areas. I was among the hundreds of homeless people who made the bridge their home. I rode the City Point bus to the last stop on Farrugut Road and from there, I crossed to Day Boulevard. Boston Harbor unfolded in all directions. When the weather permitted, I often walked from Castle Island to the Kennedy Library looking for empty soda and beer cans. Today, I just didn’t have the energy or the stamina to do so.

The first stop on my way to Castle Island was Kelly’s Landing. It was deserted, its wharfs empty of people, but in the summer, it was a favorite gathering spot for people who wanted to taste their worldwide famous fried clams. I had no fear about not finding enough cashable cans, because everybody used the beach for one big partying area. There were always cans to pick up, especially in the overflowing MDC garbage cans.

A few early morning joggers passed me. I was invisible to them. I picked the barrels clean and headed for the breezeway that made up part of the Lagoon and Sugar Bowl. At one time, when I was boy, you could walk across a covered bridge that linked the Sugar Bowl with Castle Island. The bridge was now gone; in its place was a paved walkway made up of huge granite rocks. It formed a crescent circle out to the Sugar Bowl and Castle Island. Locks controlled the tides and made part of the beach a lagoon.

As I made my way out to the Sugar Bowl, seagulls overhead were doing their morning dance, swooping and gliding, floating upon the winds, diving into the ocean looking for their breakfast. I thought how like them I am; we are scavengers, free. One of seagulls glided in and I could almost touch him. Their screeching to each other is deafening, as if someone was trying to kill them.

An airplane flew over my head making its way in for a landing at Logan Airport, which was across the bay. The seagulls scattered. Then, there was an earth-shattering boom like an explosion. I hit the ground. Incoming, I thought. Protect yourself. Cover yourself. It’s incoming.

“Mister…mister, is anything wrong?”

“What? Run for cover, the Nazis will get you!”

“What are you talking about, Mister? Do you need help?” There was another loud blast.

“Run. Get out of here.” I got up and ran, as fast as my sixty-year-old feet could carry me. In my rush to escape, I almost lost my plastic bag with my cans.

“It’s only the electric plant blowing out their stacks; that’s all it is, Mister,” I could hear the young man yelling at me. I didn’t stop until I reached the Sugar Bowl. The young man didn’t know what he was talking about. I know the sound of incoming when I hear it. I was a veteran of World War Two, a survivor of the Battle of The Bulge. I knew the sound of mortar shells. I had heard that fluttering eerie sound too many times, smelled their burnt cordite, the burnt flesh it left in its wake. It haunted my dreams.

I was out of breath when I sat down on one of the concrete benches that formed a circle in the middle of the Sugar Bowl. The sky was battleship gray. It was starting to snow. It fell, lightly dissolving on my nose and face. There were so many different patterns, so many snowflakes drifting, floating, and disappearing into the waves.

The wind was brisk on my face as I crossed the pathway to the island. I picked up my pace. Fort Independence loomed ahead of me, its cannons long silenced. Edgar Allan Poe, my favorite author, once walked its battlements under the name of Edgar A Perry. While he was stationed here, he wrote and published Tamerland and Other Poems.

I made my way to the old radar station that was in front of the fort. It was now the home of The Castle Island Association. Its members jokingly called it the waiting room for O’Brian’s Funeral Home, because most of its members were one step away from the grave. At the radar station, you could stop and rest from jogging or walking and have a cup of coffee. There everyone was welcomed. The smell of coffee lured me in.

I left my plastic bag at the entrance and entered the enjoining room.

“Good morning, Louis. Little nip in the air this morning. You’re up early.”

“Yeah, want some coffee?”

“That’s a stupid question to ask the man, Joe. Of course, he does. Don’t ya, Louis? You’re not very talkative this morning, Louis.”

“Give the man time to warm up, Moe.” Joe handed me a cup of coffee.

      The Mutt and Jeff act were two old school chums I had gone to school with in Southie. They had been at my wedding. I took off my gloves and stuffed them in my jacket pocket. I warmed my hands over the pot-belled stove in the middle of the room. I got myself a cup of coffee and sat down. I loved it here. Ghosts and memories walked the island. It was here I met my wife.

“Tell us a story, Louis.”

“Yeah, tell us a story, Louis.” Moe echoed.

“Must you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Repeat everything I say. I swear, Joe, sometimes I feel like . . .”

“Like what, Moe?”

“Guys, aren’t you tired of my stories?”

“We are, Louis, but there is nothing else to do.”

I wasn’t listening to the Mutt and Jeff act. I stood lost, staring out the window, running my fingers in circles, remembering. I was walking through the Ardennes Forest in Belgium carrying my M-1 “Garand” rifle. It was heavy, but is saved a hell of a lot of lives. It was snowing then too.

“Tell us how you won the Purple Heart.”

“Yeah, tell us how you won the Purple Heart.”

A heavy overcast filled the Ardennes Forest, obscuring the moon and the starlight. Fog covered the ground, making it nearly impossible to see the enemy until they were on top of you.

“Those trees are moving.” I screamed. “They are moving.”

“Trees don’t move.” The brothers like Siamese twins chorused.

“They have come alive. Run.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Yeah, what are you talking about?”

I was lost, lost in the Forest of Ardennes. Why couldn’t I forget?

“They are moving. They are walking snowmen.”

“What the hell is he talking about, Moe?”

“He’s talking about the Battle of the Bulge; don’t you remember the story?”

“Yeah, sure I remember. He’s talking about the Battle of the Bulge.”

I started to shake uncontrollably. I couldn’t stop shaking. I dropped my coffee cup, smashing it to the floor. “The Krauts took us by surprise.”

“You told us that before.”

“Yeah, you told us that before. They were dressed like American soldiers, right?”

“How many of those Kraut bastards did you kill, Louis?”

“Yeah, how many of those Kraut bastards did you kill, Louis?”

I stopped shaking. I didn’t mind telling bits and pieces of my war stories once and in awhile. It was my way of getting a drink. Besides, it cleansed my soul. Shit, that was a lie. I didn’t believe in any soul. I had lost mine when the Germans captured me. I had lost it when I saw what a bastard God could be. I started to laugh aloud.

“He’s going nuts, Moe.”

“He’s not going nuts, Joe.”

“I tell ya, he is going nuts, Moe.”

“And I tell ya, he’s not, Joe.”

I stopped laughing. Joe and Moe stood staring at me. I looked at my watch.

“I got to go.”

“You didn’t answer our question, Louis.”

“Yeah, you didn’t answer our question, Louis.” Moe and Joe said in unison.

“What was your question?”

“How many of those Kraut bastards did you kill?”

            “I didn’t kill any; they killed me.”

I left them with a puzzled look on their faces. Outside, December lived up to its reputation. Winter in New England can be hell. My hell was December 17, 1944. I died that day—along with 19,000 American soldiers.

As I made my way off the island those times and days seemed like flies caught in a spider’s web. No matter how much I struggled to free myself, I couldn’t. The spider always ate me.

I stopped long enough to take a drink from the half pint of whiskey I had in my coat. It warmed me for a while. That’s what booze does for you. It warms you for a while, and then you are right back were you started from, back in the spider’s web. I found an open corner store and cashed in my bottles and cans. It would give me enough money for the bus across the bridge.

The bus driver stopped across the street from The Boston Herald newspaper building. I got off and walked across the street to Harrison Ave and from there to my home. Scattered under the bridge, our encampment was wrecked cars, cardboard homes, and the debris of other people’s lives. Be it ever so humble, this ant colony was home.

In the fifties, I had a different kind of home. I lived in the best part of Southie, the east side. My home was a three-decker on Farragut Road. The road was named after Admiral David Glasgow Farragut, “Hero of Mobile Bay.” I had bought the house for my bride, Muriel; Muriel with her long, luminous, chestnut hair and thin, smooth, alabaster legs. Paul was our first born. Paul always had that far away, I’m-in-another-world look in his eyes. He had the deepest dimples; you could lose a finger in them. Lisa, I don’t remember. She was only a baby when I left. All of that was once upon a time to me. Alcohol had ended that fairytale forever.

 The darkness under the bridge was illuminated by several camp fires.

Inhabitants of our village were drinking, cooking, reading and others argued

and screamed at each other. I walked out from under the bridge and down to

the river to my home. The wrecked car was covered with snow. I was about

to open the door when I was jumped from behind and lifted in the air.

My head hit the car door. Somebody was holding my legs while two others grabbed my right and left arms.

I screamed, “Let go of me, you bastards.”

They swung me around facing them.

“You talkin’ to me, bum?” the one holding my legs said.

“No, I’m talking to your two sisters,” I spat out.

The boy holding my feet was as tall as I was, six feet. He was a throwback from a fifties movie, dressed in a black leather jacket and faded denims. He seemed to be the leader.

“He’s a regular Robin Williams isn’t he, Bob?” 

Bob, the boy holding my right arm, didn’t answer.

“I said, isn’t he, Bob?”

Bob was, I would say, sixteen. He was a Charlie Brown kid of a boy. On his face he wore the look of a new recruit, a grunt. He was fresh meat waiting to be cooked.

“I’m talkin’ to you, pussy.”

“Kevin is talking to you, Bob. You deaf, pussy?”

The other part of the trio, a teenage Hispanic holding the other arm, was dressed like a twentieth century Casanova. He slapped Bob with his free hand. “I said, “Are you deaf? You gonna answer, Kevin?”

“Screw you, Morales,” Bob shot back.

I was getting angry. These guys had nothing on the Nazis. “Let the fuck go of me, you bastards.”

Kevin started to swing me back and forth like he was ready to throw me. The two others followed suit.

“Will you listen to this tough old bird, Morales? He thinks he’s something. You better hold on to him. He might bruise your big Mexican dick.”

“I told you not to call me Morales. I don’t like it.”

“You have to forgive him, old man. He has an identity problem.”

Kevin stooped swinging me. He ordered his buddies to put me down.

“I’m through fucking around with you.” He kicked me in the side as I lay on the ground. Morales started to kick me. I tried to get up, but was knocked down.

“Hit him, Bob. What the hell are you waiting for, mamma’s boy?”

Bob picked up a board near by and hit me over the head with it. Blood started to run down my face. He hit me again and again. It was the Krauts trying to get information out of me. It was all the hurt I ever felt.

“That’s enough, Bob. You have passed the test. You’re in the gang.”

Everything was hazy, a blur. I could see flickers of light and dark shadows moving through out the camp. There would be no help coming from them. Here, everyone took care of himself. It was like the outside world. It was none of their business. Morales searched the wrecked car. Kevin grabbed Bob.

“Don’t stand there with your hand up your ass; give us a hand.”

He pushed him into the car. “Maybe the old man has something we can use.”

Oh, no, my Purple Heart. I struggled to put my hand in my pants pocket. No, it wasn’t there. Where did I put it? I tried the other pocket, nothing. Think, Louis. I felt around my neck under my jacket and the collar of my shirts. It was there. With what little strength I had left, I tore it from my neck and hid it in the snow. I started to crawl; the snow was crimson. I tried to get to my feet. Suddenly, there was a quick pain in my stomach.

“Stay right where you are, bum.” Kevin pulled a butcher knife from my stomach.

“I know you got money stashed somewhere. You bums always have.”

He stabbed me again in the stomach. I went down.

“You’re having all the fun, Kevin. Give me the knife. Why should you have all the fun?”

“Here, Morales, knock yourself out.”

I felt like a pin cushion when he finished.

“Here, take the knife, Bob. Finish him off.”

The night sky was filled with millions of white dots that no one could connect. They started to accumulate on my body.

“Just don’t stand there. Finish him off.” Kevin shoved the knife in to Bob’s hand. “Be a man.”

“Kill . . . Kill . . . ,” chanted Morales.

“Help,” I whispered. Nobody heard me. Nobody wanted to. The snowmen were coming alive. They stood over me. Death will have an audience.

“You’re such a pussy. Give me it.” Kevin stabbed me.

“We should have set him afire. At least that way he would have been warm.”

The three laughed. I was just another soldier in the snow whose insides were burning with fire. I felt myself falling, drifting, carried by the winds. I was a seagull gliding on the currents. I was a snowflake dissolving. I fumbled in the snow, searching for my Purple Heart.

“If you don’t finish him off, we’re not family anymore. No one will talk to you once the word gets round.” Bob the baby faced kid jabbed me again and again.

“Let’s get out of here.” Morales started to run, as did Kevin. Bob stood over me, the look of his first kill on his face. He was no longer a grunt. He was a soldier. He woke from his daze and ran after the others.

I clutched my Purple Heart. Nobody would take it from me. The medal was my life. I had earned it. A man was created with this medal. I and the medal were one.

A quote from Poe’s The Premature Burial whispered in my ears, as I dissolved returning to the Ardennes: “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends and where the other begins?”

© Copyright 2005, Thomas W. Sypek

A novel way to win an interview . . . and dangerous!

THE EASY WAY

By J. Geller

A pretentious car salesman who dresses himself in the dark while tripping on acid.

That's what I look like.

Ted anxiously adjusted the lapel of his shirt and re-evaluated his outfit. Hot frustration welled up inside him as he tugged at his tie. Piles of clothes lay scattered across his bed and carpet.

I can’t even dress myself, how am I going to get this job?

He watched his golden retriever, Jacamo, trot to the threshold of his bedroom and cock his furry face in confused wonder. The dog glanced at the floor before warily stepping over a powder blue shirt that had been cast away by his owner.

I’ve got no time for this. I need to start moving.

Ted took a final glance in the mirror and let out a disappointed sigh. He removed a set of car keys and a single manila folder from his desk. His eyes quickly surveyed the folder’s contents to make sure nothing was missing.

He glanced around the room anxiously, hoping something in the vicinity would remind him of something he had forgotten. Finally resigning to the fact that he had everything he needed, Ted made his way over to Jacamo, who was lying on a pile of discarded clothes.

“Wish me luck buddy; if I get this job, maybe one day we can get the hell out of this shithole apartment. Get you a place with a big backyard, a girlfriend."

Jacamo pulled his ears back and raised his brow. Ted laughed and ruffled the dog’s furry golden face.

“To the top, you and me, bud.” Ted focused on his watch. There’s nothing better than a new watch that you saved for months to buy. For the first few weeks, every time you look at it, you’ve got a genuine feeling of satisfaction. A watch can say a lot about someone, so he had picked his carefully. Black faced with a smooth silver band that was always fresh and cool.

I love this watch.

Ted walked to the front door of his apartment. Locking it behind him, he moved hurriedly down the flight of carpeted stairs and out the wood door to his parking lot. It was a mild and comfortable day, the sun was rising in the sky and tall, dark shadows belonged to everything. All of Mother Nature’s glorious presentations unnoticed and overlooked as Ted sat down in the driver’s seat of his car, the sun glinted erratically off the silver components of the new watch. Passing tall groups of trees to either side, Ted drove swiftly down the road, occasionally interrupting his thoughts to check exit signs. “Just relax,” he told himself. “You’re going to make yourself go crazy if you don’t slow your mind down--you’re going to burn yourself out.” Despite these attempts to quell the storm inside his skull, his mind refused to settle. Thoughts rushed in as if they were being escorted by hurricane force winds, swirled around in unpredictable patterns, and were destroyed by new ideas so quickly he could not deliberate on any of them.

Although he had known about the interview for almost two weeks, the reality of the situation, as usual, had not taken its toll on his fragile nerves until the moment was upon him. If he could just land this job, he could stop living from paycheck to paycheck, settle down, and concentrate on writing. Then, the storm inside his head would subside and his newly calmed mind could turn toward fruitful endeavors.

Ted snapped out of his trance and noticed the sign for his exit. He cut across three lanes of traffic, drawing the fingers and horns of angry motorists with nothing else to do. He followed the directions he had memorized, and brought his car to a stop inside the small parking lot located outside of the stone building. “If all goes well, this is where I’ll be dragging myself every morning.” He glanced at his watch. On schedule.

He exited the car and drew in a large breath of warm Midwest air, smooth and almost salty in his lungs. Since moving to Arizona almost six months ago, it was the one thing that Ted could appreciate more than anything else in his new environment. Something about the air was much more slow and sure than the toxic, grimy winds of the east coast. The clean air was actively transported through the thin membrane of his lung tissue, injected into his bloodstream, and delivered to quaking cells before he ventured in the direction of the building. Ted’s heart rate slowed.

He walked toward the revolving door in the front of the office. Making careful calculations, he pushed on the warm glass and slowly entered a quiet cell, traveling in a small semi-circle before being deposited into the main foyer of the building. “So far, so good,” he chuckled.

Ted turned away from the revolving door and walked across the hardwood floors toward the receptionist’s desk on the far end of the room. The office lobby had high, vaulted ceilings dotted with countersunk light fixtures. Expansive windows allowed sunlight to pour into the building in copious amounts, bathing the room in a comfortable natural light that gave an easy ambience. He kept his eyes focused on the petite brunette receptionist who smiled at his approach. His peripheral vision noted the presence of several fidgeting men in suits who were seated on the black leather furniture that lined the room’s perimeter.

Ted reached the circular wooden counter where the receptionist was seated and placed the manila folder down on its smooth surface. 

“Good morning,” he started, perhaps slightly too loudly. “I’ve got an interview scheduled for 9:15 with Mr. Valley.”

The attractive young woman was smiling and looking at him, but did not appear to listen. Her eyes lingered for a second too long on his face before turning toward a piece of paper on the desk in front of her. After scanning it for a moment, she turned back.

“Ted Barheee--Barhidth?” she struggled with the pronunciation.

“Barhydt.” He corrected her, smiling unconsciously. “Don’t worry, nobody ever gets it. It’s Dutch. I think it means severity, or sharpness, or something--I forget.”

“Dutch?” she replied, looking genuinely interested. “That’s . . . cool.”

Her smile widened and her cheeks flushed. She picked up a stack of papers and rapped them on the counter, pushing the edges of the pages flush.

“Have a seat, Mr. Severity. Mr. Valley will be with you in a moment.” She looked up at Ted one last time, smiling brightly.

Oh man. You’re so hot.

Thanking her, Ted turned his attention back toward the room. He located a vacant spot on one of the leather couches to his right, and made his way toward the middle-aged man sitting next to it. About a foot away from the seat, the man looked up from the magazine he read and presented a brilliantly counterfeit smile. Without waiting for acknowledgement, his eyes reverted back to the text he was reading. Ted smiled at the inattentive top of the man’s head.

Ted eased himself slowly into the plush leather, which noisily adjusted to the addition of new weight. Several of the other men in the room looked up from their various distractions to identify the source of the noise, which was the only one present aside from the occasional turning of a page or the nervous taps of a hard black shoe on the wooden floor.

Ted glanced back at the secretary. She was looking at hidden things on the desk in front of her, moving them around and organizing, still smiling to herself.

You’re so damn hot.

Ted was completely and utterly transfixed by her smile. It was the kind of smile that warrants a double take. The kind you simply cannot stop staring at because you are desperately trying to figure out what about it is so damn beautiful and distinctive. After a minute of sight-seeing, he turned his attention back to the room.

Next to him was an enormous black pot full of dark soil, housing a tall, exotic looking plant. Ted reached over and felt one of the thick, gummy leaves. To his surprise, the plant was real. He looked up and locked eyes with another older man sitting across from him who had watched him touch the plant. The man let out an audible “Hmph.” And looked back toward the newspaper, shaking his head.

Hmph yourself, man. This plant is more real than you.

Ted glanced around the room at the other men. Some were older, some appeared his age, but they shared the common characteristic of absolute nervous apprehension. The fear emanated from every face, every insecure twitch, each self-doubting peek at the clock hung high on the north wall. As the minutes crept by, Ted examined the uneasy behavior of his fellow job candidates. And as he watched, mild enlightenment slowly began to creep up and into his fretful mind. An undeniable truth that convinced him of his relative superiority over these wary characters.

I am so much better than this. Than these people, than this process. There is no logical reason for me to be scared of anyone or anything right now. And if for some reason he doesn’t want to hire me, well . . .

Ted looked down at the manila folder. His mind lay quiet and still as a confident smile grew across his face. Ted’s state was interrupted by a voice to his left.

“Mr. Barhydt?” The secretary smiled again from behind green eyes whose rich color was visible ten feet away. “You can have a step back here. Mr. Valley is ready for you.”

Ted glanced at his watch before bringing himself to his feet. On schedule. He took a final look at the sad, common men sitting before him, then made his way to the double of doors behind the secretary’s counter. As his hand grasped the cool metal handle and turned it, he could’ve sworn he heard someone whisper, “Good luck . . .”

Ted pushed past the door, which eased softly shut behind him with the hiss of small hydraulic pistons. At the end of the hall in front of him, stood a tall man, near thirty-five years old. The man’s legs were spread, his hands clasped in front of him at waist level. He sported a small welcoming smile. Ted approached Mr. Valley and held out his hand while maintaining eye contact that not had been broken for the entire length of the hallway. As their hands firmly grasped one another in subconscious struggle for status and authority, Ted’s newfound nirvana loitered fresh in his mind.

I’m not scared of you, bitch.

The man looked away first and retracted his hand.

I win.

“Mr. Barhydt, it’s nice to meet you. Just follow me please; this shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”

Ted said nothing and followed the man into the room. It was noticeably colder than the lobby, but shared the same overwhelming natural light, which filtered in through two large windows on the far wall. There was a very large desk in the center of the room, capable of seating at least twenty people, with twenty dark wooden chairs to match. Mr. Valley extended his hand toward a nearby chair.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to review your resume for a second, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Ted replied.

Ted took a seat on the chair Mr. Valley had offered him, finding it more comfortable than he expected. He placed the folder down in front of him on the long table. As Mr. Valley’s dark eyes scanned the resume, Ted watched his facial expression. When that got tiring, he turned his attention the large forty gallon fish tank to his right. He watched as the swimming creatures darted left and right, forward and back throughout their colorful habitat, not knowing who they were or why they were alive. His eyes found new distractions as they slowly scanned the room, wasting time until the man was finished. After a while, Mr. Valley drew his eyes away from the paper.

“Well, you’ve got an impressive resume, but tell me--what makes you different than the six other men out there?”

Ted had expected this nonsense. These dry, tired questions that are poorly designed to test the character of a man by the nature of his memorized responses. Ted had read all of the articles, all of the books regarding dealing with questions like this, but as he opened his mouth to deliver a premeditated response about echoes and everything good he does coming back to him, he grew unexpectedly nauseous.

I can’t do this.

Looking at the sad men out there in the lobby had catalyzed a transformation. He had never wanted to be like them, but had accepted the fact that he would have to, that is, if he wanted a job. Now, sitting in front of this man, Ted decided he would remain true to himself.

“Well, Mr. Valley, there’s a pretty big difference actually. And it’s one I just noticed while I was sitting out there admiring your plants and your secretary. The difference between me and them is, those men are all scared of you. But I’m not.”

Mr. Valley scrutinized Ted’s face, which was stoic and resolute.

“Scared? Could you elaborate?”

“No.”

Mr. Valley looked confused, half expecting a camera crew to emerge from behind the fish tank and laugh as they informed him he was on some new ridiculous office reality TV show. He looked over at the tank. Nobody came.

“Very well, Mr. Barhydt. Tell me what you want to do with your life.”

Ted contemplated the question for a minute.

“Well Mr. Valley, I want to work for you. I want to produce well and work and then I want you to give me your money for doing it. I’m going to use that money to buy things that I need, and I’m also going to save some. I want to write, and your money will help me do that. Because I can’t write when I haven’t eaten anything but peanut butter and jelly for a week, and I can’t write when I haven’t slept because I’m too busy constantly worrying about green pieces of paper. I want to meet interesting people who understand the value of meaningful relationships. And I want to buy a house so my dog can have a backyard.”

Mr. Valley scrutinized Ted’s face uneasily.

“So you want to work, write, eat, sleep, marry, and play with your dog? That doesn’t sound very ambitious to me, Mr. Barhydt.” The man’s smug expression suggested his extreme satisfaction with himself.

“Ambition, Mr. Valley, is overrated. Nothing more than a simple manmade concept, a virtue only classified in such a way so that people will seek to possess it. I do not need ambition to be successful.”

“Oh really? And how is that?” Valley replied, mockingly.

“I’ve got raw, natural inspiration to keep me moving. That’s why they call it inspiration. It’s inspiring. The kind of inspiration I’ve got is more powerful than corporate ambition. It motivates me to do more than crawl up the corporate ladder. It motivates me to create work in life’s favor, to honor it. My inspiration is not selfish like ambition.”

Mr. Valley was clearly confused, and therefore, scared. He did not want to ask Ted any more questions, in fear that he would not follow the responses. He felt himself losing grasp on the dominant position in the relationship, one that he had firmly held onto all morning with previous candidates. No, he wasn’t ready to sacrifice it to the rambunctious know-it-all philosopher who sat in front of him.

“Mr. Barhydt . . . ” Valley struggled to find the words to remove Ted from his sight, “your resume has clearly misled me. Although on paper you seem like a perfect candidate, you have clearly demonstrated to me in this interview that you cannot take business matters seriously. This is not a game, you see. You cannot simply waltz in here and demand my money so that you can write your precious little stories. And I will not hire a man who does not take pride in his ambition to succeed in my company. Furthermore, I am not your friend, or your buddy, I am your boss. Yet, your tone and manner of speaking suggests otherwise. I’m sorry, but our time together is over. Thank you.”

Ted sat there in stunned silence. He had been convinced that by being true to himself and honest with Valley, he would display his real worth. After all, what more can you ask of a man other than complete truth and honesty? Those were the real virtues. He had expected the interview to unfold like a movie; he had expected Valley to praise his depth of character and beg him to sign contracts on the spot. He had envisioned walking confidently out of the cold room and back into lobby and looking those sad men in the eyes and pitying them. He thought he had it all figured out.

But Valley wanted to do things the hard way.

“I was afraid you might say that,” Ted said. His voice sounded different.

Ted placed his hand softly on the cover of the single manila folder he had brought. Without looking at it, he slowly slid it toward the bewildered m