Currents
42 (2008)
currents 42 (2008)
editors
Sandra Callanan
Sarah Crean
Carrie Hilton
Madeline McKenzie
Natalie Rooker
cover design
Daniel Khang
Faculty advisor
David M. Taylor, M.A.
about Currents magazine
Currents is a student literary magazine produced by SLCC-Meramec students
and is published annually in the Spring. Copyrights are retained by the artists.
Submission guidelines are available from the faculty advisor.
postal address
Currents Magazine
English Department
St. Louis Community College at Meramec
11333 Big Bend Rd.
St. Louis, MO 63122
314-984-7547 (office)
314-984-7923 (fax)
Currents Acknowledges
Currents would like to thank the Meramec English and Art departments for
promoting the magazine; Community Relations for assisting in the production;
Dean Vernon Kays for his enthusiastic support; the student editors, readers, and
artists for creating the issue; and the many students who have submitted their
work.
Currents Award Winners
Ryan Mischel
Mark Baier
Kyra Rogan
Fredric Rissover Prize Winner
Svetlana Tokarchuk
Writing center Essay Contest Winner
Peter Kahn
Currents Aspiring Writers Competition Winners
Alison Stagner
Kirkwood High School
Molly Stephenson, Coordinator
Joshua Kirkpatrick
Parkway North High School
Tricia Frank, Coordinator
table of contents
Poetry
Shun / Alison Stagner / 6
Just Before the Dawn / Natalie Nash / 7
One Fall Afternoon / Angela Boitano / 8
Winter on the Streets / Clifton Wilder Koons II / 9
Wasted Opportunities / Bart Fanter / 10
The Landing / Bart Fanter / 11
Wild West / Kally Tharp / 12
The Rio Grande / Sarah O’Hern / 13
The Girls in the Bathroom of the Bar / Sara Ritter / 14
Pedophile / Ann Morrison / 15
The Daily Routine of an Undeserving Daughter / Brittany McKee / 16
Thanksgiving / Brittany McKee / 17
Change / Brittany McKee / 18
From the Yellow House / Charlie Brumley / 19
Two and a Half Hours Into the New Year / Charlie Brumley / 20
To Rob / Tom Fisher / 21
Walking / Tom Fisher / 22
Me and My Daddy / Kyra Rogan / 23
Wilted / Becka McFarland / 24
Long Odds / Halley Moore / 25
Campus Nominee, League for Innovation’s International Literary Competition
The Daily Routine of an Undeserving Daughter / Brittany McKee
Fiction
Catch and Release / Constance Reichold / 26
Scratch / Jenni Donnelly / 31
The Present / Becka McFarland / 36
I Can’t Fly Without My Cape / Steve Marshall / 38
Beastie / Nikki Minette /39
Black Ice / Ann Morrison / 42
The Story of Two Twins in Auschwitz / Joshua Kirkpatrick / 43
Three Margaritas / Erin Madigan / 48
7149 Wallace / Ben Girard / 51
On a Snowy Evening / Adam Vatterott / 55
Max and Chase / John Paul Wood / 59
Campus Nominee, League for Innovation’s International Literary Competition
Scratch / Jenni Donnelly
Essays
Mi Amiga / Anna Hoegemann / 64
Something in the Air at Borders / Natalie Rooker / 66
Hard Day’s Night / Mark Baier / 67
Of Sitcom Psychotherapists and Lessons Learned / peter kahn / 70
A Different Life / Lauren Baechle / 72
Killing Trees to Save Trees / Taylor Williamson / 74
Bound and Blooded / Allison Konczal / 76
Give It All / Ryan Mischel / 80
Campus Nominee, League for Innovation’s International Literary Competition
Mi Amiga / Anna Hoegemann
Plays
Jesus and the Devil / Randy Hall / 83
The Collar / Natalie Nash / 88
Vacation / Jenni Donnelly / 93
Gossip / Svetlana Tokarchuk / 97
Campus Nominee, League for Innovation’s International Literary Competition
Vacation / Jenni Donnelly
shun
/ alison stagner
the air flutters like a rag as she leaves.
her body’s breeze meshes
through the sieve of the screen door as
it slaps back, hinges groaning.
(and she is out, out, out)the watery hollows of city cement
offering up impartial moons
to her vagabond feet.
you observe in solemn vigil,
accepting the loss like the death of
a neighbor, a stranger.
(your lie will no longer be her anchor.)
her mind has left home for
solitary wanderings towards
sound waves from a faultless marine,
ropes creaking in the boughs,
the clean grove of snow. . .
her heart curls into smoke and ash as
these memories bulge against the
framework of familial structurea childhood of
sweet and cruel animal faces
interlocking in a mock battle
(of love, of denial).
she digs an airtight hole for her tears
and stamps it flat,
knowing that your cold blank stillness
will not be weathered by the useless drops.
you are ignorant of it now,
but one night will seize you
in pure animalistic panic
at what prejudice has snatched
from this glacial house:
(your blood, your flesh, your bone).
6
Just Before the Dawn / Natalie Nash
With the pressing of murky waves
the water gently sways a
small boat towards nowhere.
The damp smell of rotting wood
drifts from the moss-covered remains
of a log cabin cloaked
in the hazy dusk of the forest.
Aspen ghosts wander aimlessly
in the chill mist that winds
over the rugged shoreline
and across the lake.
The wailing of a solitary loon’s lament
breaks open the silence.
7
One Fall Afternoon / Angela Boitano
That one fall afternoon
i sat on grandma’s porch outside,
next to the sweet cook herself,
smelling the sweet aroma of the apples
expanding in the oven inside.
We watched the red and brown leaves,
descend from the mature oak tree and disintegrate
on the cool ground below,
like the sweet, crunchy brown crumbs
of the flaky apple pie
falling onto my warm plate.
8
Winter on the Streets / Clifton Wilder Koons II
My damp boots
dent the crisp layer
of snow.
The fall of icicles
breaks the silence.
Nearby,
an elderly woman
living out of plastic bags,
hugs a flask like a bible,
I’ll use newspaper as a pillow,
and let winter’s gentle tune,
warm my heart.
9
Wasted Opportunities / Bart Fanter
I love to chase the waves on the beach,
sand crunching between my toes.
Somewhere the crabs burrow beneath
hiding out until evening.
The crash of the water echoes in my ear,
casting sea weeds onto the shore.
My father is standing in the distance.
He is waving and calls out to me to come to him.
He holds in his hand treasures of the deep,
colorful shells and smooth sea glass.
All that he has he generously offers to me,
and I cast them into the sea.
10
The Landing / Bart Fanter
Many nights of my life
I have taken this same walk
through crowds of hormone-fueled young adults,
all looking to blow off a little steam.
The humming buzz of weekend excitement
is electric in the air above the dark city streets,
streets full of the clip-clop of high heels on cobblestone,
and sidewalks scraping
with clumsy shuffles of intoxicated feet.
11
Wild West / Kally Tharp
As I stand on cowboy mountain
Looking down at the
World today,
As the great grand daughter
Of a Cherokee princess
I see something missing
Of the wild west,
Wild mustang horses and Indians
As they both slowly
Disappear from this land
Of America.
12
The Rio Grande / Sarah O’Hern
Trembling with excitement, I load up my
packs into my raft. Setting down the river, I
leave behind cars, cell phones, and electricity.
To my left is Mexico.
To my right,
Big Bend National Park, my new home.
As we float down river javelinas, coyotes, and columbia
warblers appear, disappear.
Before long the moons reflection appears on the water.
Sitting around, I try not to be frightened by the crunching of the
cottonwood and willow leaves.
Not knowing if it’s a bear or mountain lion that is close by.
As for now I lie in my tent, listening to the crackle of the fire.
13
The Girls in the Bathroom of the Bar / Sara Ritter
They set their purses in front of the mirrors
And unpack an assortment
Of compacts, lip gloss, and mascara
A conversation begins
Mindless chatter recalling the night’s events
The diamonds of their jewelry glimmer
As they paint their faces with blush and lipstick
Trying to cover every last flaw
They spray the curls in their hair
And drench themselves with perfume
Giving the mirror one last look
They load up their bags and
Head back into the crowded bar
14
Pedophile / Ann Morrison
This little girl doesn’t know what she’s doing.
Her blond hair is messy.
Her blue eyes look confused.
She’s wearing a sun dress.
Someone else is there.
She does what she’s told.
Her dress lies on the floor.
This person is too big.
He’s hurting her.
This man, this monster.
15
The Daily Routine of an Undeserving Daughter / Brittany McKee
1
My mother sits on the edge of my bed,
near the spot where my feet are curled under the covers.
She comes to wake me
with her gentle voice.
She’s afraid I’ll oversleep.
Her hands are soft and they touch my face
in the same place
they have every morning.
She quietly sips her coffee,
and I keep my eyes closed
because I don’t know why she watches me sleep.
2
When the dust in my eyes is gone,
I walk upstairs.
She’s waiting for me again.
There’s a sandwich on the counter,
an apple,
and a cookie.
I walk out the door
forgetting to thank her for packing my lunch.
3
It’s late, or maybe early.
The coffee will brew in a few hours
and the sink is empty of dishes.
I know I should’ve come home by now.
I lock the door, turn off the light,
and take off my shoes because
I’m convinced I’ll make less noise if I’m barefoot.
But she’s sitting on the couch,
worrying,
waiting by the light of the television.
She’s watching the news but keeps it on mute.
Her voice isn’t calm anymore.
I apologize avoiding eye contact
because her maternal pain is piercing.
16
Thanksgiving / Brittany McKee
My Grandfather’s in the hospital,
comforted by his ex-wife.
A friend lost his Grandfather
to cancer this morning.
But my Mother’s upset because
there’s no pumpkin pie on the table.
17
Change / Brittany McKee
I caught a glance
from a man I love to watch,
a look I’ve never seen before.
Something’s different about him today,
something beyond a hair cut or new shoes.
He’s falling in love with me.
18
From the Yellow House / Charlie Brumley
I stepped outside to disappear
away from the chipped, red bricks
that line a dry, concrete porch,
through the lawn of brittle leaves,
under trees casting shadows
on my back from moonlight.
Down black, cracked streets
and yellow-stripped lanes,
my jean jacket glows from
orange lights overhead,
under which, a cigarette in hand,
I hide my hardened heart.
19
Two and a Half Hours Into the New Year / Charlie Brumley
We sat side by side on the stairwell,
staring at each other’s legs.
With champagne stains all over my shirt,
I wrap my arm around your shoulders,
struggling to sit up straight.
Then you kissed my neck.
But your friend interrupted
before you could find my face.
20
To Rob / Tom Fisher
Empty bottles,
littered the filthy floor.
Stale smoke and dust lingered.
Cold autumn rain taped at the window,
falling in and out of time to the music,
that you left playing for me to hear;
songs that are “still scraping through my head”.
You were sprawled cold as the dried blood,
that stuck to your naked body.
Your eyes silently slept,
but, your throat still screamed from the wound,
that finally left you dead.
I had always known exactly what you felt.
We had talked about everything in our lives
But, now you’re gone.
For the first time,
I don’t know what you feel.
But, I know; I should’ve been closer.
You called me a day before your killed yourself;
it was a week before your twenty second birthday.
I figured I’d call you back tomorrow.
Now every time I reach out,
calling for you,
wondering did I “let you down?”
Did I “make you hurt?”
I know, that you aren’t there,
and, I know I can never hear you laugh ever again.
All I can hear,
are those songs echoing and the rain pounding on the window.
.
I know I’ll never forget you.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you, or myself.
But, I always loved you.
I’m sorry.
In loving memory of Robby M. 10/18/1983 –10/11/05
21
Walking / Tom Fisher
I have seen a lot while walking.
I have watched the sun descend,
beneath the mountain top cathedrals of Budapest,
and rise over the skyscrapers of Philadelphia.
On winter nights,
I had often wandered alone,
watching my breath float away,
as the night unfolded;
to the echo swallows, pleading out for company.
Walking through the morning dew,
surrounded by the laughter of friends,
I have watched the sun rise,
across fog-drenched mountains.
I have walked barefoot in the sand
watching the tide pulse,
against the Atlantic’s shore.
Through the long shadows of forest,
I have walked a thousand times
wondering where to go.
22
Me and My Daddy / Kyra Rogan
Mama would yell at him,
“Don’t let her sit in that front seat!”
But he was old school.
Ignoring her, I would run to the car
Screaming shotgun.
In my daddy’s busted blue Oldsmobile
With the paint chipped off.
Fast down Lee Avenue to Newstead,
Past all the kids at the park
Past my school
And my auntie’s house.
Past where my daddy got arrested,
And where the Crips hung out.
A left on Natural Bridge Road,
Windows down and wind blowing.
Me and my daddy singing
Barry White’s “Practice What You Preach,”
Like it was the last time we’d hear it.
And maybe it was,
But thank God we didn’t know it.
23
Wilted / Becka McFarland
Standing between the graveyard’s trees
My lost love not buried here
Still, I enjoy the steely breeze
and share the mourners’ tears
for their loves who did great things
who’d loved and cried and known the world
mine not offered a chance to breathe
But I saw her as a girl.
Hair in pigtails, eyes blue and wide
Staring at a bumble bee
Buzzing rapidly by
And darting back for another peek
At first she fears the creature.
I recall the mother’s wisdom I once devoured
and explain the bee is only trying to reach her
because it thinks she is a flower.
She would smile and bat her lashes
and know not to be afraid
but that dream quickly crashes.
The red card has been played.
The hatred that swallowed me before
struggles now to keep afloat in the despair
My friends, my family – people I abhor
I find solace in the cemetery; it’s not so lonely there.
24
Long Odds / Halley Moore
My breath stops, jaw gapinga cigarette clinging to my lips.
In between drags, I swill stale beer,
my nicotine stained fingers
clench the rumpled paper.
The ticket whispers to mepromises of glory,
as I focus straining eyes
on the mad blur of horse flesh.
For a few hours I find religion.
Mumbling prayers to anyone
that will listen,
avoiding cracks in
troublesome sidewalks,
shouting at the beasts
with tightly crossed fingers.
The wet sheen on brown flanks
that run towards the big time
mocks the dirty beads of sweat
that run down my brow,
furrowed with thoughts
of careful calculations
and hot tips.
There’s another thousand
burning a hole in my pocket,
I know it’s a sure thing,
because I’ve got a system.
25
Catch and Release / Constance Reichold
He could feel his skin burn like a hard slap in the face. Even his Oakley’s
couldn’t hold back the sun’s wrath beaming down on Lake Grey Fox. Jake
didn’t remember her saying anything about one hundred and fifteen degree
temperatures on the open water until he brought his rental boat to an idle.
From about a hundred yards away, he thought he could see her, on the
dock of Old Man Tucker’s Gas and Supplies, lounging on an orange blow up raft,
reading one of those teen fashion magazines. Then again, he could have sworn
he saw her at the last four filling stations. At least, if it was her, she was lucky
to be working at Old Man Tucker’s, one of the nicer ones between mile markers
fifteen and twenty. The office/store was small, but it had more than just a screen
door holding it shut, and there was no sign of mold or wasp nests harboring
on the fresh white paint. The two gas pumps outside the shack looked like they
were from about 1947, but strategically positioned just above them, underneath
the tin gutters, was a security camera. Jake debated for a moment if whether or
not it was functioning.
Without a word, Haylee got up from her raft, stretched like she’d been
lying there all year, and helped Jake tie up his rental boat. Even after only a few
months she seemed completely different. Her seventeenth birthday had come
and passed, and little Haylee looked every inch of it. Jake took off his Oakley’s to
make sure he did, in fact, have the
right girl.
Haylee concentrated more on the pink bubble gum she blew out of
her lips than the switches she flipped to turn on the pumps. Her sun streaked
hair was shorter than Jake remembered, and tied up to keep her tanned neck
cool. Her loose fitting white tee shirt blew in the wind like a sail. Baby blue
bikini strings poked up through the ripped collar. The faded cut off shorts
complimented well with her dusty flip flops.
She plucked up a rigity gas pump, rust formed around the handle and
tip.
“You want premium or regular?” she asked in between bubbles. Her
finger already reached for the regular button. Nobody puts premium in a rental.
“Sir,” she called a bit rudely, after Jake remained silent too long.
Maybe it was his police force cap or his familiar greenish brown
eyes without sunglasses, but it didn’t take long for Haylee to recognize her
stepbrother.
Droplets of gas trickled out of the tip of the pump when it slipped out of
Haylee’s hand and hit the wood of the dock.
“You’re not my real brother,” she warned. “I don’t have to go anywhere
with you!”
“But I am still a cop,” he said climbing slowly out of the boat, hoping
he wouldn’t have to flash his little step sister his badge. “So you are required
somewhat by law to listen to me.”
Haylee slid her foot behind her. Jake knew she was ready to run if he got
too close. He made no sudden movements, as if he were faced with a bank robber
and a hostage. He resisted the urge to grab her. Slap her. Pull her into a tight hug.
26
“I just want to talk,” he said, a little more sternly than he intended.
“So talk.”
“Christ Haylee. You’ve been gone for six months. Do you know how
worried your family has been?”
“Well, now you’ve seen me. Tell them I’m in one piece, will ya?” She
crossed her arms and glared at Jake, much like when she was six, and made her
go to bed before nine p.m.
“Your mom quit her job. All she does now is sit by the phone and watch
The Price is Right.”
Haylee’s frown faded from her expression and her eyes shifted to a
June bug on the dock. Up turned on its back, the insect wiggled its little legs
frantically, until Haylee rolled it over with her toe.
“How did you find me here?” she asked as the June bug buzzed away.
Before Jake could answer, she screen door to the office swung open,
creaking so loud that a flock of ducks out cried and retreated to the other side of
the cove.
A greasy Santa Clause emerged into the sunlight, wearing overalls and
nothing else. Jake concluded from his leathery aged skin, and hunched back that
Santa must really be Old Man Tucker.
“Everythang alright?” he asked Haylee with his eyes fixed on Jake. When
Haylee didn’t answer right away, Jake reached for his badge.
“Everything’s fine, Sir,” she blurted out.
“This shmoe ain’t botherin’ you?” Old Man u Jake, spit in his can again
and grunted some southern slang as the door creaked shut. Even though Jake
knew the old man was probably listening like the flies latched on the on to the
screen door, he jumped right back into the conversation.
“We know you’ve been talking to P.J. online. That’s how we found out
you came to the lake.”
Haylee rolled her eyes. “I knew I couldn’t trust that little brat.”
“Give the kid some credit. It took him six months to finally crack.”
“There’s no way I’m going back with you to that hell hole!”
“Haylee, just wait a second. Calm down. I understand what you’re going
through
“You don’t know shit about what I went through…” her voice grew
quiet, and her eyes turned dark. Suddenly she didn’t seem seventeen anymore.
“Look, let’s just go talk after you get off work. I just came to make sure
you’re doing okay. Maybe we can work something out.”
Haylee sighed. She pressed her lips together, and he could tell that she
was looking at everything else to avoid looking at him: a cumulonimbus cloud
that was
rolling in over the horizon, a bass that flipped it’s tail up out of the water,
disturbing the peaceful water by the dock, a jet ski that buzzed past somewhere
behind him. Jake hated lying to his little sister. It wasn’t like him. Not like a
police officer either. But now it seemed like the only way.
“Alright,” she broke down. “I’d love to catch up. Meet me at eight
o’clock at The Lucky Duck.”
“Where’s The Lucky Duck?”
Haylee smirked as she picked up her magazine and pulled back the
27
screen door to step inside. “You figure it out. If you found me you can find The
Lucky Duck. See you at eight,” she said, as she disappeared into the office. Some
flies scattered in a frenzy.
*
*
*
“Just you, sweetheart?” a pregnant waitress asked as she set down a
coaster. Stephanie, her name tag said. She couldn’t have been much older than
Haylee. Her tight yellow tee-shirt that had “Pro-Life” stamped across her belly.
“Actually I’m meeting someone here,” Jake answered. “Not sure if she’s
gonna show though…” he mumbled under his breath.
“How ’bout something to drink while you wait?”
“Just a Hieneken please,” Jake replied, and Stephanie waddled away.
Left alone with just his thoughts, Jake took in his surroundings. The
Lucky Duck seemed to be a popular place. Families dined together in booths. A
young guy at the table across from him tapped his foot nervously while his date
went on about the dangers of skin cancer. A group of guys laughed wildly at the
bar, their arms around bronzed girls in swim suit tops. Lucky Duck’s seemed to
have a “wild Hawaiian jungle” theme with each booth patterned after a different
safari animal. A pineapple or parrot feather bouquet for center pieces. He saw
food being carried on bamboo trays and they served things like “Crazy Crab
Claws,” and “Nacho Volcano.”
Jake traced a red hibiscus flower on his plastic table cloth, wishing he’d
come up with a better plan. Everyone was counting on him. He didn’t want
to feel like a failure in front of his dad and step mom. Even his wife would
be disappointed if he came back empty handed, and the last thing he needed
around his newly wed home was tension. There was no way Haylee was
going to go with him willingly. He dreaded the thought of having to drag his
little sister into car, or worse, cuffing her to the back seat. But what frustrated
him more, was why she left in the first place. As far as he knew, she’d been doing
okay in school. She’d had friends, a boyfriend even. There was the occasional
fight with her mom, but didn’t every teenager go through that?
Just as Jake remembered his beer, the green bottle was set in front of
him.
Haylee stood there at the toucan booth for a moment, in that hip popped
“here I am” pose, before saying anything. A half smile pasted to her face. She’d
changed from her dock girl outfit to fashionably ripped jeans (which Jake never
understood) and a form fitting pink top. A sea shell choker around her neck
matched the mayonnaise stain on her black apron.
“Sorry my shift is running long,” she said as she pulled out the chair, sat
down,
and sighed as if it had been the first time all night. “We’ve been pretty busy
tonight.”
“You work here?”
“Only for the free drinks,” Haylee replied.
Jake frowned.
“Geez! I’m kidding!”
“Aren’t you too young to be serving alcohol?”
28
“No…sixteen is the age in Alabama.”
“We’re not in Alabama. We’re in Tennessee. By law you have to be
eighteen to serve alcohol.”
“What’s your point?” Haylee smirked.
“Seriously, how did you get to Tennessee anyway?” Jake changed the
subject.
“I hitch-hiked. A couple of really nice bikers gave me a ride.”
“Never mind,” he surrendered. “I don’t want to know. More importantly,
are you doing okay?”
“I look okay, don’t I? I’m keeping busy with two jobs. I have my own
place. I get to lay out in the sun all day, eat all the free fried calamari I want, and
party at the beach at night. I’d say I’m getting by.”
“Sure,” Jake began. “But what are you going to do when tourist season is
over? Huh? When no boats are on the water burning gas, and business here starts
getting slow.”
Haylee looked away and concentrated on the red hibiscus flower, as if it
was the
first time she’d thought about fall.
“Come on, Hales,” Jake said after the moment of silence. He cupped his
hand over hers. “Come back with me. Finish school and graduate with you’re
friends. Come home.”
“I won’t dare go back there until my mom divorces that bastard.” She
pulled her hand away. “But it’s pointless. She won’t. He’s got her scared to even
step out of the house without his permission. I’m the only one in the family who
had the guts to leave.”
Jake was stunned. He was no stranger to the fact his father had alcohol
issues, and that he got angry, even violent sometimes. But did he really hurt
Haylee?
“Besides,” she went on. “I don’t need this place, or school. I’ve been
saving my money. I’m going to buy a ticket to California. I’ll do some modeling.
You know I’ve always wanted to do that. Paris Hilton ain’t got nothing on me.
I’ll start out in print work or something. Maybe even one of those toothpaste
commercials. People are always saying I’ve got really nice teeth.”
“Did he hurt you Haylee?” Jake asked. “Be honest. Did he hit you?”
“Ppff. If that were all…”
“Damn it, Haylee!” Jake slammed his fist down on the table. “Why
didn’t you tell me? I could have done something.”
Haylee leaned in close so she didn’t have to raise her voice. Her
matching shell earrings swinging wildly as she jerked her head. “Oh, yeah. Like
you would arrest your own father. What was I suppose to say? ‘Hey Jake, look at
these bruises and scratches
your dad gave me. Oh, and by the way, could you politely ask him not to come
into my bedroom in the middle of the night?’ Whatever.”
“Did you to tell anyone?”
“My mom didn’t believe me. All her friends told her I was making up
lies to get attention. After that I stopped trying. So one day I just got fed up. I
packed some things and kissed P.J. goodbye.”
Jake swallowed the lump in his throat. “Did he ever…do anything to
29
P.J?”
“Not that I know of. Probably not. The little squealer would have told
anyway.”
Jake’s head thudded on the table and his fists clenched.
“Listen, I’ll be back,” Haylee said as she got out of her chair. “My last
table keeps looking over at me like they want to pay or something.”
Jake lifted his head just enough to watch her walk away. Something very
interesting was tattooed to her lower back. A humming bird. A blue humming
bird, its wings spread wide with silver tips. One Haylee use to doodle all over
her school note books. “Some day I’ll get outta here. And I’ll be free as a bird.
Free as a bird.” She use to sing along with that God awful country song.
Jake’s head hit the table again. No way, he thought. He couldn’t
comeback empty handed. Then again, no one even knew that he’d found her yet.
He could spend one more day on the lake, just to make it look like he’d tried. But
would that really be the best thing for Haylee?
Quickly, before he could change his mind, he pulled out his wallet, check
book,
and a pen. He threw some cash down for the beer, wrote out a very generous
amount on a check for a tip and began scribbling on a napkin.
Fine. Go to California.
Stay away from drugs.
Don’t get pregnant.
Stay out of Playboy.
And for Christ’s sake get an education.
He didn’t bother to leave his number. In case she’d forgotten it, it was
printed on the check.
30
Scratch / Jenni Donnelly
It’s seven in the morning and quite possibly the most beautiful day of the
year. I’m stuffed in a cubicle, filling out tax forms.
Scratch that.
I’m standing up and calmly walking to the fourteenth floor window.
I wonder if setting my childhood home on fire was such a good idea after
all.
I spent the first sixteen years of my life raising five siblings and two
parents.
When I was ten, I had a dream that it was a sunny morning and Mom
was making pancakes and little Susie was setting the table. I stretched and
climbed out of bed in my flannel princess nightgown. We drank orange juice out
of real glasses and Dad sat at the head of our kitchen table drinking coffee and
reading the morning paper. He was all decked out in a suit and tie and his shoes
were shined and his pants were clean and pressed. Connor and John David were
in the street playing kickball with the neighborhood kids. Baby Joel was sitting
in a real high chair. His hair was neatly combed and he was smiling and drinking
fresh milk out of a bottle with a lid that actually fit. The sun was shining through
our big bay window in the kitchen of our two-story home. Mom had a nice dress
and shoes that fit. She hummed along happily to the radio while she washed
the dishes. Dad playfully ruffled Susie’s hair as she giggled and tried to dodge
him while she put out the napkins. I put on a brand new outfit I had never worn
before. Dad tied my shoes and Mom put a ribbon in my hair. A bright yellow
school bus rolled down the street and all the parents stood on their porches
waving good-bye to their happy children. I had a new backpack and the bus
driver wore a shiny hat and greeted us each by name.
Scratch that.
When I was ten, I woke up to my mom screaming and crying. My dad
was passed out drunk on our only couch. Again. The kids were crying and their
lips trembled with hunger. All we had to eat was crackers and some expired
generic-brand mayonnaise. My mom was curled up on the brown shag carpet
that used to be a lovely puke-colored shade of green. She was in labor. Again. I
ran barefoot through puddles to use the only phone in the whole trailer part. I
dialed 911 and hurried back. I gave my mom the cleanest towels I could find in
the laundry pile. I managed to find mismatched shoes for all four of my siblings
and threw on my old ratty jeans. They were hand-me-downs. Don’t ask where
they came from. As far as I knew, I was the oldest kid. I grabbed some grubby
tennis shoes and threw my hair into a messy ponytail. My only friend Molly
flagged down the ambulance while I threw a cover over my dad. I dragged the
kids outside as the paramedics squeezed by. Molly’s uncle loaded us all into the
back of his truck and for the first time, we actually got a ride to school.
.......
I dropped out when I was fifteen. It wasn’t official. No one signed any
papers. I just stopped showing up everyday. I got a couple jobs instead.
31
I paid the bills by working the night shift at the big corporate
supermarket. I fed my family by wearing my dad’s old oversized army jacket
and smuggling home whatever was due to expire the next day.
.......
I was walking home one night when I saw Molly’s uncle Rob crying in
the road. I was numb as he handed me a box full of pictures and documents. He
sobbed and kept begging to God.
He wanted to know where he had gone wrong.
He wanted to know what Molly found so horrible about her life.
He wanted to know where the hell she had gotten the gun.
.......
All I wanted to do was to stop flashing back to the last time I talked
to Molly. I wanted to know how I could already be missing those nights when
we would sneak out. I wanted to stop thinking about how stupid I was for not
doing anything. For not telling anyone. I wanted to bring back every detail of
that night. I wanted Molly’s face to stop slipping from my memory. I wanted to
memorize every freckle and stray piece of hair as she sat there looking at me.
.......
She had turned to me and asked, “Where do you think you’ll be in ten
years?”
“What do you mean? I’ll be with you in New York living in a nice
apartment and you’ll be a singer and I’ll be a painter. Come on, you know that.” I
replied, dismissing her question as mumbled nonsense in the half-asleep state of
mind we were currently in.
“I know,” she mumbled back, “but what if something changes? What if
everything doesn’t go as planned?” She whispered, “What if we never get out of
here?”
I sat up angrily and stared at her with bewilderment. “What are you
talking about? There no chance in hell that we’re staying here, Mol. We’ve gotta
get out of here. We just have to. It’s what people do, Mol. They make plans.
They have dreams. They do whatever it takes to make them happen. What could
possible keep us here?”
She looked away and started crying. I was so confused. Our whole lives
we had dreamed of leaving this place. I demanded to know what could possible
hold her back now.
She slowly raised her head and looked at me with those big brown eyes.
She wiped her tears and tilted her head just enough for me to remember the first
time I saw her.
She slowly raised her head and whispered softly that she was pregnant.
.......
32
It’s 7:01 and I’m trying not to make eye contact with my coworkers. I’m
looking straight ahead and heading for the end.
.......
I’m trying to keep my mind from sinking back to Rob’s wet face. To me,
gawking at his tears.
He wanted me to make something of myself.
He wanted me to promise him that I wouldn’t stick around and end up
like everyone else.
Like him.
He wanted me to go.
.......
I numbly walked to my “home”. My “life”. I looked around at the
dirty walls, covered in finger smudges and layers of food and grime. I took in
the smells of old shoes and dried alcohol. I saw the man responsible for my
birth. That old “war hero”. That man that scared me since I was little, with his
drunken fits of flashbacks and screams and punches in the air. And my mother,
the woman who was supposed to be my role model. I never knew what different
types of drugs she was on at any one point in time. I could never tell what she
was feeling or thinking behind those glazed eyes. Now she was passed out. She
was peaceful and ready to go.
I could smell my dad’s liquor soaking into the dry, crusty carpet.
I could see my mom’s cigarette burning nearby.
I could hear the static of the radio soothing the kids to sleep.
They would never amount to anything.
They would never go anywhere.
.......
I locked the windows.
I sealed them shut.
I latched the door from the outside.
I walked away as the flames rose higher behind me.
I blocked out the sound of the children screaming.
I just walked away.
I walked away and never looked back.
.......
I was sitting in a diner when I heard about it on the news.
A horrible sob story about an entire family trapped inside a flaming
mobile home.
That’s right.
An entire family. No survivors. Not a single one.
........
33
I took a bus to Phoenix. It gave me time to think. It gave me time to look
through the soggy cardboard box Rob had given me. Social Security card. Birth
certificate. Hospital-issued baby footprints. Medical records. All with Molly’s
name. A picture of Molly as a child, smiling and waving. Rob had photocopied
the image at the auto repair shop onto several postcards Molly’s mom had sent
over the years, creating “photographs” of Molly at Disney world. “Pictures” of
her playing in the Gulf of Mexico. There was a whole scrapbook bound with an
old shoelace. A whole book filled with the imaginary travels Rob had created
for Molly. On the inside was written, “To My Dear Molly, on your wedding day.
I always knew you would go places. Love, Your Uncle Rob.” His big, childish
scrawl left just enough room for the date.
I ripped out the page. I tore the whole damn thing apart.
.......
I could go into the “exciting” details of how I cut my hair and dyed it
and bought some colored contacts and all, but it’s nothing new. I’m sure you’ve
heard or seen it all before.
.......
It’s 7:02 and most definitely the most beautiful day of the year. I’m
running now.
.......
I’m beginning to suspect that no one actually knows what they’re doing
anymore. Their instinctive actions are all planned in advance. They’re not real.
People are TV. People are blockbuster movies, fighting for a box office
kill. Everyone is always fighting. They can’t be happy with what they have. They
have to be better than the next person. The next big film of the year.
I think it’s time to roll my credits.
.......
I got to a point where I was sick of not caring. I needed someone to love
that wasn’t crazy. I was sick of crazy people. I craved normalcy.
The company I work for strongly discourages relationships between its
employees. However, they also sponsor a singles night every other Tuesday.
I went once.
I didn’t dress up. I threw on some jeans and a t-shirt and met a guy
named Leo. He was bald. I didn’t ask him how old he was. Actually, I didn’t
really care. I was pretty sure that I just wanted to hear about someone else’s
problems. I found out later that I was wrong. Anyways, I let him do the talking.
He told me that he left his wife and three kids for a model.
I told him that was hard to believe. I don’t know why I said it. I was busy
wondering why I even bothered to try and be social anymore.
He went on and on about how this model, this home wrecker, this
“Maria” had stolen his heart and then died.
34
I realized that I hated him and every single word coming out of his
mouth.
I eyed the door. I could grab free coffee on my way out.
But I stayed.
I stayed and listened to him until his voice turned into more of a low
buzz than actual words. I used to do this in school when I was younger.
I found myself asking him why someone who was bald would grow a
mustache. I didn’t wait for an answer. I felt like doing something I never even
thought about in school or at any time of my life.
I felt like causing a scene.
I raised my voice and loudly asked why he hadn’t asked me anything
about myself. I told him I thought that after 45 minutes one would think that it
might be my turn to talk.
I glanced around for looks or nods of approval. All I could see was an
occasional annoyed stare. I realized that everyone had paired up and they were
smiling at each other and leaning in with interest like no one else existed. I hoped
their interest was fake. I thought it could not be possible that these people would
care about another person that much. Not when they just met.
I realized that these people weren’t there to find someone they could love
and care for. They were there to find someone that could love and care for them.
All I could hear was Leo apologizing. His voice sounded like pretend.
Like the sincere tone was just an act. Like he had done this before. He was
“begging” for me to tell him my life story. He was “pleading” with me to tell him
all about me.
All I could think was how stupid I was for coming.
What was I supposed to tell him? That I killed my family? That my
name tag and everything else in my life was a lie? That I hadn’t seen a doctor in
six years because I was too paranoid to try and get insurance? That I had been
switching apartments every two months just incase someone was possibly trying
to find me?
I left so quickly I forgot about the coffee.
.......
It’s now 7:03 and I’ve reached the ledge. I’m not a movie. I’m not a sob
story. I am not a high school dropout. I am not a murderer.
I am not Molly.
35
The Present / Becka McFarland
Everything I know is behind me now. Past as well as future. From my loving
parents to a promising university. My home, my life, my plans. They are all
to the east. And I am traveling west. To Idaho, which seems like a great place
to bring a screaming brat, a bundle of joy, whatever it turns out to be, into the
world. Acre after acre of plush green grass, sparkling brooks, strong trees
stretching lazily into crisp blue skies, and friendly yet strange faces that have no
idea what I should have been.
I’ve barely even left and I miss my old life. No one even knows I’m gone as I
travel new distances on a familiar interstate. My boyfriend will probably be the
first to notice. Tonight, when he gets back from work, he’ll feel the emptiness of
the apartment before he realizes my clothing is gone. He will know he’s alone
before he opens the medicine cabinet and sees his solitary toothbrush. I’ve taken
a few other things, such as pictures to remind me of the people who care about
me. The people I’m running from.
I hope that the farther I get, the less I will hear my mother’s voice, asking
me if I’m going to keep it, careful to keep her tone neutral. I pray to forget my
brother’s drunken disappointment in his aspiring sister. Maybe in Idaho I can
forget the way Jonathan’s face lit up when I told him the news. “We’re having
a baby,” I revealed. But I know how it sounded to him. “I’m stuck with you
forever, baby.” Followed by a celebration with several of his friends and a box of
smelly Swisher Sweets. Now all that’s behind me.
Church signs mock me as I pass. “Every day is a gift,” it lies. “That’s why
they call it the present.” I grip the soft cover of my steering wheel tighter and
taste vomit working its way up my throat. My temples throb to the beat of a
song I would be blaring if I didn’t feel so sickly all the time. I can only pray the
fresh Idaho air will offer some sort of remedy.
I drift along the pavement while my mind wanders to my vast collection
of My Little Ponies. I remember the pungent, yet comforting scent of the soft
plastic. Whatever happened to those ponies? I wonder, hoping the thing within
me turns out to be a girl. I haven’t seen them in stores for a long time; then again
it’s been over a decade since I’ve visited the aisles they hide in. Barbies are still
around, I know. I can’t wait to play Barbies with my beautiful little girl. She’ll
have her favorite of course, but I won’t mind doing the talking for Ken, like my
mom did.
Harsh hunger pangs stir me from my day dreams. Signs for an upcoming exit
offer sustenance at a fast food joint I would normally breeze right by. It seems
better than the pain that is quick to replace the emptiness of my stomach. Head
still pounding, I pull off the highway and into a near vacant parking lot, which
is the only thing around other than the millions of blades of dead grass that
surround it and the interstate.
The door, the standard glass door on the front of all these places, seems to
weigh a ton as I heave it open and shuffle through to the counter. A girl of about
17 shoots up to meet me, obviously delighted to have some company. “Hello
there!” she says with too much enthusiasm, her thin face stretching into as big of
a smile as it can possibly hold. “What’ll ya have, ma’am?” Ma’am. She called
36
me ma’am.
“A double cheeseburger,” I mumble. “And some fries, please. With a drink.”
The girl grinds her fingers into the buttons of the cash register and gives me an
amount and a cup. I straighten out a five dollar bill and hand it to her as she
cocks her head to the side. “You’re looking a little glum,” she says. “Something
on your mind?” My eyes well up with tears but I shake my head no, collect my
change, and spin around to fill my cup with ice and whatever isn’t caffeinated.
“What’d I tell you about minding your business?” I hear an elderly man bark
from the back room as he stirs up my fries. My mind changes, as it so often does
these days, and when I go back to the counter I ask if she’d like to sit down with
me, trying to fake a smile as grand as hers.
“Well sure,” she replies. “I’ve got a break coming anyway.” As the old man
sets my food on the tray the girl has prepared, she scoops some fries into a small
cup and follows me to a table in the corner.
For a minute we eat in silence. I think about my grandma, how she always
used to pick off the small crispy fries so I could have all the big ones. I know I’m
not giving my mother that chance, and feel the tears heading up to the surface
again.
“You’re pregnant, huh?” she asks, which catches me completely off guard.
“How can you tell?” I set down the french fry I’m working on and concentrate
on her answer.
“Gloomy one minute, cheery the next, and then gloomy again by the time that
minute’s done. Yeah, I went through that too.”
I am in shock. She is so tiny, so young, so happy. “You?”
She laughs a little. “Yeah me. And my good-for-nothing boyfriend swore he’d
stick around. Haven’t heard from him in years.”
“Years? How long has it been?” Still, I’m in shock.
“Two years actually. My little handsome will be two in a couple months. His
daddy took off when I started getting fat.”
“Better off without him then,” I remark.
“Yep that’s how I feel. He’s got a ton of family that loves the hell out of him,
no room for anybody in his life that don’t.”
“I wish I were as excited to have mine as you are about yours,” I say, staring at
the burger.
The girl’s tone changes to a low whisper. “I prayed for a miscarriage,” she
admits. “I could not imagine loving something that was gonna rip my world to
pieces. When my little handsome came out, and looked at me with those bright
blue eyes that said ‘Love me, momma!’ I couldn’t help but do anything else,
except realize I didn’t even have a world to tear up before he came along.”
Now I am full on bawling. She pats my hand and I excuse myself to the
bathroom to dab at my eyes with a paper towel. In the mirror I notice a changing
table behind me. Something I’d walked past in dozens of other public restrooms
without noticing. I turn around and pull the flat plastic piece down, imagining a
little bitty baby squirming on top.
When I go back out into the dining area again, the girl is still wearing her smile.
“Go home, mommy,” she says. And I do.
37
I Can’t Fly Without My Cape / Steve Marshall
As my mom struggled to get the other kids into the car, she was upset to
find out that it was me, her own son, holding up the whole group. I folded my
arms and told her, “I can’t find it. I’m not going,” and began pouting
“I don’t have time for this Steven,” Mom exclaimed. “Just get in the car
and we’ll look for it when we get home.”
“I can’t fly without my Superman cape!” I shouted. I pouted even
harder. My mom, who was babysitting five other children, was short on patience.
She scooped me up, and stuck me in the car, and belted me in. I got really upset,
and began crying, which inspired the other children to start fidgeting, and
causing a commotion.
“Steven calm down, and wait a minute.”
I sniffled while she dashed back into the house. She returned with a bath towel
and a safety pin. She threw the towel over my shoulders, and pinned it around
my neck, and asked, “How’s that?”
“Do I look like Superman?” I whimpered.
38
Beastie / Nikki Minette
He stalked the dark twists of the Minoan Labyrinth, lit by furtively
glowing and flickering torches. The walls were high and wide, the ceiling
roughly hewn. The creature that roamed them filled the wide hallways
completely. He had the body of a heavily muscled man, and the head of a bull
with the blackest eyes. The tips of his horns scrapped the ceiling every now and
then.
The Minotaur prowled his home, in a foul mood. Earlier, he had found a
patch of moldering vine along the western wall, and it had discolored a portion
of the stone. He would never be able to get the filthy stain off. He wanted to
break something, and the only thing stopping him was the mess it would create.
He was determined to clean it, though. He could not stand to leave it dirty.
Along his way, searching for an old piece of cloth that he could scrub
with, he would pause to straighten a loose stone, or brush a pile of debris into
a corner, using his thick fingers like a broom. He snorted every time he had to
stop, getting more and more aggravated. This place was a pigsty, his mind raged;
it was like it had been built a century ago. It was never ending house-work.
He wondered briefly if anyone knew how much work it really was to keep his
Labyrinth in a livable condition. He doubted it greatly. He stomped on, in as bad
a mood as ever.
He reached his nest, in the heart of the maze, and sighed softly. It was a
medium sized square room of black-grey stone with a perpetual chill. He thought
it was rather homey. This place was a mess too, he noticed. The bed, which
consisted of a thick blanket of a disconcerting red color, bundled up in the corner,
was untidily left nearly a foot to the right of where it was supposed to have been.
A whole foot!
His other personal effects where arranged neatly along two of the walls.
Even though nothing was out of place, he squatted down to rearrange them or
pat invisible dust from them. The collection ranged from a small and well tuned
lyre, which looked to be lovingly treated, to huge rusty swords. One sword had
blood-dust on it. He turned a round, bronze shield 360 degrees until he was
content it was completely vertical. He polished a short sword that looked more
like a meat carver than a weapon. Some time later, the beast was finally satisfied
that his trophies looked pretty enough, he stood and searched a bit more and
then grabbed an old rough-woven cloth. He remembered this cloth from his
earliest recallable moments. He had been wrapped it in, swaddled almost, when
he was pushed into his home, this maze, at what the Shorties called Age Five.
Not that he really understood what age was.
Briefly, the image of a Shortie came to mind, with soft curves and black
hair. She had been the one to lead him into his home. She said it was better he
was away from others; that he was dangerous to himself and everyone else. That
something was deeply wrong with him. The Minotaur had not understood her
words, as human speech held no meaning for him. He only knew that he liked
her more than other Shorties. Her voice soothed him. He almost wanted to see
her sometimes.
With a sigh through his nostrils, he began to head back to the west wall
39
to clean that frightful stain with his burlap rag. As he left the center of the maze,
he again paused and crouched down. His big black eyes were staring at a colony
of cockroaches that was moving benignly along the floor. His eyes crinkled up
at the corners, and he made thick sounds in his throat that were eerily like baby
talk. He waggled his finger at his friends, and they were happy to scamper up his
hand in greeting. The Minotaur glanced around for his ants as well, or the larger
colony of cockroach-brothers, but they were elsewhere. His friends clambered
about his hand for a few minutes, before he gently placed them back on the
ground and carefully stepped around them.
He continued on his way to the western wall to get at that infernal stain.
Along his way was the gate, the only entrance or exit to the world beyond his
labyrinthine home. The beast was beginning to doubt the world existed beyond
the gate. However, that was the one place his food came through once a Circle.
Realizing his hunger, he made a stop at the gate and inspected the circle in the
door. The bright spot of golden light made a slow revolution through the course
of labels that delineated some form of time. Only when the circle was at its peak,
in the label J, would he get his food. With a shot of excitement, he saw his rough
calendar was in fact in J and the circle would be full within a matter of hours.
Food was soon. His home had to look perfect for this! He darted along to the
stain and scrubbed it into oblivion.
The beast did not know how long he scratched, rubbed, and scoured at
the stone. He was not done when he felt a tremendous vibration run through
the entire structure of the labyrinth. The gate was opening. He considered
staying put to finish his job before seeking out his meal, but dropped his now
disintegrating rag and lumbered towards the gate. The walls gave little puffs
of dust as the ceiling shook violently again. The gate had closed. A masculine
scream ripped through the silence of the Minoan Labyrinth and the Minotaur’s
eyes crinkled at the corners again. It was almost like a smile. He hurried towards
his prey faster, stomach rumbling.
When he arrived at the gate, the Shortie was still scratching, pounding,
and shoulder slamming the wall in a fury of fear to escape. The beast studied the
Shortie. He was a full three heads shorter than he himself, and wore fabric about
his body. Some of the fabric looked hardened, almost shiny in the weak torch
light. A dingy glimmer at his waist told the beast he was armed.
The Shortie turned to face the approaching giant, and wanted to faint
with fear. In the weak lamplight, he was just able to make out the salivating
monster with bottomless pits for eyes. He was a proud Athenian man, but seeing
this creature made him weak in the knees and bladder. When the Minotaur took
a step towards him, and those wicked horns drew sparks from the stone ceiling,
his will broke and he ran. With an annoyed snort, the brute gave chase.
It was not long before the Minotaur had easily out maneuvered the
terrified man and overcame him in the turns of the Labyrinth. He materialized
from around a corner ahead of the man, and blocked most of the already weak
light. The Shortie fumbled and stumbled, trying to draw his sword and run away
at the same time. The beast advanced, looming over the man. He never enjoyed
this part as it created a mess, and they always made so much damned noise;
however, he had resigned himself to it long ago. Just as he was reaching for the
man’s neck, he stumbled backwards in horror. There was a small crackling that
40
echoed down the hall. Stopping in his tracks, his eyes grew huge and round. He shoved the Shortie hard in the chest, and fell to his knees to investigate the
origin of the sound, even though he already knew the truth. His friends, the
cockroaches, had been crushed by the dozen. The survivors were milling about
their fallen friends, trying to understand and failing. The Minotaur stared in
horror, his black eyes getting wet and shiny. He did not notice the Shortie had
finally drawn his sword, so engrossed was he in the deaths of his dear friends.
Only when the man screamed as he charged did the beast move. With a fluid roll,
he cleared the fall of the sword, and sprang back to his feet with a thud. He heard
more sickening pops as the man crushed more cockroaches intentionally. The
Shortie had gained an ugly aggressive look on his face.
The Minotaur opened his mouth and bellowed. The ceiling shook
slightly and sprinkled large amounts of dust. He failed to notice. He was all rage
and murder now. With one massive stomping step, he was beside the little man.
He slammed him back against the wall with all his might, and felt ribs break. The
man fell to the ground, gasping for the air. The monster stared at the helpless and
prone form and felt nothing besides the urge to hurt, kill, and avenge. Dinner
became an after thought. He reflected on his innocent friends and decided that
same death would be a fitting end to this worthless thing. He raised his foot and
slammed it on the man’s spine with all his might; he enjoyed the give of bone.
Another stomp with the other foot, aimed at the man’s head, and the walls were
painted red.
The Minotaur stood still as a statue for a long time. His mind was blank,
just staring at the gore on the cold stone, and oozing from the ceiling. That had
felt good. Jerking out of his trance, he came back to himself and turned to the
corpses of his friends. He used his fingers as a broom to brush dirt and dust from
the ceiling into piles. The monster buried their small bodies, one by one. The fur
on his cheeks was wet.
When he was done, he stood with a deep heart weary sigh. As he picked
up the broken body of the man, dinner returned to the forefront of his mind. He
took another look at the bloodied walls. That would take forever to get off.
41
Black Ice / Ann Morrison
It was so cold. “This dog can’t be that cute,” her Mother tells her.
“But it is, it really is,” says the girl with excitement.
This seven year old girl couldn’t wait much longer. She just celebrated
her Birthday and her present was a ten-week-old white puppy.
The record low temperatures wouldn’t make the hour drive any better.
Did you grab a blanket? Yes Mommy she said climbing into the car. The buckle
was locked and the car started. It wouldn’t be too much longer before she could
hold the puppy in her arms.
They met the old couple in the parking lot. The woman had a bundle in
her arms. The snow started to fall as she handed the ball to the little girl through
the window. As the girl took it from the woman’s arms a little head popped out,
led by a tiny pink nose.
The price was set and the money turned over. Mommy is it really mine?
It’s all yours sweetie. Hold on to him till we get home. She pulled out of the
parking lot and the wheel locked. The car to the right came to a stop as the car
on the left slid by without a sound. She turned the wheel and made it past the
two cars when she realized there was a car coming straight toward her. She
turned the wheel the other way and avoided the car and ran straight into the rail.
The road was glossy like black ice. She took a deep breath and relaxed into the
seat. Are you O.K.?
Her daughter looked up at her Mother and with a smile said, “Fluffy and
I are going to be alright.”
42
The Story of Two Twins in Auschwitz / Joshua Kirkpatrick
The journal entries which are below were found deep in the Auschwitz’s soil. The only
edited parts are of word translation, spelling corrections, grammar, and of the June 12th
journal entry to help you, as a reader understand.
Executive Chief
Bradley Rapold
June 6, 1944
This morning, I begin this journal now to explain the horrors here, to
let those who have forgotten me here remember me once more in the future, as
it seems that this is a place no one will survive. There is no true way to fully
explain this hell hole for anyone who reads this to understand. It can never take
as full of an effect until you are here in my shoes. It began when we were in
our hometown. The Germans invaded and took many families away, including
us, and we weren’t even Jewish. It was because of our grandparents on our
mother’s side that caused us to be included in the selection.
My mother, father, twin brother and I were deported to Auschwitz, and
as soon as we arrived, my brother and I were taken out, and that’s when one SS
officer shouted “Zwillinge,” and that was it. The Angel of Death ran over with
that twisted grin on his face. He then separated my brother and me from our
parents. Mengele acted all too nice to us, and sadly, we trusted him then. We
were so stupid, but since we didn’t have to undergo selection, we had to believe
him because I had seen the fires of hell that people were thrown into. My brother
had not, and he thought I was making it up, but he never pays attention anyway.
We then took a shower after being pulled out from the crowd, and as
soon as we got out of the shower, we were tattooed with numbers. Mine was
T-3758. The next day we woke up at 6 am and went to inspection, just to see if
we were healthy and then we ate breakfast. After that, we were given a ride by
Mengele to a building which I thought was no less than a normal building, but as
soon as we walked inside, he led us to a room with 3 other pairs of twins.
June 6, 1944
Weird things were happening today since my first entry. We were
forced to get nude and lay on a cold, hard marble table, next to each other. They
measured every inch of our body, for hours. After that, Mengele had us strip and
he examined us very closely. He took pictures of us doing weird poses to capture
all the hair on our body. Instead of drawing my blood like normal, they drew it
and injected it into my brother. They also tried to give me my brother’s blood.
No effect yet and I’ve still have yet to try to figure what the hell is going on in
this place.
June 12, 1944
I’m trying very hard to write. I finally got most of my vision back from
the other day. That twisted demon caused my brother to go blind. He injected
me with some blue, and then light red, almost pink, and then yellow chemicals.
He was so upset that my eyes didn’t turn blue the next day that he did it again!
I wanted to hit him in his face so hard. Already my friends are dying, while this
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guy only cares about his weird experiments. How dare he do this! Doesn’t he
realize he’s…killing all of our families’ history?
June 13, 1944
I’m sorry for my last entry and how sloppy it was. My eyes must have
not had as good of vision as I thought. Today, I regretted seeing him again. He
tried drops this time in my brother’s eyes and I knew what pain he was going
through. Luckily he was only temporarily blind for a few hours. When he
could see, my brother still said his eyes were really hurting and he was feeling
sick. Towards the evening, I was walking in a hallway of the hospital, and in
this window of a door, I saw the most gruesome thing today that I will probably
ever see. Two twins were being cut and stitched together on the side, but the
operation failed because too much blood spilt along their sides. Blood had
flowed off the table, onto the floor and under the door. It got on my feet and
before I could leave, a doctor found me and signaled for me to follow him. I did,
and I looked behind me, seeing the blood stained footsteps slowly disappearing
with each step. He led me into a room with a big vat of steaming water in which
my brother was inside of. We had to sit in there, and when I finally woke up,
I realized I had passed out. My head felt cold, and when I felt it, I was bald. I
passed out again, and woke up on a cold, marble slate. I had looked at my body
and my brother’s and we both had no hair. As they were taking pictures of us, I
still felt a slight pain of where my hair had been, and once more passed out from
exhaustion.
June 18, 1944
Nothing has happened to me, but my brother is still gone. I am now
worried greatly for him. What could they be doing to him? I swear if they hurt
him, I will look for that man and tear his head off. Aw, who am I kidding? I will
never have the strength now to do that, but I just really want my brother back. I
beg of God, I beg of these doctors, I beg of Mengele. Please, don’t kill him. Don’t
hurt him. Let him live!
June 20, 1944
My brother came back! Such joy came through me when I saw him,
but such sadness came through me when I noticed he was hurt. He can hardly
walk, because of what they did to him. He remembers waking up with pains in
his back one of the days, and seeing the needles on the counter, he put 2 and 2
together. On the next day, they performed surgery on him. He wouldn’t tell me
what kind of surgery, no matter how much I comforted him, because he was too
embarrassed. All he said was that they removed pieces of his body, or something
along the lines of it. He was crying so much from the pain of it and from the joy
of seeing me I couldn’t understand him too well, but I didn’t need to push him
to tell me. I knew he was happy to be alive and I’m also thankful he still is. We
know we will soon be dead if we don’t escape this place. So, when he calmed
down, we thought up a plan. We will take action tomorrow.
44
June 21, 1944
I woke up and he was not here, meaning we will either escape tonight,
or we will not escape at all. I will never leave him here. While I know he’s
still alive, either we both escape, or we both die. This is my sacred promise to
him that I have made inside myself. Although I don’t want to give the Angel
of Death this power, it actually is up to him and the sands of time. It will all
depend on what he does with my brother today. This time, I pray he gets back in
time. I do not want to wait another day. I do not want to spend even one more
hour waiting and wondering. I do not want to be here for even another minute,
because I know that with every minute, someone in this camp dies, and within
that minute no one is born.
June 22, 1944
Last night he had returned, and all they did was try to help him, but they failed.
They may have actually made things worse. We tried to hide in the labs because
we were sighted leaving, and then Mengele found us, and showed us his true
self, the angry and malicious side of him. We tried to tell the other older twins
during breakfast that we had to work together to escape, but they fell into his
trap. They believe he is kind, and some of them even called him uncle! Damn
it! We have to escape and my brother and I both know it. No matter how much
we pray, God no longer answers us. “God is on their side now and is never
coming back for us,” my brother says. I am starting to believe him now. Deep
inside, I know its wrong to believe God’s against us, but everyday that feeling is
being buried deeper and it seems that the idea of God being against us is the only
logical answer to why our prayers are ignored.
June 25, 1944
These may be my last words, and then again they may not be. I will find
out soon enough. My brother’s number was called once again, and this time so
was mine. I have lived here for almost one month, which is somewhat of a feat,
and completely a miracle. If I live this day once more I will continue my story,
but if I die, my story ends, along with the knowledge of what Mengele is hiding.
June 25, 1944
One of my questions has been answered, but answered in the suffering of
my brother. Actually, in the suffering of me too, for I have suffered emotionally.
My brother had become Mengele’s frog today. He was placed on the table,
naked, and they sewed his eyes shut. Mengele led me to the side of the table for
me to watch what was in store for me. Mengele nodded to the doctor, and the
doctor grabbed a knife and started to cut my brother’s chest open. As I heard
my brother’s piercing screams, tearing my heart apart, I looked away. As soon
as I looked away, Mengele forced my head in my brother’s direction and held
my eyelids open. He explained while my brother was being cut open that there
was no way to escape this place, and no way to get other people to believe me if
I tell them what happened. What will be said is that my brother had died from
a big accident, and that will be that. The kids will be on his side, and all against
me. He then told me what his initial plan is to find immortality. It was to figure
out how the body works and to be able to fight diseases, problems with the body,
45
and so on, so that he will be famous for it and the Germans will live long and
forever to create an Aryan race. I imagined the pain that my brother must be
feeling, to only concentrate on how it felt being cut open, and to not see what’s
going on. Also to have to hear Mengele explain his plan during that pain must
be torture. I couldn’t help but scream for my brother, and right before he died,
he cursed Mengele, and screamed my name. His final tears rolled down his eyes,
and Mengele continued to have me stand over his body. I tried not to show a
reaction, to not show weakness in front of Mengele, but I couldn’t help crying. It
hurt me so much to see the blood spilling out of my brother’s body and to hear
the piercing screams of pain as he was being cut open. Those screams will be
running through my mind until the day I die.
This is exactly what Mengle must want. To let me survive this day, so
that I can remember what it felt like to have hugged my brother for the last time
before his cruel death, so I can forever hear the screaming of his pain. So I will
continue to smell the scent of blood and sweat. So I can always taste the tears I
shed and so I will see the images in my head of my brother dying until the day
I leave this earth. I do not know how to escape now. Suicide is not an option,
Mengele made sure of that. My room is now almost bare, except for a light, a bed
and this notebook, which I stashed inside a cut of my pillow.
June 30, 1944
Once more my name has been called. I have no clue what’s in store for
me now that my brother is dead. My own death? More experiments? No clue. I
do know they soon will come for me and get me into that lab again. I don’t think
I’ll be able to take it. The memories of my brother still flood my mind. I have
tried to spread the word, but to no prevail. Brother, I miss you. Family, I love
you so much and hold you dearly in my heart.
July 5, 1944
Three days hooked up to tubes. Not only was it humiliating, it was
torture. Here the word torture has such a vague meaning. Outside of this world,
it is thought of inflicting severe pain unto someone, but here it happens so
much here, it is only considered as minor pain compared to the outside world.
Anything that exceeds the normal pain that goes on around here is torture. This
however wasn’t normal. They stuck tubes up my nose until it traveled into my
lungs. As if it didn’t hurt enough, they put gases in the tubes and made me
constantly cough. I tried not to, because the contractions of the lungs caused the
tube to inflict pain unto me, but when I didn’t try to cough, I just coughed harder.
The third day I started to cough up enough blood for me to be sent back to rest.
The next day I rested all day.
Now I know they have to kill me. They have no more use for my living
body. When I yelled at Mengele while being hooked up to tubes, I asked him
why he was doing this. As he stood over me, he became intimidating for the
second time. He then did something strange, he…laughed. It was a gruesome
laugh that came from deep inside his soul. It was a laugh so sinister that you
heard his evil thoughts, laughing out his life story of him being in Auschwitz.
He then said, “The more we do to you, the less you seem to believe we are doing
it,” and he flat-out left.
46
So all day, 2 days ago I pondered the meaning of this statement.
Yesterday I decided to escape after figuring out that it could only mean that the
more they do they me, the more I slowly die until I leave this life into a life where
I can’t believe what they have done. This time, when the doctor took me to his
truck, I had brought one of my pens with me and stabbed him in his throat. This
worked and I tried to bring the truck to a fast speed to go through the gate, but
I hit two Germans and the car slowed down just enough for the gate to stop me.
They then completely searched me, and when they got to my room they then
removed everything except my pillow and blanket.
This is why I believe today’s the day because they called my number. I
imagine they’ll drag me out, and do what they did to my brother. As I hear their
footsteps now, I am not sure if they’re real, or if I’m imagining them out of fear.
One thing I do know is I will never be ready to face the fate my brother had to
face. Remember me, please, always remember me.
47
Three Margaritas / Erin Madigan
My last paycheck and a couple nights’ worth of tips have been already
used up in paying our month’s rent; my mom lost her job about a month ago
and still hasn’t found a new one. We already went through her money so now it
is all up to me to make good tips and pick up more shifts so we can stay in our
apartment and have food on the table.
It was Friday night, happy hour, and I wasn’t scheduled to work, but
picked up the shift. I was running a little late and didn’t have time to shower
or eat before coming to work. When I walked in I could hear the Mexican band
playing, some of the other employees singing happy birthday to a young kid
in Spanish, customers laughing while drinking their margaritas, and the host
welcoming everyone by saying the same thing “Welcome to Three Margaritas.
How many do you have? Would prefer smoking or non smoking?” and then I
knew that this night was going to be hell.
As I walked back to clock in I saw a new waitress. She looked up at
me and smiled, and I just turned my head and walked away. She was pretty,
long brown hair and comforting brown eyes that looked as if they saw straight
through me, her complexion made me think she had some Mexican in her. No
girl has ever been interested in me, except for Lauren; seven years ago when I
was in sixth grade but I scared her off when I told her I loved her after ice skating
on a Friday night. I shouldn’t get all worked up that she smiled at me, last time I
got excited that a girl liked me the next day she told everyone how creepy I was;
it was her first day, she was probably just being nice.
While I was out in the dining room waiting on my customers I kept
catching her looking at me, she didn’t even care that I saw her doing it, she
would just smile. I started to think that there was something wrong with me, like
my zipper on my pants was down, but it wasn’t. I started to get nervous when I
got close to her; I didn’t know what to say to her or how to start a conversation,
so when I saw her coming in my direction I made sure to look the other way or
act like I was busy.
It was finally my turn to take my break, so I ordered a lot of food and sat
down at a booth and started eating when she walked up.
“Hi, I’m Amanda,” she said.
“Hi, I’m Larry,” I said, without looking at her.
“I’m on break too, do you mind if I sit with you?” she asked.
“If you want, but I have to go back to work soon,” I responded.
She sat down and it was silent for the first few minutes, neither of us
said anything. I drained the Mexican music out and my food lost its flavor, and
I didn’t want to eat it anymore, I went from starving to full in a matter of two
minutes. I started to panic and I got this funny feeling in my stomach and my
palms started to sweat, I didn’t know how to break the silence. If I didn’t talk
she might get up and leave and I didn’t want that.
“What do you do for fun?” she asked.
“Ride my bike, you?”
“I like to go shopping,” she said.
“Typical girl, my mom likes to go and sometimes she drags me with
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her,” I said.
“Well maybe you should come with me next time I go, or would I have
to drag you there?” she asked.
“You would have to drag me, how about we do something a little more
fun, like go out to dinner?” I asked.
After I asked I realized what had happened, this entire conversation was
moving so quickly and when she paused before saying yes I thought maybe that
was too quick of a move and I shouldn’t have asked her to go with me.
“Well I guess I’ll see you Thursday night, have a restaurant in mind
when I get to your house,” I said as I picked up my half ate lunch and headed
back to the kitchen.
When I got back from my break I noticed that I had not made that much
money in tips and I needed to buy groceries for home and have enough money
to take Amanda out on a date. I couldn’t ruin the plans I just made with her, but
what was I supposed to tell my mom? Then I realized that the waiter in the next
section over had two birthday parties in a row and was making a lot of money.
When I walked past one of his table, I saw that a couple had left a ten dollar
tip. I looked around and noticed that no one was looking in my direction, so I
took it, hoping that he thought they just didn’t tip. So many things were going
through my head when I picked up the ten dollar bill: how bad this was, I’d lose
my job if I got caught, and what would Amanda think if she saw me doing this.
I wanted to put it back, but I really needed that extra ten dollars. None of the
other employees saw it happen, so I was in the clear.
At the end of the night I got done before Amanda, so I thought I would
wait for her and see how her night went. When I saw her walking out she was
crying, so I thought about just leaving, but then she saw me so I had to stay.
“What is wrong?” I asked.
“Someone is blaming me for taking their tip, they said because I’m the
new girl and nothing like this has happened and it is my first day” she said as
she was crying.
I felt bad, but I didn’t want her to know it was me. My palms started
to sweat and that funny feeling came back in my stomach. I waited a couple of
minutes in silence and thought things through before making any decisions.
“Come inside with me, I think we need to get this taken care of” I said.
We went inside and back to the manager, Ken’s office, I knocked, and
then we went in together, the office was decorated with pictures from Mexico
and painted a bright yellow. We didn’t even sit down; I didn’t want to have
to stay in that small room with two people that were going to hate me in just a
couple of minutes.
“Ken, I think there was a misunderstanding tonight, Amanda wasn’t the
one that took the money, I was” I said with my voice a little shaky.
“Larry, you have never had anything like this happen, you’re one of the
best employees, you don’t have to stand up for a girl just because you like her,”
Ken said
“I’m not standing up for her, I did it because I was low on money and
wanted to have money to take her out on a date, but I also needed money to give
to my mom,” I responded.
“Well if that’s the truth then I believe you know the rules, Larry, I’m
49
going to have to fire you, stealing is a serious thing. I hate doing this because
I still believe you were not the one to take the money, but if that’s what you’re
saying then I’m going to have to take your word for it, I’ll mail you your last
check, it was great having you here,” Ken said.
We walked out of the office and Amanda wouldn’t look at me. I knew
she was upset and I was sorry for doing it, but I had never been on a date and I
didn’t want to tell her about the money situation and that I couldn’t go.
“I’m sorry for everything tonight” I said.
“I can’t believe you did that, I thought highly of you, and you stole
money from someone, and almost got me fired from my job, I think Thursday
is too soon to go out to dinner, let me think about it, and I’ll give you a call if I
want to, if I don’t then, well you should get the hint,” she said as she walked
backwards to her car.
She slammed her door and drove off. I stood in the parking lot in shock.
My day started out bad, then got better, then got worse. My mom is going to kill
me when I tell her what happened tonight.
50
7149 Wallace / Ben Girard
Nick wiped his brow as he heard footsteps approach the door.
Customers don’t like to see you sweat. The door opened. “Hi,” Nick said.
“Twenty-one sixty-eight.”
The man in the doorway smiled. “Okay, here’s twenty-four.”
Nick handed the man his two-liter bottle of soda and slipped the pizzas
out of the bag. “Thank you, have a good one.”
“Okay, you too.” The man gave Nick a wide smile as he retreated behind
the closing door.
Average tip. He’d expected better from a renovated two-story 1920’s-era
home in the subdivision of Fouiller. He threw the bag onto the passenger seat,
sat down and put his car in drive. Before he pulled onto Gerland, he added three
to the day’s column of numbers on the scrap of cardboard he had adopted as a
tip index. Eight dollars, third run of the day. Could be worse.
Nick was pleased to be enveloped by cool, freon-washed air as he
reentered the store. He was still short of the money needed to fix his car’s air
conditioning, which had ceased to work nearly three weeks prior. He slid the
bag up onto its rack, slid the twenty-five dollars through the slot in his assigned
drop box and clocked back into the computer system.
As he walked into the kitchen, Nick ran a hand through his wavy hair
and found it half-an-inch longer than he had expected; it was time to cut it. He
preferred a short cut in the summer, nearly a buzz.
“Hey Nick,” his manger called without looking up from the dough he
was stretching. “Go ahead and take Wallace–John’s taking a shit.”
“Alright.” It was never bad to be able to skip another driver and take a
delivery out of turn.
Wallace was very close to the store, only two blocks away, but it was
gated. Nick had to drive four blocks out of the way, then snake through the
subdivision of Eitel’s twisting roads, speed bumps and one-way streets to find
the house. The speed limit was twenty-five, no tolerance. A sign at the entrance
read, “Drive slow - we love our children.”
The sun was beginning to sink below the treetops that lined the
sprawling yards of the Eitel’s two and three story houses. Nick rolled down his
window and strained to read the addresses as he drove. 7119, drive. 7137, slow
down. 7155. Reverse. Must be one of these.
Eric put his car in park and exited, propping the pizzas on his left hand.
The first house had ivy growing upon its walls, so much that the windows were
barely distinguishable. Nick walked across the yard, until he could make out the
address, displayed on a tiny placard on the front porch. 7151. Next house down.
This lawn smelled of fresh yard clippings. It was green - green enough
that Nick thought better of risking the fury of a fastidious homeowner by
walking on it. He walked down further to the walkway, which led straight up to
the front porch.
Around the corner of the house to Nick’s right came a small boy, about
six years old, swinging a hockey stick above his dirt-filled hair. Upon spotting
Nick, he ran across the yard to toward him yelling “Pizza man, pizza man, pizza
51
man!” Nick smiled. These moments always reminded him of his own youth,
when he would look expectantly out of the window from the couch in the living
room, then jump up and down when the beloved pizza man arrived. As he
rang the doorbell, the boy proceeded to run in circles in the yard. “Pizza man,
pizza man, pizza man!” The stick was the same brand Nick had preferred until
about that same age, when his parents realized that hockey equipment was too
expensive for him to keep playing.
This one was looking like a waiter. Nick rang the doorbell again,
waited, then knocked. It was one of his coworkers’ most common complaints, to
make every effort to get the pizza to a person’s doorstep as fast as possible, just
to wait five minutes for someone to answer the door.
“Pizza man, pizza man!” The boy came around on Nick’s right, holding
the hockey stick back across his shoulder as if he were going to use it to hit a
baseball.
At this moment, Nick was looking at the door, waiting for it to open;
hoping, as always, for a decent tip. He was not looking at the boy, or at the
hockey stick. His mind was occupied. He was working. However, the real
reason that he did not have time to react as the boy swung the stick up at his
head, striking him on the portion of the skull just above the temple, was that
such a thing was utterly unexpected. It was the sheer unpredictability of the act
that kept Nick from realizing that it was being committed.
For a moment, nick saw only white light and heard only a faint buzzing.
These faded quickly, leaving Nick to discover three things were out of place:
One–the pizza bag was on the ground beside him. Two–his right hand was
clutching his forehead, and three–that the portion of his head currently under his
hand was in a fair amount of pain. His jaw dropping open, Nick watched the
boy run back around the side of the house. “Pizza man, pizza man, pizza man!”
“Oh my God!” Nick shouted. Noticing a slight metallic taste in his
mouth, he searched for more expletives, for a better way to exclaim his shock
and pain, but thought of no more proper phrase than, “Oh my God!” which
he shouted again. As he pulled his hand from his head to view the blood that
covered his palm and dripped down to the grass, he heard the door open. A
woman appeared in the doorway in a white robe, her hair wet.
“Hello?” The woman called. “Goodness, what happened to you?”
“Um, ma’am, I think your kid just hit me in the head with a hockey
stick.”
She gasped. “Oh my God!” She descended from the porch, clutching
the front of her robe tightly. “I’m so sorry, that looks bad.” She turned toward
the house and screamed, “Jake! Jake come here now! Right now!” After a few
moments, the boy’s head crept slowly around the corner of the house. He had
ditched the hockey stick. “Come here, Jake! Right here, right now!” The fat in
her forearm swayed back and forth as she pointed violently at the ground in
front of her. Jake obeyed, his eyes wide and his head slightly bowed. “Jake, did
you hit the pizza man in the head with a hockey stick?”
Jake waited a moment, then slowly shook his head. “No.”
“Well it sure looks like you hit the pizza man in the head with a hockey
stick.”
52
Tears began sliding down the young boy’s face. “I didn’t do it,” he
wailed.
The woman scoffed. “Go inside, to your room. Now!”
“But Mom, I...”
“NOW!”
The boy turned and ran into the house, the shrill tone of his cries
bouncing with the steps of his feet.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” the woman repeated.
“It’s alright, ma’am,” Nick said, wiping the blood from his head to his
hand, then wiping it from his hand to his shirt. As he bent over and picked up
the pizza bag, he noticed that it was oddly lopsided.
“How much was it?”
“Uh, eighteen eighty-two.” When he pulled the boxes from the bag, he
saw that both boxes were soaked with grease on one side. Nick opened one of
the boxes and sure enough, all the cheese and toppings were smashed into one
corner. “Oh, I”m sorry, that must’ve happened when I dropped the bag.”
“Oh.” The woman caught Nick’s eyes as a cool drop of blood slid down
his cheek to his chin. The woman stood, her arms folded across the front of her
robe to keep it closed, darting her eyes from the ruined pizza to Nick and back.
“I’ll... go back to the store and have these remade for you.”
“Okay.” The woman nodded her head eagerly.
Nick’s manager dropped the paddle. “Hit you with what?”
“A fucking hockey stick! And she wants the pies remade.” Nick tossed
the sodden boxes into a trash can.
“Nick’s manager laughed. “Alright, what did she order?”
“Two medium cheese, one medium sausage.”
“Fantastic.”
Nick looked at the driver’s screen - no more deliveries. He would be the
one to go back.
Nick returned to 7149 Wallace, blood seeping out from under the
bandage he had placed on his head. A large section of his shirt, which had
become a towel for his bloodied hand, had turned from red to dark blue.
The woman in the white robe answered the door, faster this time. Nick
caught a glimpse of the boy as he ran through the living room, still shouting,
“Pizza man, pizza man!”
“Oh good,” she said, “It’s almost stopped bleeding.”
“Yes,” nick said, “Almost. Here you are. That was eighteen eighty-two.”
“Here you go.” She handed him a twenty dollar bill. “Sorry about all
that.”
Nick took the bill in his hand and looked at it. He looked up at the
woman, who smiled broadly as strands of matted, wet hair clung to her face and
draped themselves limply over her closed teeth. A drop of blood sailed down
through Nick’s peripheral vision. He tried to speak, but found that the air was
lodged somewhere in the bottom of his throat. It took enough effort for him
to breathe in, smile, and force words out of his mouth that his eyelid twitched,
undoubtedly a result of the sudden, chaotic myriad of electrical impulses
53
swarming outward from his brain to the extremities in his body. It was this same
jumbled mess of impulses that prevented the air in Nick’s throat from forming
into words. Instead, it rushed out uncontrollably and unstoppably, in the form of
hysteric laughter. Doubled over, he saw a blurred vision of the dusk sky through
watered eyes. He wheezed and coughed, began to catch his breath, then burst
forth with laughter yet again. The woman had closed the door and disappeared
into the house when Nick, now lying on the ground, was able to calm his lungs
and relax, just for a moment, as he lay there upon the freshly cut grass.
54
On a Snowy Evening / Adam Vatterott
Rick grabbed the breadbasket from the middle of his table and began
waiting for the night to end.
“Don’t get yourself full before you eat,” said Rick’s mother, Betty, sitting
next to him.
“This is eating, Ma, and I’m not so little. You know I’m twenty-eight,”
said Rick.
“Twenty-eight and a half in March,” said Virginia, which caused his
mother to laugh, and filled his heart knowing Virginia could do that, so he
didn’t talk back again. They hadn’t gone out to eat at all since moving into the
apartment a few months ago. Virginia suggested going out to dinner with his
parents and her mom, so he’d rather not ruin what was really Virginia’s dinner.
Rick kept an eye out for the waiter, but the lights in the place seemed
about as bright as candles. He loosened his tie and leaned back. Virginia’s
mother, Marianne, was gabbing about some new TV drama, and when the
women would laugh, he would laugh, too. He glanced at his father, sitting across
the table. In such lighting, the shape of his father’s mouth seemed indifferent,
but his dark eyebrows would rhythmically shift along with the tone of the
conversation.
Rick looked at other people in the restaurant; he saw outlandish
attire, sequined and silk dresses, fur scarves, matching coats and top hats, as if
everyone wanted to stand out the most. As if to say ‘I have lots of money and
they’ll never know how I got it.’ Inhabiting the suspicious environment, he
analyzed a few patrons more closely, attempting to predict thier lifestyles. The
woman in the red dress was sleeping with two different men from her table. The
mousy-looking man had smuggled drugs into the country. The rotund man in the
yellow coat was a mobster, and had already planned to have the mousy-looking
man whacked later in the evening. Just like the movies, except he couldn’t spot
where the good guy might be in the restaurant. There is always a good guy.
Rick’s father leaned over toward Betty and whispered in her ear,
pointing indiscreetly at the mousy-looking man. They both laughed, and Betty
leaned in to allow his arm to reach around her shoulders more easily. Virginia
turned toward Rick, her smile was still as bright as ever even in this gloomy
room. While Marianne concluded her rant about some desperate housewife, Rick
gently passed his fingers up and down Virginia’s back.
After Virginia’s mother had finished, she asked if Rick and his father had
much in common.
“Well,” Mr. Anders began, staring down as the beverage server came to
fill his glass, “we go way back.”
Rick chuckled and added, “Yeah. I lived with this guy for about twenty
years of my life. Of course, I got out as soon as I had enough money for my own
car.”
“Although, I still don’t get why the boy, when he was a boy,” Mr.
Sanders continued, “would want to buy a car when he could get paid to drive
one of my trucks.”
“By which he means ‘Why don’t I ride a Big Wheel around for the rest of
55
my life.’” Rick was feigning the smile his father was wearing. He had never been
a part of his father’s monster truck business, nor did he plan to.
Rick’s mother rescued the conversation.
“You know, when Ricky was eight years old,” Betty began, “He
discovered a box in the basement full of “Dick Tracy” comic books and was
flipping through almost every copy. So, his father got really excited about this
and began taking Ricky to go see mobster and secret agent movies whenever
he could.” She focused on Rick, “He even pulled you out of school the day The
Untouchables was released.”
“I remember that,” said Rick. The waiter came with everyone’s meals
and they all acknowledged the pleasant smell. Although the sizzle and color and
scent of the food was much for the senses, Rick had kept his focus on Virginia.
Even now he was enjoying the sweet arousing fragrance floating next to him. The
same perfume she was wearing a few nights before, when they had been talking
about Rick and his father.
On that night Virginia had asked Rick why his father stopped driving.
Rick described the accident. It was staged.
His father took the truck off a ramp and in the air turned on a device
attached to the strut of his front-left tire as he had done many times. And the
monster-sized projectile tire excited the crowd. The truck would have landed
on that wheel, but instead flipped upon striking the ground and a piece of scrap
metal from one of the junk cars broke through his windshield and cut loose a
restraining belt. The whiplash, which was not staged, caused nerve damage in
his spine, and he was in rehab for about nine months.
Rick watched his father tear off a morsel of steak, swallowing it whole.
Virginia was still delicately cutting up her meal.
“I’ll trade you my mashed potatoes for your green beans,” Rick said.
Virginia giggled and Rick swore someone had flipped on a few more
lights by their table.
“Thank you. You know I hate green beans.”
Marianne spoke about how interesting it was that these ‘experts’ on the
news report about how violent movies are causing kids to grow up to be violent
people, and that Richard had turned out just fine, anyway.
“Well you always said that Dad made those movies fun,” Betty was
addressing Rick again. “What was that one line he would say all the time?”
“In the movie a bad guy would get shot or beat up, he would say, ‘Well
he got what he had coming,’ and if there was a big fight scene or shoot-out and
by the end the villain would be laying on the ground with a few bullets in every
limb and double that number in his chest, and Dad would say, ‘Man, they really
gave him what he had coming.’”
His mother continued: “Anyway, when they watched those movies
together they would decide which characters were ultimately good and which
were bad. And on that they never disagreed.” She paused. “Isn’t that right?”
“Tell me more about these Big Wheels,” said Virginia’s mother, “I hear
you used to be pretty famous.”
“Well, I wasn’t so famous as my truck was. Its name was the Wreckuiem,
and I was responsible-”
Rick chortled and spoke over his father, “Responsible...”
56
“-For driving and maintaining the truck for about three years. It’s
definitely something I’m proud of. It’s been about two years now since either me
or the truck has driven in a derby.”
“Talk about someone who got what they had coming.” This time Rick
mumbled under him.
“But the truck is being fixed up, and I think I’ll be driving monster trucks
again real soon.” Rick’s father said.
“I still can’t believe you would do something so idiotic!” Now Rick
spoke right through everyone. The monster truck Q&A has timed out. The horn
had sounded, and everyone remained quiet, their faces in their plates. They had
blended in with everyone else in the restaurant.
The conversation was restrained for the rest of the dinner. The three
women began discussing the drama of real people they knew, which was never
as detailed or emotional as television drama.
Apparently, the mousy-looking man had eaten something he wasn’t
supposed to. His face was a blotchy-red, half keeled-over and shuffling his way
out of the restaurant with the assistance of one of his companions.
Was it the over-sized mobster who poisoned him? Or maybe the good
guy had finally shown, and he was still hiding, disguised as a restaurant patron,
or maybe even a waiter. But as Rick’s plot was thickening and twisting, his own
stomach had begun to follow suit.
***
At the apartment, Virginia sat by the window, gazing out. A bottle of
Tums accompanied Rick in bed. Virginia began talking about how nearly pitch
dark it was outside the night before, but snow had been falling all day, and she
noticed how much brighter it was outside. It was only a few hours till midnight,
yet what light there was radiated off the snow, and it was as easy to see outside
as it had been when the sun had just set.
Virginia searched out the window. She might have found something. “Whenever I was away or my father was away, he would write me
letters. And at the end of each letter, he would always write, ‘P.S. The secret to
life is so simple,’” she said.
“Speaking of simple,” Rick said, lying motionless on the bedspread,
“Monster truck derbies are definitely simple. Maybe my own dad has the secret
to life and I am just too stubborn. Still, they are simple and dull. It’s like watching
a bullfight.”
“Good bullfights are recognized as very beautiful, the matador dancing
with the beast. The art of the bond between certain life and certain death.”
Virginia glowed in the pale light coming in. Rick thought it might be her grace.
“Here is my case: It’s like watching a bullfight without the matador. No
death. No life.” Rick sat up and tried searching out the window with her. “You
talking about the snow reminds me of that Frost poem, ‘Stopping by the Woods,’
or something like that. Anyway. I think it was really about how life can never be
that simple. Do you remember that poem at all?”
Virginia’s eyes fell away. “It was my dad’s favorite one.”
Rick was still stunned by her seemingly evanescent remorse.
“The dinner tonight was for him.”
57
“Yes, today is his birthday.”
Before Rick could speak, the phone rang.
Virginia covered the receiver. “It’s your dad.”
“Tell him I still feel sick.” In a way, he still did.
“He is saying that’s too bad.” Virginia was covering the mouthpiece
again but still listening to the phone. “He was hoping you’d be feeling better
by now.” She took down her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Anders, I’m sure he’ll
appreciate hearing that.”
“Wait.” Rick arose from the bed and into the moon’s faded illumination
from the window. “Don’t hang up,” he said, reaching out to Virginia. She handed
him the phone and turned away with a proper elegance that always made Rick
feel like he was in the company of a celebrity. Or more like an angel.
Rick answered the phone with a simple ‘hello.’
“You know,” his father responded, “I knew all along that guy was a rat.
You might have gotten sick from food poisoning, but he really got something
else.”
“At dinner you said his meat must have been undercooked,” said Rick.
“Didn’t you see his waiter?” The good guy, the waiter. Of course!
His clothes didn’t fit well, the white button down shirt pulling on his broad
shoulders, his skin dull and thick, split ends in his hair.
“That guy looked to rugged to really be a waiter. He was the undercover
agent,” Rick eased back into bed. Virginia joined him.
“He mashed an allergen into the mousy-man’s potatoes, interrupting
that mobsters plans to kill him,” said his father.
“And the sick man would be taken to the precinct and cut a deal:
treatment in return for information about his connection with the mob,” said
Rick.
“I’ll tell you what. That guy really got what he had coming.”
58
Max and Chase / John Paul Wood
Destiny. Is there such a thing? Am I doing what I was put on this earth
to do, or is there even anything I’m suppose to be doing? These questions run
through my head everyday that I’m at this pathetic job. I’m constantly running
my ass off to please these ungrateful people, hoping they’ll enjoy their meal
enough to leave me at least fifteen to twenty percent.
“Excuse me! Could I get a refill sometime today, please?” a grumpy
looking middle-aged man unleashes.
“Sure thing. As soon as I’m finished taking this table’s order, I’ll have
that right up for you,” I try to calm him, but there’s no use. He was in that mood
when he came in. His wife just stares out the window as if she’s just glad it’s not
her he’s yelling at for once. I pity her, but I’m sure she’s thinking the same about
me.
I rush back to the server station to get that pricks refill. I turn too
fast into some poor girl’s chest, covering her with Pepsi. I apologize, but her
embarrassment drowns me out. I see her rush to the restroom trying not to cry.
My heart sinks with guilt, but my ears twitch when I hear the grumpy old man
yelling for his Pepsi. Destiny?
. . .
I’ve been in this kitchen for way too long, but it’s cool. I’d rather be out
enjoying the beautiful weather, but at least the guys I work with are fun. I stop
cooking the ribs when I notice Max following Dan back to the office. Max looks
like he has had better days, but I know that the poor guy’s had much worse. I ask
Tony to watch the rib grill for me, and I make my way to the office. Dan slams
the door so I can’t see, but that doesn’t mean I can’t put my ear to it.
. . .
“Max, I can’t believe you would pull a stunt like that! Telling that man
that you were going to…I’m sorry, what was it you said?” Dan screams the most
I’ve ever heard from the nerdy little manager.
“Shove the Pepsi so far up his ass that he could drink it while it poured
from his nostrils,” I can almost feel a sense of pride by what I said, but shame
seems to weigh more, “Look, Dan, I’m sorry. I just lost it for a minute there.”
My explanation wasn’t good enough, and I don’t blame Dan. I was out of
line, it just came out of nowhere. It just kills me when people think they have the
right to treat others like shit.
Dan takes a breath and regains his cool, “Look, I’m sure that guy was a
real jerk. He probably had that one coming, but it’s not your job to give it to him.
Your job is to serve his food to him with a smile. That’s what we pay you for. If
you want to save the world, Max, that’s something you’ll just have to do on your
own time. Understand?”
I nod, and he lets me off with a warning. I can feel the door crash into
Chase’s face as I open it.
. . .
I go to Max’s house with him, and since I don’t have a car and he’s my
ride to work and everywhere else, I can’t complain about the detour before my
house. It’s fine though, his Grandma is the shit! As soon as we get to the house,
59
I can smell the aroma of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. I rush to the kitchen
and give her a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek as she puts the cookie trey on
the table.
“Easy, Chase, they’re still hot,” she tries to warn me as if I’m a dog or a
small child, but I still rush right in. My tongue will probably be numb for awhile,
“Told you. How are my little angels?”
Max comes in looking tired, so I mash a cookie into his face to cheer him
up. It works, he laughs out of his little shell.
“We’re good, Grandma,” Max says as he leans in to give her his kiss.
I snack on a few more of Grandma’s cookies while Max showers, and
then we take off to my house. Jaime’s coming home tonight, and Max doesn’t
know. This ought to be interesting.
. . .
We get back to my house with a few hours of sunlight left to kill. I can
smell the pine fill the neighborhood and it makes me think of the whole summer
ahead of us. I’m so glad the semester is over. My first year of college is well
tucked under my belt.
Billy’s riding down the street on his bike. He sees us and heads straight
over. He’s a good kid, but doesn’t have a lot of friends. It’s probably because he’s
a little on the slow side. Max and I usually let him hang out with us when we’re
not getting into too much trouble.
Max and Billy play catch while I keep my promise and change the oil
on his Lumina, which is fine because I love auto mechanics. There’s something
about having control over thousands of little moving parts that all work together
to make magic happen.
I hear the football smack the concrete driveway while I’m under the car.
Once the oil starts dripping to the pan, I begin to climb out. Billy runs up from
behind me to get the ball as I smack my head on the car door while standing up.
I scream and curse in pain, but my attention shifts to Billy, who is standing there
holding the football like it’s a baby. He’s frozen in place, and I can see what looks
to be pure fear in his face.
“You alright buddy?”
He seems to snap out of it, “Yeah, I’m fine. Is your head OK?”
“It’s just a bump,” I explain, “Nothing a little crack-cocaine won’t fix!”
He laughs, then runs back to throw the ball to Max. Damn, my head
really hurts.
. . .
After playing catch, Billy takes off to his house. His dad doesn’t like
him to be out after the street lights are on, and who can blame him? The way the
world is these days, it’s just not safe for a twelve year old. The poor kid’s mom
went missing when he was four. Grandma says that his parents used to fight a lot
back then, so her leaving was probably the best for them both, but that left Billy
without a mother. Poor kid.
I go into Chase’s house to use his bathroom. When I come out, I see her.
Jaime comes into the front door carrying an overload of luggage. I rush over to
help her, and she thanks me with a smile. My muscles turn to jelly and I drop the
luggage. Her laughter is enough to regain my strength.
Chase comes in to greet his sister. She’s been gone all year. She goes to
60
college out of state. I missed her, but I’m sure she almost forgot who I am.
“Max, how’ve you been?” she asks, “We hardly ever get to see each other
anymore. First you’re off to Nebraska for two year’s, then as soon as your back, a
year flies by and then I’m off to college.”
Nebraska. I try to keep that behind me. Everyone thinks I was off with
family after my parents died in the fire, but that wasn’t it at all. My Grandmother
is the only one who knows the truth. I wish I didn’t.
I get home late. Catching up with Jaime wasn’t something I was ready
to walk away from. I lock up my car and make my way to the house, noticing
something out of place. The front door is smashed in!
I rush in as fast as humanly possible, and what I see is something I don’t
think I could ever be ready for. Grandma’s lying on the floor, surrounded by her
vandalized home. I dive to the floor and check for a pulse. A pulse! It’s faint, but
it’s there. She opens her eyes slowly.
“Max?”
“I’m here, Grandma. Who did this?”
“I don’t know who they were. Some kids. They didn’t know I was
here,” just like her to even take the burglars’ side, “I heard laughing and things
breaking. I came in and accidentally surprised one. He pulled a gun out of panic
before realizing I was just a harmless old lady,” her words get weaker, “He didn’t
mean to. He lowered the gun, but my heart was already hurting. He tried to help
me, but his friends started yelling at him, so he ran away. It’s OK, Max. It’s just
my time.”
“What? No! Don’t you do this. Grandma, don’t you do this!”
“You have a good soul, Max. The world is ready for you…and Chase…”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“My angels…my little…angels…” she’s gone. My insides twist with
sadness and rage all at once. There’s nothing I can do, but tell her good bye.
. . .
Mad Max, that’s what I used to call him when we were younger. He’d
always be up to some crazy shit, and I was always along for the ride. Once,
I helped him steal a teacher’s desk for giving Jaime an ‘F’ for not wanting to
dissect a living frog.
Jaime and I have been talking about our adventures in college. She’s a
year younger than me, but smart as hell. It was hard for me when she skipped a
grade and caught up to me, but I’m forever proud of my little sister. I hinted at
potential boyfriends at her college, but she says she was too busy maintaining
her scholarship. In other words, she’s still waiting for Max to come around.
The phone rings. Jaime answers it. The expression and tears on her face
is enough to tell me that it’s Max, and something is terribly wrong.
. . .
After the funeral, Jaime and I go to help Max clean up his house. It’s hard
to believe I’ll never give his grandmother a kiss on the cheek again before eating
her wonderful cookies. She once told me that one day Max will need me more
than ever. I wonder if this is what she meant. I love her to death, God rest her
61
soul, but she was always a little weird like that.
I start picking up the drawers from Grandma’s vanity. I pick up makeup,
manicure tools, and bingo blotters. I come to a box with medication in it. As
I look through, I come across some pills labeled: Antipsychotic. Oh my God.
There’s no way. She may have been a little naïve or something, but there’s no
way. I read the name of the patient: Max Evans.
. . .
I can’t believe she’s gone. Cleaning the house reminds me of going into
my house after the fire. Once it was cleared, I was allowed to go in. You’ll never
know when you’ll look at something that wasn’t that way when you left it.
“Max!” Chase calls me from the den.
“Yeah, what’s up?” I enter the room as he looks past me, making sure
Jaime can’t hear.
“Is there something you think I should know?”
“Like what?” I asked, confused.
Chase shows me a pill container. I take it from his hands and read
the label. I can see Chase is waiting patiently for an explanation, and it’s long
overdue. I tell him everything. I tell him about my two years in the psychiatric
hospital after my parents’ death. I tell him about the voices I heard even before
the fire. I even tell him about the angel that sat next to me on a park bench when
I was eight. I’ve never seen such a look of shock on his face before. I guess it’s not
every day you find out your best friend’s a psycho.
“So…what did this angel tell you?”
“Chase, I don’t remember. It wasn’t even real.”
“You just remember him telling you he’s an angel?”
“Yeah, that, and one day everything will make sense to me.”
“Did it?”
“Hell no! Things only seem to be getting more and more confusing in my
life. He told me that I’d see him every day for the rest of my life, but I never saw
him again. You know why?” I wait for a response, but Chase just stares at me,
“Because it wasn’t fucking real!”
. . .
Max’s story still soaks in. I run by Billy’s to drop off an XBOX game I
said he could borrow. I knock on the door, but no one answers. I hear his dad
inside yelling. Billy’s screams make me kick the door open. I run to the living
room to find Billy’s dad beating him senseless. I rush over and tackle his dad to
the floor. He’s a big guy, so my adrenalin’s kicking through my veins like pure
chaos. He rolls us over and gets up. I feel his hands around my throat before I
become airborne.
. . .
This damn car! Chase didn’t tighten the oil drain. At least I’m just a few
blocks away. Maybe Billy’s dad has some oil. I’m right by their house. I go up the
porch and noticed the door’s kicked in. Not another robbery. I rush in to help. I
see Billy’s dad standing over Chase.
“What’s going-?” my question is interrupted by the big mans fist.
Everything gets dark and quiet.
62
I hear the rusty sound of playground swings and children’s laughter. I open my
eyes and sit up. I’m on a bench. A boy sits next to me.
“Hi, I’m Max.” the boy says, “You OK? You don’t look so good”
. . .
I’m back up. Max, get up, buddy. The dad swings, but I dodge. Billy
rushes his legs, but gets smacked right off. I punch the dad in the face, then I feel
my legs come out from under me. His foot goes into my stomach. I can’t move,
can’t breath.
. . .
After talking with the boy, everything in my life now makes sense. I tell
him everything the angel told me. His mother calls for him, then he tells me good
bye. He asks me if he’ll ever see me again. I tell him: “Every day…for the rest of
your life.” I take one last look at the boy’s mother. I’m ready now.
I come to. I get up. I feel it like pure madness in my veins. The boy’s dad
sees me, and I look the demon in the eyes. Is this destiny, or just random chaos?
Is there a difference? The dad rushes me, and I almost feel sorry for him.
. . .
Watching Max take him down, I feel as though I somehow planned this. I
don’t quite understand it, but for some reason it hits me, I forgot to tighten the oil
drain on Max’s car.
63
Mi Amiga / Anna Hoegemann
“Quieres jugar?” she asked me. Even with my poor knowledge of
Spanish, I knew what she was saying. Do you want to play?
Three years ago, in July 2004, I went with a group of people from my
church to Juarez, Mexico. We committed one week of our summer to help the
church of Gracia y Paz run an English camp. The goal of the camp was to teach
middle-class children English skills that would allow them to get better jobs
when they grew older. After two airplane flights, my group and I arrived in
Juarez on Saturday afternoon.
The camp began bright and early Monday morning. Each class had
half hour sessions of singing, teaching, recreation, more teaching, snack, and
more singing. I was assigned to help the teacher in the second and third grade
class. The children were so much fun. Even the simplest things amused them.
They hugged you and climbed all over you. One little girl named Carla was my
especial favorite. She loved to sit on my lap during story time and ride piggyback on me when we went to recreation and snack.
On the last day of camp, I was leading the children in my class to the big
concrete courtyard where they had recreation. Carla, as usual, was on my back.
As I turned around to leave and hang out with my friends, she slipped her small
hand into mine and pulled me back. I looked down at little seven-year-old Carla.
“Quieres jugar?” The question was posed so sweetly. How could I
resist? But something held me back. While the children in my class were at
recreation and snack, I got to take a break. These breaks were a welcome relief
for me. Mexico was hot, the classes were monotonous, and sometimes I just
wanted to hang out with my friends. After all, why should I feel guilty about
taking a well-deserved break? I did my share! Her big brown eyes looked
pleadingly into mine, as though she knew the choice I was presented. I let her
hand go. But the more I looked down at her, the harder I found to resist. I could
not bear to see her disappointed - to see those expecting eyes downcast. To her,
I was one of the coolest people ever. What would happen to that image if I told
her no?
“Si.” The simple word created so much joy. Her face broke into a smile
and she grabbed my hand again.
“Yay!!!” she shouted, pulling me by my hand behind her. Chattering
in an endless stream of Spanish, of which I understood nothing, she led me to a
bare part of concrete and a bucket of chalk. Sitting down, she handed me a piece
of chalk. I knew exactly what she wanted. I drew her a picture of a puppy and
watched her reaction. She eyed my artwork critically and then smiled.
“Mas!” More!
We spent the rest of the half hour drawing pictures of dogs, kitties,
flowers, rainbows, and stick-people. The half hour went by faster than any of my
break times all week. I felt regret at having not played with the children more. I
didn’t even know what I had missed. I could have made more friends by simply
sacrificing my own pleasures to make others happy.
As I lead the children back to class, Carla rode on my back as usual.
Grinning proudly at the other children, she pointed to me and said, “Mira, mi
64
amiga!” Look, my friend!
The following year, I returned to Juarez and the English camp. Once
again, I helped in Carla’s class as a teacher’s aid. But my commitment was
different. Instead of hanging out with friends I could see all the time, I hung out
with the children -- children who I would only see once every year. And instead
of Carla asking me if I wanted to play, I was the one doing the asking. After all, I
was her “amiga.”
65
Something in the Air at Borders / Natalie Rooker
I don’t know what it is about bookstores, but man do they make me
gassy. I can hardly walk into a Borders without secluding myself to a far corner
of Literature, feigning to look intently at the back of some Kurt Vonnegut novel.
Then, some flirty little high school couple wanders over. I nervously walk away,
taking evasive maneuvers through Graphic Novels, trying not to get caught.
Thank goodness we’re a passive-aggressive society and one of them will just
blog about it later. Or write a brilliant essay on the disgusting person they
encountered at Borders.
Once I get beyond my gastro-intestinal breather, I become absolutely
fascinated by the place, just like last time I was here, about three weeks ago. I
have to buy something every time I’m in there. If I don’t, then I’ve failed as a
reader, as an intellectual, as a curious human being!
As a result, next to my bed climbs a stack of books which topples when
a depressed sigh comes out of my mouth, because I really should read them.
There are classics and oddities that deserve my attention. I get angry at myself
for not reading them and subsequently buy The New Yorker the next time I’m at
the book store, read an article, and comfort my intellect by referencing it the next
time I’m talking to an English professor.
I want to be a writer, so I read many how-to books on writing, and
invariably write some short story after each read, imitating the author. Badly.
Stephen King was the victim of an awful wannabe psychological thriller. It
probably wouldn’t unnerve a five-year-old, and I still slept with the lights on that
night. I tried to be loyal to Stephen King and bought Carrie, got through about
three pages and was so terrified I had to hide it my bedside drawer, where it still
haunts me every time I open it to get out my earplugs.
I’m not a horror reading or viewing kind of a gal. I like Jane Austen, of
course. Her novels perpetuate the female obsession to change men into what
we want them to be, and I love it. I adored David Niven’s autobiography. He’s
simply charming. Perhaps that’s where I got the inspiration to write this. If I
make any references to lounging by Clark Gable’s pool on the weekends, I beg
your pardon.
Being a young writer is terrifying. There’s so much to read, so much
to write, that books and thoughts alike pile up next to my bed, intimidating
my resolve every night. What ends up happening is that I read a page of
Middlemarch, fall asleep and do Calculus the next day. At least integrals don’t
require me to search for inspiration.
I am a wrapped up tribute to all the writers I enjoy, which is to say all I
do is copy those who deserve to be admired. Even this is mostly an ode to David
Sedaris, a love note to Steve Martin and Dave Barry.
Maybe I get gassy because I’m filled with nothing really. I own books I’ve
never read, I’ll read magazines more often than books, and even then I’ll peruse
the pictures as opposed to read. In the end, my body provides better metaphors
than my inexperienced keyboard does.
How depressing. Maybe Borders is hiring.
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Hard Day’s Night / Mark Baier
It was hot that summer. The bricks and roof of our second floor flat
held the heat of the day all through the night. The bedroom I shared with my
older brother could not have been more that ten feet by ten feet. Only two feet
separated our beds. There was one window, no air conditioning. One small fan
offered little help. Some nights I slept on the back porch. It was muggy and the
wooden floor was hard. I still sweated through the night.
My friends and I hung out at Johnny Allen’s Watermelon Stand, a corner
store front with a long, narrow covered area attached to the side. A slice of ice
cold watermelon cost a quarter. Almost every night we sat on metal folding
chairs around card tables. Each table held two objects: a salt shaker and an
ashtray. We all adhered to a code of conduct. We all smoked Marlboro Reds
(there wasn’t any other kind in 1965.) We generally wore white t-shirts, jeans,
white socks and white low-cut tennis shoes, usually Converse. There was little
deviation from the code. I was content to stand just inside the periphery of our
group. Bob Jankowski was our leader (and my best friend). I don’t know how
he got the job but he was the undisputed high priest, determining who and what
we liked. The Beatles, Stones and Righteous Brothers were in. The emerging
artists from MOTOWN were tentatively accepted but were still suspect. We
despised Robert Goulet, Andy Williams and all show tunes. I was glad to be part
of the group but covertly I adored Goulet and Williams and I loved show tunes.
Our families were dysfunctional, but we didn’t know that back then. We
were sons of what Tom Brokaw would later call the “Greatest Generation.” On
those rare occasions when our Dads would talk about the war, they spoke not so
much with pride but with longing and desire.
Years later I realized the high point of their lives had come and gone. My Dad,
for example, got drunk one day in early 1942 and enlisted in the Marines. It was
the best experience of his life too. He and others like him defeated the greatest
army and navy in the world. They survived D-Day. They were invincible. They
never recovered. When they returned home almost all our Dads were bitter,
angry men, scarred not by the ravages of war, but by the hurtful realization that
they had for the most part peaked. Everything from here on was downhill.
We had a strict code of beliefs in our family. We were Catholics,
Democrats and American League rooters. We feared communists almost as
much as we feared blacks. My Dad didn’t drink during the week. But on Friday
he would buy a quart of Scotch after work and start drinking as soon as he got
home. He would be drunk from early Friday evening to mid Sunday afternoon.
I avoided this ritual as best I could by hanging out with my friends till around
midnight on Friday and Saturday nights. If I was lucky he would be passed out
when I got home. If not, I would have to listen to one of his pathetic lectures that
outlined my inadequacies. I already knew that I was a bitter disappointment
to him since I had no interest in sports and my grades were mediocre at best.
Usually the lecture would erupt into a tirade and I would be ordered to bed. I
never knew what might set him off. One time he accused me of trying to defying
him by the way I was holding my cigarette. Another time he asked me if I were
a communist because I like the Beatles. I would lay there in the tightness of that
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tiny room, the air choked by cigarettes and stale whiskey and I could hear his
sappy records of Guy Lombardo, the Mills Brothers and Cole Porter. I knew he
was staring at his Marine Picture. Any affection I once felt for him started to turn
into disgust and contempt.
My friends were my refuge. At Johnny’s every night we listened to the
Beatles and talked about what interested us. Our nightly gatherings became a
ritual. We would always sit at the same table. Our communion was Marlboro
Reds. Our church music consisted of whatever was at the top of the charts. The
high alter was the service window where we got our slice of watermelon. We
were safe. That summer we hardly noticed the troop build-up in Viet Nam. Nor
did we pay much attention to the growing tensions between whites and blacks as
the Civil Rights Movement began to grow.
I walked home every night, sometimes by myself, sometimes with friends.
During the week I would often stay up till the early hours of the morning
reading. The previous year I had been turned on to literature by my Sophomore
English teacher. We had to read A Tale of Two Cities. Mr. Feaster brought the
novel alive by teaching us about the symbolism that Dickens used in the very
first lines of the book. I was fascinated and started to harbor thoughts of one
day writing my own novel. I also read all of the books on the summer reading
list. This of course was done in absolute secrecy; my friends never knew that I
had read the books because
reading anything required by school was prohibited. It was my first step toward
independence albeit a secret one.
I had harbored heretical thoughts in the past, but of course always
kept them to myself. In March the events of Selma Alabama had forced us to
recognize The Civil Rights Movement. Surreptitiously I applauded the efforts
of Dr. King and his followers. I wanted to learn more. One day on “The Mike
Douglas Show” I saw an interview with a black man, Claude Brown, who
had written a book called Manchild in the Promised Land. His story was so
compelling that I walked to the nearest book store. Luckily the store had a copy.
The rest of the afternoon I stayed in my room reading about Harlem in the forties
and fifties. By the time my Dad got home from work I had already read fifty
pages. When he opened the door and slowly pounded up the steps, I quickly
hid the book under my mattress. Reading anything by a black man (we didn’t
yet know that they were African Americans) would have been mortal sin in my
home.
It would also have been mortal sin for my friends. I tried to act as if
nothing had happened all day and as soon as dinner was over I set out to meet
my friends for our nightly meeting at Johnny’s. I don’t remember what we
talked about. I do know that I wanted to get home as soon as I could to continue
reading my new book. I stayed up quite late reading. What grabbed my soul
and wouldn’t let go was the constant nagging thought that his story wasn’t all
that much different than mine own. Claude Brown felt alienated from the world
because of his skin color and that was something he could not control. The book
recounted Brown’s struggle to pull himself out of poverty and self-hatred. It is a
story of death and resurrection. I felt alienated as well. I experienced yearnings
and desires that would be totally abhorrent to my family and friends. I tried to
convince myself that I liked girls but I knew that I liked boys better. I slowly b
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egan to accept the notion that try as hard as I may, I would always prefer men to
women. The journey to full self-acceptance would take many years, but reading
Manchild in the Promised Land was the catalyst for that journey.
I continued to be a loyal member of the group of friends that were
so much like me and at the same time so drastically different. One time I did
manage to slip in a heretical statement.
“Can you imagine those fuckin niggers movin down here? We’d kick
their black asses back to North St. Louis,” Phillip Ziegler said.
“Maybe they’re right,” I quietly observed.
“You some kind of a nigger-lover Baier,” he demanded. It was worse
than being called a queer and it stung.
“Fuck you Ziegler.”
That was all that was said. But the message was very clear. Anyone who intended to hang out with our group had better not harbor any ideas that maybe
the blacks had been treated poorly. But my response had been clear too. Telling
a friend to “fuck off” in jest was certainly ok, even expected. But to say “fuck
you” in earnest informed the group that I wasn’t going to back down.
I walked home that night alone. The lights on South Grand were bright.
I walked more slowly than usual, I studied the cracks in the sidewalk. I smoked
a cigarette. It didn’t help. I fought back the tears because I was damn sure not
going to let anyone see the hurt. I knew it would all blow over but no one said
“see ya tomorrow” they only said “see ya.”
I lost something that night. Maybe it was innocence but I don’t think so.
I lost that a few months later in Tower Grove Park. I’m not sure but I think it was
security. As bad as it was at home, I always had my friends. For the first time
in my life I felt alone. Actually it was a feeling that I had been dealing with for
years, but this was the first time I could name it. I wanted to find Claude Brown.
I wanted to meet him, get to know him. I wanted to share my story with him,
because Claude Brown and I were alike. We just wanted to belong.
The roof had been baking all day and that night I lay in the sweat and
tried to sleep. Fear gripped my stomach. I lay there, helpless, struggling against
the heat. I knew that if I kept my mouth shut this small transgression would
be forgiven. And so I did keep my mouth shut. The summer was almost over.
We went to Johnny’s a few more times. But other symbols would soon replace
ours. Long hair, bell bottoms, draft card burnings and bra burnings all took their
rightful place in the rituals of a generation coming of age. But that night I only
knew I had crossed a line and I could never go back.
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Of Sitcom Psychotherapists and Lessons Learned / Peter Kahn
People often laugh when I say this, but if asked which characters on TV
I most identify with, I respond that Frasier Crane and his brother Niles have,
in effect, been my role models for quite some time now. I only began watching
the series in 2002, in its penultimate season, but I immediately found the Crane
brothers to be simpatico to me in more ways than one.
Perhaps the single greatest influence that Frasier and Niles have had
upon me was eradicating my need to hide my intelligence under my hat, so to
speak. These two characters are smart, witty, urbane geniuses who customarily
flaunt their broad knowledge of psychiatry, literature, culture, opera, fine art,
and fluency in foreign languages with their father (Martin), his home health care
worker (Daphne), Frasier’s producer (Roz), and the other persons they encounter
on a regular basis, whether in the elevator of Frasier’s apartment building, the
co-workers at his radio station, at Café Nervosa, among the other members of
their wine club, or in Niles’s psychiatric practice. The manner in which these
two men can toss out clever bon mots and trade barbed insults with one another
that reference their intimate familiarity with the greatest poets and aphorists in
the Western tradition almost takes my breath away—often because I’m laughing
so hard my side hurts—and then sends me scurrying to my bookshelves to take
out my Bartlett’s, or other works to which they’ve alluded, to look up the source
of the quotation. Incidentally, I’ve learned more about the works of Verdi from
this series alone than from a single visit to the St. Louis Opera Theatre Company.
Not that I was ever particularly shy about raising my hand in class if I knew the
answer to the teacher’s question, or being caught reading such books in public
as Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason or Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of
Things Past, but I am now more confident and forthright about acknowledging
my extensive learning and innate intellect, without exhibiting the elitist
arrogance displayed by Frasier and Niles that we as viewers alternately find so
aggravating and so amusing.
The other area in which I have seen fit to emulate these two is that of
being concerned with others’ perceptions of one’s “manliness.” Frasier and his
brother are not hesitant to boast about their appreciation for fine wine, rare objets
d’art, expensive German automobiles, or tailor-made Italian suits, nor are they
afraid to admit their distaste for all sports played and watched by “red-blooded
American males,” such as football, baseball, and basketball (squash, tennis,
and croquet are more to their liking). These tendencies, along with their abovementioned passion for opera and their congenital ignorance of even the most
basic elements of home repair or blue collar pastimes, frequently leads to another
character on the show showing them up as the pompous stuffed shirts that they
so often are. I cannot lay claim to so much as an acquaintance with any of the
enthusiasms listed above (for starters, the size of my wallet forbids them), but I
now feel much less embarrassed than I once did when I must ask my fraternity
brothers about a third down in football, ask a friend who loves to hunt explain
to me what a deer stand is, or consult Wikipedia to discover the difference
between a lager and an ale. (The first question resulted in a copy of Football for
Dummies as a Christmas gift; I’m still working on the lager-ale distinction, and
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I’m proud to admit that I haven’t yet donned camouflage and shot a .22 during
deer season.) I’m not so insecure that I feel I must strive to bluff my way through
such situations when I’m clearly out of my element; like Socrates, I confess
my lack of knowledge on such topics and indicate that I’d like to have them
explained to me—when I’m genuinely curious, that is. Like Frasier and Niles,
I’m also sometimes not afraid to say that I could care less about knowing some
fact or skill, such as learning how to change my own oil. I’d rather be authentic
to myself, be true to whom I am and run the risk of having my masculinity called
into question, than masquerade as someone I am not.
I hope that this essay has brought at least one smile to your lips;
watching my DVDs of the series always does so for me. Although I’ve taken
something of a gamble by writing of an influence upon me by a fictional
psychiatrist and his equally erudite brother, I think that my writing has raised
a couple of issues worthy of more substantive thought: the deeply-rooted (and
not necessarily unhealthy) anti-intellectual strain in American culture, and the
continual pressure for almost every man in our society who is straight, or isn’t
flamboyantly gay, not to do or say anything that would cause others to doubt his
maleness. The courage of Frasier and Niles Crane to fearlessly be who they are,
amongst the people with whom they live and work, is itself an admirable quality
that anyone would do well to imitate and which I have found to be a personal
inspiration.
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A Different Life / Lauren Baechle
The landscape outside the building is lush with green grass, benches for
sitting, and plenty of forest green shrubs with yellow and orange lilies scattered
throughout. There are several families sitting on the benches visiting with their
loved ones. For those residents who can walk, their families are enjoying the
wide-paved paths to stroll along and enjoy the views that nature has to offer. For
many residents and families this is the only normalcy in their lives together.
As I walk into the building, I’m overwhelmed by the intense smell of
the odor from the residents who can no longer bathe daily or those who can no
longer clean up after themselves. Though I hold my breath, my stomach churns
as I walk down the narrow hallway surrounded by the burgundy wallpaper with
the long, white bars stretching along the walls all the way to their rooms. He’s
the last door on the left; she’s the last door on the right. This month’s die-cut on
the door is a brown turkey with the occupant’s name. Looking to the left I see his
name, Bill Welch. Gazing to my right I see her name, Marie Welch.
My great grandma Marie lived an independent and healthy life for 90
years. Until earlier this year, she traveled alone visiting family and friends. She
was also able to take care of her home and yard until her heart began to fail. Due
to her heart complications, she was made several trips to the hospital during
the past six months. After spending the last week in the hospital, the doctors in
ICU decided that she could no longer live by herself. She hated the thought of
moving into a home; her only consolation was that she would now be closer to
her husband.
Across the hall, my great grandpa Bill is happy to have his wife “at
home.” Five years ago, he lead a different life, he was a very active individual.
At the age of 75, he was still working as a driver transporting elderly people to
and from their doctor’s appointments. He happened to be dropping off a patient
at St. Anthony’s Hospital, when he walked the patient through the doors and
had a stroke. The stroke caused his left side to be partially paralyzed and he had
to be transferred to a nursing home for six months. After six months of intense
physical therapy, he finally recovered enough to come home. Three years ago
this summer my great grandpa decided his grass needed to be cut. After growing impatient that he couldn’t get in touch with anyone to cut
it, he mounted on his riding lawnmower to do it himself. He turned the mower
over on a hillside and broke his hips, leaving him paralyzed from the waste
down.
I paused in the middle of the hallway, wondering which door to walk
through first, then I glided into my great grandma’s room since this is only
her second day living here. Her room measures a little larger than my great
grandpa’s 12 x 12 room. She is sitting in bed, anxiously awaiting company. “Hey
grandma, how are you feeling today?” She pats me on the back, like she always
does while hugging me, and says, “Just old and tired, like any other day, this
place hasn’t changed a thing yet.”
Her room is set up just like my great grandpa’s with a dresser, chair,
television, mini refrigerator, and bathroom. Looking at her, I noticed her lower
lip in a pout and her eyebrows lowering in towards her nose. I ask, “Is there
something wrong?”
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In her honest and straightforward manner, she says, “Just a couple of
weeks ago, I was walking up and down these halls just a fast as any of those
nurses, now what in the hell happened to them…did they all just break their
legs!”
I told her that I was sure they were busy and would soon be in to see
her. Nurse Tracey, who often takes care of my great grandpa, came buzzing into
the room to help grandma across the hall to visit her husband. Not listening to
whatever excuses Tracey was feeding her; grandma plopped into the wheelchair
and nodded her head toward the door. I followed right behind them.
While walking into Bill’s room the overwhelming smell of burnt cafeteria
food filled my nostrils and engulfed my senses. Bill always tells me, “At least it’s
better than that damn hospital food.” My great grandparents were being served
their breakfast as I planned my escape from the smell. I told them both that I
would leave them alone to eat breakfast. I said my goodbyes and headed toward
fresh air.
I was glad that I took the time to visit. It felt so good to see my great
grandma feeling and looking so much better than when I had last visited her in
ICU a week ago. When I left that day, I told my great grandparents that I would
come to visit again next week. I didn’t realize that only five days later life would
be different for all of us. One week to the day that my great grandma moved into
the nursing home, she passed away. On Tuesday, November 6, we received a call
at 5:17 a.m. My uncle said that my great grandma’s heart had once again failed
and she had passed.
Every day for the past three years, my great grandma had visited her
husband. In 90 years, she never once owned a driver’s license but she always
had family and friends to take her to the home. Now my great grandpa Bill sits
alone experiencing a different life once again.
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Killing Trees to Save Trees / Taylor Williamson
I woke up that morning groggy rolling out of bed, on what should have
been my day off, to clean some lake I had never heard of. I knew that it was for
a good cause, and liked the thought of helping the environment when I can.
It sounded good enough to crawl out of my warm and comfortable slumber,
and make a chilly drive in my worn down old jeep. The driver side window
has fallen off its zip up tracks leaving it open year round, which provides a
stimulating shot of brisk fall morning air across my face. It was enough to peel
the toffee like sleep from my eyes, and I felt pleasantly awake by the time I
reached the Simpson Lake Park. I got out of my Jeep in my old ragged work
clothes and strolled up to the crowd waiting by some old wooden park benches.
The crowd was quiet, small discussions here and there. Some were
old veterans of this event sitting in peace unaware of those around them,
mentally preparing for what was to come. A few of my class were already there
occasionally yawning and slumping over in their seats. There stood McD as he
always was, ready to go. I could tell this by his cheerful greeting and big grin. I
think part of it was just happiness that his students were actually showing up.
I sat on the bench and watched the parking lot as my classmates, still asleep,
crawled across the field like a bad zombie movie. McD happily greeted them all
with doughnuts and a short statement like “ready to go” or “why so tired?”
Once everyone arrived the seasoned veterans of this operation sprung
into action lecturing us about the task ahead. One gentleman stood there in front
of the crowd like General Macarthur readying his troops, troop 701 of the boy
scouts that is. “Gentleman this is your enemy, take a good look at him because
you won’t get a chance out there in the fields,” he said holding a small branch
of honeysuckle. “This invasive brute has invaded our homeland, and it is our
duty to fight back, and fight back we shall. These are your weapons.” He held
up some large trimmers and a hack saw. “This is the BARB or big ass retractable
blade otherwise known as a hedge trimmer. This is a Colt 1911 hand saw, good
for any close hand to hand combat. Make sure you keep your gloves close, they’ll
be your best friends out there,” and in true Macarthur fashion he said, “I came
out of the overgrowth of honeysuckle and I shall return.” He marched towards
the woods with his double column of troops in close pursuit.
Little did I know I had stepped into a war zone between the rangers of
Simpson Lake and the axis of evil otherwise known as honeysuckle. Even though
the odds and numbers were stacked against them there they stood. Three brave
commanders, and there draftees’ fresh out of the barracks against an army of
thousands, maybe even millions. They certainly would have been awarded the
Medal of Honor if this was the army, but these men were the rangers. They did
their job with little to no praise, and years of battle scars to prove it, and there I
stood just some draftee wet behind the ears with no real grasp of what we were
fighting for.
Once out in the fields the horrifying slaughter began. Some of the
guys who had been at it for awhile showed us how to “take em out,” one of
them grabbed a couple poor souls clinching them close, and started to slowly
saw away. He yelled “make sure you get them low or they’ll come back to get
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ya.” Once he sliced through he discarded the ripped remains of his enemy
along the trail to rot. I was bewildered about how fast this all happened, and I
started to freak out “I don’t belong out here man. I am not a soldier. I don’t hate
honeysuckle. It’s a plant too. It has just as much right to this land as these old
oaks.” Before I knew it my leader was inches from my face, “snap out of it man,
you’re a soldier now you don’t have time to think like that, just kill, kill, kill!” So
I did, and I killed well. My regiment headed deep into the woods, and I ravaged
forward, slaughtering by the hundreds. Soon I turned around only to find myself
alone and scared. I walked for a while until I came across a clearing, it was a trail!
There were some younger kids, eighth graders I think, just standing around,
and I thought, “They must have freaked out too,” because they weren’t doing
anything but talking to themselves. Soon I noticed a horrid site. A line of dead
enemy as far as the eye could see, and it was only then I could understand why
these young kids weren’t working. They were shell shocked by the brutal stench
of death surrounding them.
Before I knew it they were surrounding me and asking me what to do,
and I said the only thing I knew how to do, kill some more. We headed back into
the darkness of the enemies layer brutally slicing through countless more, and
through out the constant ripping and slashing my feelings of doubt and fear were
replaced by a void. I could care less about honeysuckle. I had a job to do and I
was good at it. I zoned out and concentrated on elimination, the utter destruction
of all honey suckle I could find. My body was covered with sweat and I breathed
deeply with every thrust of my knife into the stiff skin of my next victim.
I lost all concepts of time, and life as I slowly hacked into the flesh of a
thick honeysuckle plant. What was a slow murmur in the distance got ever so
louder as I eventually turned around to see some of my battalion yelling. One
said, “Hey its time, it’s all over.” I stood up still clasping another victim, sweat
beads dribbling off my forehead. My skin itched and was covered in the brown
and green remains of many fallen. Walking out of the forest I could finally see
the overall vast area of our mayhem. Like napalm in the morning, we had wiped
away all traces of this honeysuckle for quite some distance. I must say I felt
accomplished, yet it came with a feeling of guilt.
I left those forest grounds with a deeper respect for my enemy,
Honeysuckle. It is just looking for its own place here like me, yet there I was
forced into the life of a soldier in a war that wasn’t mine. I was overcome with
mixed emotions; one of accomplishment like a good deed had been done. I also
felt I had betrayed a volatile part of my soul, one of mercy and compassion. I ate
my lunch with all the survivors, and thought war is hell. Here I am munching
away with the fresh smell of sliced limbs still thick in the air. I saw one of the
rangers returning from battle with a slight limp, must have taken some shrapnel
to the leg I thought. As he passed I asked, “When do I come back?” Surely they
will need veterans like me for the next battle.
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Bound and Blooded / Allison Konczal
Someone once told me that to live life freely, you had to lose the regrets. In an
attempt to put my life back in proper order, it was something I knew I had to do,
and do alone. I sat quietly in the back of the bus watching as the people filed in
and respectfully took their seats. I lowered my arms into my lap, smoothing my
hands over the denim fabric of my jeans. I was nervous. It had been exactly three
years since I had seen my brother, and during that time I had been trying to find
the courage to visit him.
The large Greyhound bus gave a slight jerk forward before moving onto the
open highway. The sky was darkening rather quickly, with low lazy clouds
stretching vast across the open horizon. Rain was coming, I could smell it
strongly on the air before boarding the bus. It was just what I needed really,
another soggy wet day to tighten my nerves even more than they already were.
I rested my head back against the gray cushioned seating and watched as the
scenery passed by. We were heading northward toward Chicago, most of the
passengers on this bus were heading to the same place, Bear Creek Penitentiary.
In the back of my mind I worried about what to say or do when I saw Tobias,
the thought of him locked away behind all of that steel and wire unnerved every
part of me. All I wanted to do was hug him to death, tell him I have missed him,
and that I was sorry. Sorry for not being able to notice the signs and for not being
there when he needed help the most.
Someone in front of me giggled. I turned to face a young girl peering down
from behind the seat. Her blue eyes sparkled as a wide smile spread across
her face. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into short pigtails and each one
looped delicately while barely skimming across her shoulder. She said nothing,
only lifted one of her hands away from the seat and curled her fingers in and out
in a bashful wave.
“Hi,” she whispered resting her chin atop of the seat. “I’m going to visit
daddy.” She smiled proudly at the thought.
“Hi there.” I smiled as I leaned forward, waving gently back. “Are you? I bet
you miss him a lot.”
She nodded her head with a light bounce of the pigtails.
“I am going to see my brother. I’ve missed him a lot, too.”
“It is daddy’s birthday. We wanted to surprise him. I’m going to sing.” She
spoke in a melodic, sing-song voice as she coyly watched her fingers trace an
invisible shape across the seat, while quietly humming “Happy Birthday.”
--“Higher, Toby, higher!”
“I’m pushing you as high as I can, Sis.” My brother grunted as he pressed
his hands against the bottom of the swing. I kicked my legs against the ground,
urging my brother to push and send me toward the clouds. I squealed as I
wrapped my hands tight around the metal chains, and watched with delight as
the cool autumn air swirled as I climbed higher toward the sky. My brother and I
had always been close, he may have been five years older than me, but that never
stopped us. I felt the light breeze at my back as I fell away from the sky and crept
closer toward the ground, where my brother waited patiently behind me.
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“C’mon, Jazz, I think mom’s bringing the cake out.” Our mother emerged
from the kitchen and I stuck my shoes into the dirt at once to stop the swing and
hopped off to follow my brother over to the picnic table.
The flickering flames bounced to their own rhythm, I was silent as I looked
up and eyed them both before deeply pondering what to wish for. It had always
been the three of us. Father left before I was born, leaving all of us to fend for
ourselves. I liked how things were, the three of us. I pulled in a big breath, my
cheeks puffed out, I puckered my lips and blew as hard as I could. Only half of
those silly little candles went out.
“I was going to wait to give you my present, but what the hell.” My brother
presented the mysterious object from behind his back and offered it to me. He
had wrapped it in tin foil, I decided I wouldn‘t even ask, I just tore into it to
reveal a new album from Green Day. I couldn’t believe he had actually gotten it
for me. I wanted to run upstairs and listen to it right away. This was Tobias’ way
of slowly brainwashing me into the real world, by having me listen to AC/DC,
Nirvana, Van Halen, and who could forget KISS?
“Tobias.” My mother’s voice bellowed. She looked over the table at him, he
just shrugged and sat back with a lazy smile.
“I’m just getting her started, Ma. She’s a big eight years old now, when she
gets my age, she’ll be prepared.” He folded his arms on the table and rested his
chin upon them. “You like’em, don’t you, Jazz?”
I looked to Mother and nodded vigorously. “Please, Mom, I like Green Day. I
won’t turn weird, promise.”
--A car door slammed nearby causing me to sit up right in my seat. I had only
dozed off for a second, but a glance to my watch showed I had slept for about
an hour and a half. I stared out through the window and realized the bus had
stopped at a gas station. Some people were getting off to stretch their legs or grab
a quick bite to eat. I stayed where I was, perfectly content, but my nerves were
still raw and on the edge. Chicago was another four hours away, another four
hours to pine over what I was going to say once I saw Tobias. God, why couldn’t
you have made it easier? Three whole years and not once had I written to him.
What was he going to say? Would he hate me for not being there, for not trying
hard enough? I always believed we were both at fault for how things ended up,
we had been the best of friends, where had it gone wrong.
--“Toby, what are you doing?” I was on the verge of yelling, the anger seared
down my arms as I entered my room to find him throwing everything out of my
closet, my dresser drawers in a shamble. “What is going on? Why are you going
through my things?”
He refused to stop, he continued going through my purse, as if it were a
matter of life or death. “I need some money and I need it right now. I’m going to
pay you back.”
“Money? Money for what?” I walked over and grabbed the purse out of
his hands. “You need money that bad to go through my things? What on earth
would you need it for?”
“Nothing! That’s none of your Goddamn business, Sonja.” He pointed an
angry finger at me, and for once in my life I felt scared. I looked at Tobias and
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I saw someone else. His face had become so red, his eyes nearly bulging. I
swallowed and stepped away in case he lost some sort of control and struck me.
I knew my brother was getting into trouble, everything had gone to hell ever
since he started hanging out with Jack and the other guys at the beginning of his
junior year. I saw changes in him I never thought were possible. He was always
upset about something, argued with Mom, and just very mean. I never knew my
brother could be so hated and hateful at the same time. It was unseemly. After
knowing my brother for fourteen years, I was staring at a complete stranger. I
just shook my head and threw my purse at him, and screamed. “Then fuck you!
Take whatever you want and get out!”
I was crying and I hated to cry in front of him. I had always wanted to be just
like him, to be strong and carefree, but now I had become what I am, a girl. He
had taken that part of me away, and when he left, I slammed the door behind
him.
It was three years later and I still haven’t fully forgiven him. We had stopped
talking and I moved on, doing my best to put it all behind me. Night had fallen
and the air smelled abundantly of lavender. I breathed in the warm air as I
stepped out of the local theatre and began to cross the parking lot toward my
car. I had stayed late for a rehearsal and the damn thing ended up going longer
than expected. I was tired and hungry, and the only thing I wanted to do, was go
home and sleep until the end of time. I reached in my purse to pull out the keys
but halfway there I was distracted by a sudden outcry and in the midst of it, I
heard my name being yelled.
“Tobias?” I turned watching a shadowed figure approach me quickly. Tobias
came running out of the darkness with both hands wrapping around my
shoulders.
“Get in the car,“ he ordered.
“What? What is going on?” I looked over his shoulder to where he had come
and saw nothing.
“Just shut up and get in the car, Sonja.” He ripped the keys out of my hands
and moved behind the wheel. Frightened and unsure, I followed him in haste
and got in the passenger side.
“Tell me what is going on.” I was furious and I demanded to know. Tobias
said nothing, he started the car and moved out of the parking lot and into the
dark street.
“Damn it, Tobias!” I slammed my hand against the dashboard. “Look at me!”
I turned around and looked out the back window in time to see a black
Cadillac whip around the corner, its tires squealing against the pavement, and
two blaring headlights inching closer in a dangerous game. I dug my fingers
into the seat, closed my eyes, and braced for impact. Tobias jerked the wheel,
swerving the car over near the curb, just as the Cadillac passed narrowly by. Two
men had their windows rolled down and something metallic flashed beneath the
passing streetlamp. Guns. They had guns. My heart leapt into my throat, I shrank
back into the seat, wishing to disappear.
I felt a hand coil around my arm, as Tobias across the seat to push open the
door. “Get out and get down!”
I nearly protested but that crazed something in his eyes was all I needed to
be convinced. I clutched onto the door, fingers grappling to find a hold as I slid
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across the seat. The other vehicle had spun around to face us, and three men
hopped out of the cab and in stride began walking in our direction. I had a
second to notice the small gun grasped in my brother’s hand. He had completely
forgotten about me as he rolled down the window and fired the gun, and then
they all began to fire at once.
The windshield shattered, sending shards of glass flying everywhere. I
shrieked and covered my face, and threw my body out onto the concrete. I
flattened on my stomach against the pavement with my arms thrown over my
head. The shrill and grind of the metal caused my teeth to chatter, my entire body
trembled. My ears rang from the clamor and even with my eyes closed, I could
still see the million balls of fire illuminating the dark night of my world.
I felt heavy and fatigued and something thick and cold trickled down my arm.
My arm felt like lead, I could barely move it, and the pain itself burned with an
intensity, I could hardly catch my breath. I had managed to sit up against the side
of the car tucking my knees against my chest. That was when I saw all the blood,
the immense red soaking heavily into my clothes, beginning to pool out along
the concrete. I had been shot. I had been shot, I had trouble even believing it. It
wasn’t real. I did not even remember feeling it. All I could remember was the
crash of thunder, a streak of lightening, and the rain beginning to fall.
--I awoke once more to the sound of thunder rattling outside the window. I
looked ahead down the aisle and in the distance I could see the prison looming
ahead. The bus passed the entrance gate and came to a slow stop just outside the
large facility. We were instructed to step neatly off the bus and form a line before
we were to be led inside. I folded my arms against my chest and followed the
crowd into the air-conditioning. The building had a hospital-like smell, with a
scented atmosphere. The walls were plain, painted in a sickly light green color
that changed its shade the further we walked inside. We gathered in a large
community room filled with over a dozen tables and chairs, with a few glass
booths decorating the back wall. After they had read our names, a few of us were
led back toward those haunting glass booths. It felt damning in having to visit
your brother while he sat restrained and separated from behind a glass wall. I sat
down in the chair provided and felt awkward. My hands fumbled in my lap, my
heart was beating so fast it hurt to breathe. It had taken me this long to realize
I had been blind. Blind to have not seen the trouble he was in, the anguish, the
pain. Tobias was my brother, my sibling, my other half; we were bound and
blooded. He had been crying out for help, and as a sister, as a friend, I should
have heard him.
A door opened and Tobias was led through. Even within these walls he still
hadn’t changed, he looked as handsome as ever, but older. I stood from my seat
and the first thing I did was flatten my hand to the cool glass and stare at his
lanky form, dressed in a hideous orange jumpsuit. Tobias was silent, but his eyes
said it all. He did not have to say a word, I understood. When he mimicked the
same gesture, pressing his hand over mine, something only we would recognize
passed through us. And I knew right then, that all had been forgiven.
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Give It All / Ryan Mischel
There are a lot of things in this world that doesn’t make much sense to
me. Math and science have always been way over my head, politics confuse me,
and women are strange creatures. As far back as I can remember, the only thing
that has ever been crystal-clear to me has been music. For some reason, music has
attached itself to me, an unyielding force, intertwined with my very identity.
All throughout my childhood, music was always around. My dad
played guitar, albeit the same blues chord progression over and over, and my
mom always had something on in the car whenever we went out, be it Counting
Crows or The Fabulous Thunderbirds. Even as far back as when my brother and I
were small children, my dad always used music to calm us. When thunderstorms
raged outside, he’d gather us in my bedroom, and put a Mozart cassette in this
little boom box he used to have. After about five minutes, we’d both be out cold.
Who knows, maybe this is why I fall asleep whenever I listen to classical music?
Throughout the later years of elementary school, we had the mandatory
recorder and orchestra classes so as to “broaden our cultural minds”. We didn’t
know what that meant, but we went along with it, and I even began to enjoy
it. However, you wouldn’t have known it just by observation, since I never
practiced with that violin until about five minutes before we would have a test.
As I got into middle school, I moved away from that violin to what I
saw as a cooler instrument: the trumpet. Again, you wouldn’t have realized
how much I enjoyed it since I never really practiced. Still, I did well enough in
the class to assume first chair position a few times throughout the three years I
played. I quit at the end of eighth grade.
The trumpet wasn’t my only musical outlet throughout middle school,
though. During my sixth grade year, a long-time friend of mine started talking
about how he was getting bass guitar lessons, and that he was looking to start
a band. He had suggested to me one day over lunch period that I start playing
guitar.
I had never been much of a music fanatic up to that point, but, for some
reason, the idea stuck with me and excited me. I remember going home and
asking my mom and dad if I could play guitar that very night, but I was met
only with disappointment. The resounding answer from both of them was “You
can play guitar when you buy one.” So much for nurturing a creative mind at an
early age, right?
Two years and one hundred and eighty dollars later, I had finally
attained my very own guitar. My mom had taken me to a local music store
the day after Thanksgiving, affectionately known in the retail world as “Black
Friday”. I had my money in hand, and my eye was set on the cheapest guitar I
could see, a Squire Stratocaster, which is the low end design by Fender. After all,
I just wanted something to play on. My mom, however, saw something that I
didn’t.
“Why don’t you get this guitar instead?” she asked from some odd
corner of the store.
I made my way over to where she was, and saw that she had found a
guitar that looked completely maniacal, a jet-black B.C. Rich Mockingbird. It was
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heavy, it had a very odd design, almost looking as though the usual hourglass
shape of normal guitars had been pulled and stretched at two opposite corners,
giving it the impression that it was reaching for something unseen. The best part
was that it was only thirty dollars more. I was sold. I paid my money, my mom
even got me a nice amp to practice on, and we were off.
When I got home, I immediately sat down and tried to play something,
anything. However, seeing as how I had no idea what the hell I was doing, I
soon became frustrated, even wanting to throw the thing through the wall at one
point. I wondered how these guitarists that I saw in the music videos could make
it look so easy, while I struggled so much. But then I started getting better.
High school wore on, bringing with it a few bands here and there,
none ever amounting to more than lousy garage and basement rehearsals. Still,
they were fun, and I was soon mastering the songs that meant so much to me,
the ones that were getting me through those troubled adolescent times. From
songs by Bad Religion and Rise Against, to the Ataris and Yellowcard, and even
Johnny Cash, I was catching on and feeling more connected to the musical world
one chord at a time. My parents said that I was wasting my time on something
frivolous that I’d be giving up in a year or two, but they ever fully understood
that this was what I wanted, above all else, to do with my life.
My dad may have understood better than my mom; he was a failed
musician that settled for a career as a pharmacist. His grand excuse was
that the guys that wanted him to join there band were all on drugs, which is
understandable.
Even so, I was determined to make it. After all, people kept telling me
how much they enjoyed the music I was creating. Whenever a band that I had
formed with my closest friends fell apart, I kept plugging away, writing songs
by myself, plotting ways to find a band and score a record deal, and envisioning
those times when I’d be playing sold out concerts all across the globe.
Some would call that wistful daydreaming, but for me it was planning. I had
spent the majority of the money I had ever made at my lousy fast food job on
guitars, amplifiers, strings, effects pedals, and CDs. I spent hours practicing and
honing my skills, writing the music I wanted to make. I’m glad to say that I got
some pretty good material out of those sessions.
Now I’m into the college phase of my life ad my early twenties. For most
musicians, this is the time in their lives where they find school obsolete, and
strike out to see if they have what it takes to make it. I see friends out making the
most of their talents, signing record deals, going on tours, playing those sold out
shows that I’ve dreamed of for so many long years. Hometown bands have had
their glory, giving hope to the hundreds of local musicians, like myself, who are
still paying their dues in small clubs across the area. And yet, for those of us still
grinding it out in the local scene, playing dingy clubs and coffee shops, the beat
seems to go on.
The realization that this chosen path that I’ve laid out for myself may
end up not being the correct one, that my lifelong aspirations may never come to
pass, has occurred to me.
Why try then?
I get that a lot. The reason for continuing on is quite simple, really.
Should I give up now and never give it all I’ve got, I’ll hate myself when I’m
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forty, fifty, sixty. It’s been said by many that the greatest failures are the chance
we want to take, but never do. I personally don’t think I could live with myself
if I didn’t go for it at some point. I’ve come along a lot of people throughout my
twenty-one years of existence that haven’t followed their hearts and chased their
dreams. I see that hollow look on their faces, and that look in their eyes that says
quiet plainly “if I could go back in time and change things, I would.” Not all of
them are musicians, but a lot are.
I once met a man met at the same music store that I got my first guitar
from who told me about how he traveled throughout the country with an
acoustic guitar, playing shows in every city he stopped in. He never got the big
recording contract, with the tour buses and music videos and all the money,
but he didn’t mind. He went for it. He tried. He was happy in the end, even if it
meant having to work a nine-to-five job Monday through Friday for a little over
minimum wage. You have to admire that.
Ask me why I wanted to try way back when, and you got that answer.
Ask me now, and it’ll be the same. Ask me ten years down the line, and my
reply won’t have changed in the slightest. People may change, but dreams never
truly fade, because they’re our hearts’ greatest desire. You can ignore them, but
they never leave us. As far as I’m concerned, when I’m old and grey and fat, if
I’m sitting there telling my grandkids about the year I spent going from town to
town with only a guitar, and playing small shows in coffee houses to less than a
handful of people, I’ll be able to say so with a smile.
82
Jesus and the Devil / Randy Hall
Ext. Wooded area. Day
A small creek flows endlessly into the distance. On the left side of the creek, the
dirt and grass hill, on the other, a wall of rock. Trees and bushes surround this
creek. The sun shines and birds sing. A very serene setting. In the middle of
the creek, set up in three inches of water, is a wooden table with two chairs. On
the table is a checker board and the pieces. To the left of the table, we see a man
coming towards the camera. He is walking across the water. To the right of the
table, another man. As he walks, the water bubbles and pops. JESUS and the
DEVIL. They are meeting for their annual checkers game. They both take a seat.
DEVIL-Could do without the theatrics.
JESUS-You’re one to talk.
Trees are on fire and plants are burned.
DEVIL-What can I say, first impressions. At least I’m not afraid to hide what I
am.
JESUS-Obviously.
DEVIL-I’m happy with myself which is more than I can say for most of the poor
saps walking this earth.
JESUS-Are you ready to play now or what?
Slight pause
JESUS-Jesus.
The devil pulls a coin out of his pocket.
DEVIL-Heads or tails?
JESUS-Heads.
The devil flips the coin. It lands on tails.
DEVIL-Oh, tough luck!
The devil puts the coin into his pocket and we can see that both sides are tails.
DEVIL-Red or black? Tough choice for you, neither exactly your col…
The devil is cut off by JESUS snapping his fingers. The black pieces turn to
white.
DEVIL-That’s very impressive. So, lets begin shall we?
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The devil makes his first move. Then JESUS. They move in turn.
DEVIL-By the way, I loved that stunt you pulled with the spilled juice. You’d
think after seeing your face in tornadoes, chocolate, and toast, people would
mellow out. But your face in some orange juice spill and everybody shits their
pants.
JESUS-Well, you know the…
The devil cuts JESUS off.
DEVIL-I believe the online community dubbed it the “JESUS Juice”.
JESUS scowls at the sexual reference.
JESUS-As I was saying, you know the rules. We cannot make up their minds for
them. They must choose. But any chance I get I’m going to tip the scale in my
favor.
The devil looks stunned by this statement of cheating.
JESUS-What? It’s not like you’re sitting back just watching. What was that stunt
you pulled with George Bush?
DEVIL-That one really backfired. But…
The devil is cut off JESUS.
JESUS-Katrina?
The devil nods.
JESUS-Iraq?
The devil nods.
JESUS-Paris Hilton?
DEVIL -Guilty as charged.
JESUS-I knew it! Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused me with that
one? It’s a real thorn in my side.
A slight pause. JESUS pulls some grapes out of his robe.
JESUS-It sounds like you’re cleaning up.
DEVIL-I can’t complain. Things haven’t been this busy since the black death.
JESUS-Ooh, yes those days. Could throw a stone in any direction and hit ten
people who stopped believing.
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The devil laughs and makes a move.
DEVIL-King me!
JESUS kings the devil. The devil then pulls out a pack of smokes and lights one
up. He offers one to JESUS. He refuses.
DEVIL-Speaking of kings, how are things back home? I trust your old man’s ok?
JESUS pulls out a cup of wine.
JESUS-Oh, you know. Busy. People always asking me for something like I’m
God. But day, he won’t get off my back about The Passion of the Christ! It’s been
four years and I still can’t walk the golden streets without hearing about it. I
thought it would be cool to have an action movie about me. But, oh no, all dad
says is, “if I wanted to see someone get beat for two hours I’d watch some girl
lose her virginity to Chuck Norris.”
DEVIL-What about Nativity Story?
JESUS-Haven’t seen it yet. King me.
The two sit in silence for a few moves.
JESUS-Hey, have you talked to death lately?
DEVIL-No.
JESUS-Huh, me either.
A few more moves go by.
JESUS-Oh, by the way, your lease is almost up.
The devil looks up quite perturbed.
DEVIL-Ok, this shit ends here! I’m tired of leasing hell! It’s absurd!
JESUS-Rules are rules. It’s either you keep up with the rent or you move back in
with Vincent Gallo, and we both know you don’t want that.
The devil tries to come up with a counterpoint, but can’t.
DEVIL-Fuck it. How much?
JESUS-You know the standard rate. Five souls per year.
DEVIL-Fine, it’s settled.
JESUS-Actually, we want to strike a bargain. We only want two souls.
The devil knows something is fishy.
DEVIL-Who?
JESUS-We want Tom and Cher.
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DEVIL-Absolutely not! No way, JESUS!
JESUS-C’mon. we’re knocking three souls off the asking price. It’s a steal of a
deal.
DEVIL-No!
JESUS becomes stern.
JESUS-Look, there’s no way we can get Tom because he doesn’t believe in us.
And clearly Cher made a deal with you.
The devil straightens up.
DEVIL-You can have Cher. I don’t need another marble statue anyway. But Tom
Cruise is mine. People look at him and want to be around him. Therefore, they
will follow him and his beliefs to hell.
JESUS is extremely frustrated. He downs the cup of wine.
JESUS-Now look here you son of a bitch! You’re gonna give us Tom or we’re
kickin’ your ass to the curb! We got buyers lined up for that property.
DEVIL-Like who?
JESUS-William Shatner’s lookin’ for a new place. I happen to think he’d fit in
just fine down there. Lord knows he’s already sold his soul.
The devil lights another cigarette. He smokes it all in one breathe.
DEVIL-Fine Cruise is yours. But Suri is mine!
JESUS-No, it’s a package deal. You can have Katie though.
DEVIL-Aargh!
JESUS-Will play for them.
DEVIL-No, I want something else.
JESUS waves his hand across the board like Qui Gon Jin.
JESUS-The winner will get her. That is all.
The devil nods his head and mumbles. They continue to play.
JESUS-Hey, D. You know how there’s no I in team?
DEVIL-Yeah.
JESUS-Well there is one in win.
JESUS jumps the devil’s last checker for the win. The devil looks absolutely
stunned.
DEVIL-Shit! Noooo! You…you…i…
JESUS-They are ours.
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The devil quickly agrees and begins to get up to leave, rather hastily.
JESUS-I believe there is something you are forgetting.
The devil turns around.
JESUS-You took it from me last year as your winning prize. I want it back.
DEVIL -JESUS Christ. Here take it back. It freaked me out anyway.
The devil hands JESUS an 8x10 picture of Willem Dafoe.
JESUS-Thank you.
The devil speaks with bitterness in his voice.
DEVIL-Yeah. See you next year?
JESUS-Same time same place. Take care.
87
The Collar / Natalie Nash
Characters
ALIS- 12 to 14 years old.
MRS. BRAO- ALIS’ mother.
FLUFFY- a boy clone 13 or 14(Family pet).
SALESMAN- Carries a brief case (with Collars in it.)
The Scene: An upper class living room with furniture arranged in mirror imageas if cloned. There are two sofas, two large dog pillows on the floor, and two
computers (Could be fakes), and one teleporter booth in the back, stage left.
At Rise: MRS. BRAO is seated on sofa dictating a letter to the computer.
MRS. BRAO- … I hope that your Mom gets well soon, Leon. ALIS misses you so
much and…
ALIS- (Coming on stage) Mom have you seen FLUFFY?
MRS. BRAO- (To computer) Stop letter. (To ALIS) No I haven’t. Do you want to
say anything to your father? I’m writing him a letter.
ALIS- Not now, I’m busy looking for FLUFFY. (Goes off opposite side of stageCan be heard calling for FLUFFY)
MRS. BRAO- Continue. We both can’t wait to see you, so let us know when you’ll
be home. Love Alicia. Send letter. (Stands and calls out) ALIS.
ALIS- (From off stage) Yes?
MRS. BRAO- Did you find FLUFFY yet?
ALIS- Not yet, and I looked everywhere.
MRS. BRAO- Well, where did you last see her?
ALIS- (Coming onstage) This morning, after breakfast.
MRS. BRAO- You fed her didn’t you? We don’t want another mess in the kitchen
with the trash.
ALIS- Yes, I- (A doorbell is heard offstage)
MRS. BRAO- I’ll get it. You think of where FLUFFY could be. (Exits)
ALIS- (Paces a bit) Oh, I hope she didn’t run away. She’ll get taken to the shelter.
MRS. BRAO- Yes, thanks again. (Coming into room, FLUFFY is with her, wearing
regular clothes like a T-shirt, and sulking) That was the neighbor boy. He saw
FLUFFY wandering outside and brought her over.
ALIS- Oh, FLUFFY. (Runs to FLUFFY and hugs him tightly) I thought you’d run
away for good this time. You should know better than that.
FLUFFY- (Trying to get out of ALIS’ hug) I wasn’t running away I just wanted to
be outside.
ALIS- (In a cooing voice) Silly FLUFFY. (Lets him go) If you want to go for a walk
you need to tell mommy. I would’ve taken you.
FLUFFY- And wear that leash? No thank you. (Sits on the floor)
ALIS- FLUFFY’s so cute, always trying to do things by herself.
MRS. BRAO- (Ruffles FLUFFY’s hair) Yes she is.
FLUFFY- Stop calling me she.
ALIS- FLUFFY, where’s your dress? It must have come off again, and your collar
too. How do you keep losing them?
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FLUFFY- Easy, I just take them off.
ALIS- Well, that’s okay I got you a new dress on the way home from school.
(Runs off stage)
FLUFFY- Please don’t be pink.
MRS. BRAO- (In high, sweet voice) What are we going to do with you FLUFFY?
You just keep running off. Yes, you do.
ALIS- (Runs back onstage) Here it is. See FLUFFY, (Holds up a frilly, pink dress)
isn’t it pretty?
FLUFFY- No.
ALIS- Lets see how you look.
FLUFFY- (Stands and moves away) I’m not wearing that.
MRS. BRAO- Now, FLUFFY behave.
FLUFFY- but- (ALIS pulls the dress over his head. They struggle with it a bit,
MRS. BRAO helps ALIS get FLUFFY’s arms through, then they step back to
admire it.)
MRS. BRAO- Look at FLUFFY. She’s just so pretty in her new dress.
FLUFFY- (stands with arms folded) Why can’t you just leave me alone? You’re so
annoying.
ALIS- FLUFFY, you’re acting so gwumpy. You must be tired from your wittle
adventure, huh? You should take a nap.
FLUFFY- Fine, with any luck you’ll leave me alone until dinner.
ALIS- (As FLUFFY walks to one of the pillows and lies down) Get plenty of rest
sweetie-pie, (Goes to pillow and pats FLUFFY on the head) Mommy loves you.
FLUFFY- Night.
MRS. BRAO- (As ALIS pets FLUFFY’s head) ALIS, FLUFFY’s been running away
a lot recently. If she gets caught by the CPA there’ll be paperwork to go through
and mandatory obedience classes… it could be pretty expensive.
ALIS- Well what do you want me to do about it?
MRS. BRAO- Taking her on a walk every day would be a good start. You should
spend more time with her too, then maybe she wouldn’t be so upset all the time.
ALIS- But Mom, I have school, and then soccer, and if I have to take care of
FLUFFY, with all the home work I get, I won’t have anytime left over for my
friends.
MRS. BRAO- Well you should have thought of that before we got FLUFFY. She’s
your responsibility. That’s what we agreed on when you got her, remember?
ALIS- Okay Mom, I get it. But what if I could think of another way to keep her in
the yard?
MRS. BRAO- Like what?
ALIS- Well, the Gleason’s got a new collar for their clone that stops it from
leaving the house. You just program it for the area you want and the clone can’t
leave.
MRS. BRAO- How does that work?
ALIS- If the clone goes past the area the collar makes it disoriented until it goes
back, and the collar sends a message to the owner’s comp. so they know.
MRS. BRAO- It sounds kind of complicated, and it seems mean to do that to
FLUFFY.
ALIS- Oh Mom, after a couple of times she’ll catch on. Before this new collar they
used to use ones that shocked the clones if they went too far.
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MRS. BRAO- I guess…
ALIS- and its not complicated at all. The company can even send someone out to
get it set up. That’s what the Gleasons did.
MRS. BRAO- Well I suppose it’s worth a try.
ALIS- great, I’ll send a message right now. (Goes to computer) Send for Volgers
Collar trial.
MRS. BRAO- So now we wait.
(They wait for fifteen seconds. Then a beep is heard and a spotlight lights the
teleporter booth, the SALESMAN is inside. FLUFFY wakes up and sits up)
ALIS- Took him long enough.
MRS. BRAO- ALIS. (Goes to booth as SALESMAN steps out, light goes off)
SALESMAN- Sorry for the wait MRS. BRAO, I was just getting organized for my
shift.
MRS. BRAO- It’s all right.
SALESMAN- (Whistles) Are those real fabric couches? Those are pretty
expensive to come by. I onceMRS. BRAO- Thank you. If we could get started…
SALESMAN- Sure thing. Let me just get set up here.
FLUFFY- (Goes over to SALESMAN) Who are you?
SALESMAN- Well, who do we have here?
MRS. BRAO- This is FLUFFY, she’s our clone.
SALESMAN- (Looks closely at FLUFFY) You know, I could be mistaken, but I
believe this is a boy clone.
MRS. BRAO- A boy? Are you sure?
SALESMAN- Yeah, I work with clones all the time, and this one is definitely a
boy.
FLUFFY- Finally.
ALIS- FLUFFY can’t be a boy, she’s a girl.
SALESMAN- Okay, whatever you want, little lady. If you say it’s a she then it’s a
she.
FLUFFY- Hey.
SALESMAN- So, how far do you want it to be able to go?
MRS. BRAO- She’s fine in the house and the yard. She’s just becoming a bit
curious, and we don’t want her exploring too far.
SALESMAN- Got’cha, (takes four Golf ball-sized balls from his briefcase) I’ll just
set these in the corners and get it ready.
MRS. BRAO- Will they need to stay there?
SALESMAN- No, I just set them up so the collar can read the distance. How
‘bout the upstairs?
MRS. BRAO- Yes, she sleeps in ALIS’ room.
SALESMAN- Really? You know, it might not wander off so far if you got it
neutered.
FLUFFY- What?
ALIS- How would that help?
SALESMAN- If you take away the testosterone they become more docile. They’re
not as likely to run away or become aggressive. People used to do it to dogs and
cats before they became so rare.
FLUFFY- What are you talking about? You better not mess with me.
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MRS. BRAO- Oh, I could never do that to FLUFFY. It must be very painful, and it
just seems so cruel.
FLUFFY- Great, but what is this guy here for anyway?
SALESMAN- It’s your choice, of course. I happen to think it makes a lot of sense
but that’s me. I’ll go set these up. (Exits)
ALIS- You’re going to get a new collar FLUFFY. I hope you like it.
FLUFFY- Probably won’t.
ALIS- Now I won’t have to go looking for you all the time.
MRS. BRAO- I’m going to get some coffee. (Exits)
ALIS- Does FLUFFY want a treat while we wait?
FLUFFY- No.
ALIS- Mom, will you get fluffy a treat?
MRS. BRAO- Sure sweetie.
FLUFFY- I don’t want one. Those things are rancid.
MRS. BRAO- (Comes back onstage with coffee mug and treat) Here FLUFFY, eat
the treat. (Puts treat in front of FLUFFY’s mouth)
FLUFFY- But I don’t want it.
ALIS- Eat the treat FLUFFY. It’s good for you.
FLUFFY- It tastes like dirt; I’m not going to eat it. (Takes the treat and throws it
away)
MRS. BRAO- Come on FLUFFY. You like these treats.
FLUFFY- If you didn’t bully me into eating them all the time you wouldn’t think
that.
ALIS- (Picks up treat) Come on FLUFFY, eat the treat. (Holding treat to FLUFFY’s
mouth) Eat the treat. It’s yummy. Don’t you want to eat the yummy treat?
FLUFFY- No. Shut up.
MRS. BRAO- FLUFFY, you sound so upset.
SALESMAN- (Enters) All done. Say, is that real ceramic? I didn’t know people
actually still drank out real ceramicMRS. BRAO- Yes, we have a few. What did you say came next?
SALESMAN- Oh, right. (Takes collar out of briefcase) We just turn this on and
give it a second to read the distances… There we go, and now it’s ready to put on
FLUFFY.
FLUFFY- Great, another collar to wriggle out of.
SALESMAN- (Puts collar around FLUFFY’s neck) Now we adjust to the proper
size. (Tightens collar as tight as possible)
FLUFFY- Hey, that’s too tight. (Grabs at collar) It’s too tight, make it looser. Come
on, it hurts, make it looser.
SALESMAN- And snap this into place. That way the clone can’t get it off.
MRS. BRAO- That looks awfully tight.
SALESMAN- Don’t worry, it’ll get used to the tightness soon. It has to be that
tight otherwise they can get it off.
FLUFFY- ALIS, please, it hurts. Don’t make me wear this.
ALIS- Are you okay FLUFFY? She doesn’t look too good.
SALESMAN- It’ll be fine. It’s just uncomfortable at first.
MRS. BRAO- I don’t know…
SALESMAN- If it doesn’t get used to the collar you get your money back,
guaranteed.
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FLUFFY- Make it looser. I can’t breath.
MRS. BRAO- Alright, we’ll see how it works.
FLUFFY- (Going over to SALESMAN) If you don’t make this looser I’llSALESMAN- Calm down there, Fluff, You’ll be fine. if you don’t it’ll just make it
worse.
FLUFFY- Get this thing off me. (Knocks SALESMAN down and attacks him) Get
it off. Off.
MRS. BRAO- FLUFFY, get off of him! (MRS. BRAO goes to FLUFFY and tries to
pull him away. FLUFFY pushes her back, as SALESMAN gets up. He punches
FLUFFY in the head, and FLUFFY falls to the ground, unconscious)
ALIS- (Screams) Mom. FLUFFY.
MRS. BRAO- I’m fine ALIS.
ALIS- FLUFFY. FLUFFY, wake up. What did you do to FLUFFY?
SALESMAN- It attacked me.
MRS. BRAO- Well the collar was on verySALESMAN- If there are an injuries you’ll be paying for them I assure you.
MRS. BRAO- Yes, of course.
SALESMAN- That clone is too aggressive, you can’t keep it.
MRS. BRAO- But the collarSALESMAN- The collar is perfectly fine. All the other clones adjusted perfectly to
it.
ALIS- FLUFFY’s not aggressive. She was in pain.
SALESMAN- Even if that was true, after they show the first signs of aggression
you can’t know when they’ll strike next.
MRS. BRAO- I just can’t see our FLUFFY turning on us.
SALESMAN- Do you really want to take that chance MRS. BRAO? It would be
horrible if anything were to happen to your daughter.
MRS. BRAO- Maybe we should.
ALIS- No, we can’t get rid of FLUFFY. I’ve had her since I was Seven.
MRS. BRAO- We’ll get you a new clone ALIS. You were saying that you wanted a
younger clone anyway.
ALIS- Well, I don’t. IMRS. BRAO- I won’t risk her hurting you ALIS. (To SALESMAN) If you’ll take
your things and leave, I can handle this.
SALESMAN- If you’re sure. (As SALESMAN takes collar off FLUFFY and puts
his things away, MRS. BRAO goes to computer)
MRS. BRAO- Send for CPA.
SALESMAN- (Steps into teleporter, Beep, spotlight goes off)
ALIS- Please Mom, don’t get rid of FLUFFY.
MRS. BRAO- ALIS I would never(Teleporter Beeps)
Curtain
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Vacation / Jenni Donnelly
TRIXIE- the mom, blonde, doesn’t know who all of her kid’s fathers are,
unemployed, absentminded, she’s wearing a mix-matched bathing suit, visor,
and bright yellow flip-flops (LOTS of lines)
KEN- the dad, jet-black thinning hair, computer programmer, sandals with socks,
zinc oxide on his nose and a laptop practically glued to his side, unsuspecting of
Trixie, he’s just glad to know that his boys can swim... (LOTS of lines)
MARK- the oldest child, their favorite (few lines)
STUART- redhead, 14, one of the middle children, cargo pants and Vans
sneakers, oversized hoodie with pockets full of candy and empty wrappers. (one
line)
SALLY, SAM, and STACY- blonde triplet girls, KEN’s only biological children.
(no lines)
JOE- adopted, hates TRIXIE and fond of committing petty crimes. (some lines)
SETH- youngest son, African American, he’s the most well-behaved because the
other kids made sure he knew that he was an accident, JOE has him convinced
that all “Mistake Children” have to be sent to jail when they’re 12. (a few lines)
LUCY, GREG, EDDIE, and JIM- TRIXIE’s other children (no lines)
DAY ONE: The scene opens on a beach in Florida, TRIXIE is passed out on an
oversized towel and snoring. KEN is typing furiously -while the younger kids
steal pens from his briefcase and throw them in the water. JOE is crouched
behind a shed near the vacation home. SETH is tapping TRIXIE on the shoulder,
trying to wake her. When this fails, he throws a wad of paper at her face and tries
to run away.
TRIXIE- What the fuck?! SETH! Come back here!
SETH, eyes downcast, waddles back to her
TRIXIE- What is this?
SETH-I found it... It’s for you...
TRIXIE flattens out the piece of paper and reads out loud
TRIXIE-”WE HAVE THE KID. LEAVE $2000 IN THE MAILBOX MY
MIDNIGHT FOR AN EXCHANGE” Honey!
KEN- Yes, dear.
TRIXIE- It’s a ransom note! Somebody stole one of our babies!
KEN- That’s nice dear...
TRIXIE- Are you listening to me? Seth! Where did you get this?
SETH-I just... found it... I have to go now...!
SETH runs out of sight, appears behind the shed near JOE
TRIXIE- SETH, wait! Oh fuck it... Ken! Pay attention! Someone took one of the
kids!
KEN- Which one, honey?
TRIXIE stops for a moment and looks around
TRIXIE-I... I don’t know...
KEN- Well mere’s no need to get so upset, just figure out who’s missing.
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KEN resumes his typing and TRIXIE runs up to the house and out of view
Meanwhile, behind the shed...
JOE- Nice job, Seth. Here’s a dollar.
SETH- Thank you, Joe! I’ll put it in my piggy bank. Does this mean you won’t
send me away anymore? I think I did well and deserve to stay with the family.
JOE- No, Seth. You’ll still be sent to jail. You’re a mistake. But if you keep doing
what I tell you to do I’ll try to negotiate with the cops to go easy on you.
SETH- Thank you, Joey! I love you!
SETH tries to hug him but JOE smacks him away.
JOE- Stop calling me Joey! Get the fuck out of here!
SETH walks away while JOE picks up a cell phone and dials
JOE- Hey, it’s me. (pause) Yeah, the little bastard gave her the note. (pause)
I don’t know, she ran inside, (pause) Yeah, I’ll call you back in a little while,
(pause) No, you can’t come back. I told you, just stay out of sight for a while and
see how much dough we can make off of this. Bye.
TRIXIE comes back down to the beach with a martini and stretches out on her
towel.
KEN- Did you figure it out, dear?
TRIXIE- Figure what out?
KEN- Which kid is missing?
TRIXIE- Oh lord, I forgot all about that...
KEN-1 thought you just went inside to count the kids.
TRIXIE- No, I had to pee... but the girls are in there watching TV. I keep telling
them this is the only vacation they’ll ever have. They can watch TV at home...
And they’re hogging it! I want to watch Law & Order tonight andKEN- Honey! Focus, so we know it’s not one of the girls. Where’s Greg?
TRIXIE-I don’t know, at soccer practice?
KEN- We’re on vacation, dear. The kids don’t go to practice this week... What
about Stuart?
TRIXIE- I think he went with Greg somewhere...
KEN- ... soccer practice?
TRIXIE- Yeah! I have to pick them up soon, I think.
KEN- Baby! Pay attention! No soccer practice, alright? How about Jim?
TRIXIE- Jim... Jim... which one is Jim again? I think he’s inside keeping an eye on
the girls. I have to go make dinner; we’ll figure this out afterwards.
KEN- Okay, we can get a head count at dinner. Don’t tell the other kids, I don’t
want to worry them.
TRIXIE goes back up the hill to the beach house and calls for all the kids to come
inside for dinner in half an hour. Joe, still behind the shed, picks up the phone
again.
JOE- Oh man, they totally don’t love you. (pause) Calm down, I was kidding. At
least they mentioned your name. I’ll have to write another note, there’s no way
they’re gonna shell out 2000 bucks tonight. Just sleep on the beach, I’ll leave you
some food behind the shed. (pause) Yeah, turn off your phone for now. (pause)
Don’t worry about the money right now, just stay out of sight. Bye.
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DAY TWO: The scene opens on a beach in Florida, TRIXIE is passed out on an
oversized towel and snoring. KEN is typing furiously while the younger kids
steal pens from his briefcase and throw them in the water. JOE is crouched
behind a shed near the vacation home. TRIXIE sits up quickly—too quickly...
TRIXIE- Shit, I’m dizzy. Hey baby?
KEN- Yeah
TRIXIE- Will you get me a bottle of water? I think I’m hungover.
KEN- Okay
KEN walks up to the cooler behind the house, picks up apiece a paper and reads
it as he walks back to TRIXIE.
KEN- Honey, don’t get upset, but I found a new ransom note... I thought you
were going to take care of this last night, don’t tell me you forgot!
TRIXIE-I didn’t forget! I just didn’t have any cash on me. And it said to leave it
in the mailbox, but we don’t even have a mailbox here... What was I supposed to
do?
JOE is scribbling on apiece of paper behind the shed. He hands it to SETH,
whispers in his ear, and shoves him out towards KEN. SETH starts running...
KEN-This one says, “WE STILL HAVE THE KID. HOW ABOUT $200? JUST
PUT IT IN THE MAIL—”
SETH- COPS! COPS! COPS! RUN! (he knocks KEN over and grabs the ransom
note, switches it out with Joe’s new one. He runs out of sight.)
KEN- What the..? Jim! I mean, Eddie! Fuck! Whatever your name is, you’re
grounded, mister!
JOE is on the phone again behind the shed
JOE- Fucking voicemail... Hey genius! It’s Joe. We don’t even have a mailbox
here, dumbass. We’re fucked. They didn’t even notice you were gone, man. I’m
glad they left you at that rest stop. I’m done playing this game. I’ll give ‘em one
more note tonight. Just come back or you’re gonna get left here when we drive
back home tomorrow. I hope you turn your phone back on. Call me, fuckwad.
TRIXIE- Finish reading the note, Ken. Come on.
KEN- My ribs hurt... we need to put that kid in sports. What is he, like 7? He
knocked the wind out of me.
TRIXIE- That’s because you’re old and faKEN- What, honey?
TRIXIE- Read the note!
KEN-”WE STILL HAVE THE KID. JUST PUT YOUR CASH IN THE SHED
AND WE’LL DROP HIM OFF TONIGHT.” I thought it said $200...? Do you have
any cash?
TRIXIE- A bit, I just wish I knew who it was for. I mean, I wouldn’t want to
spend a hundred bucks on Jim or Eddie, but I’d give a thousand for Mark. Oh
my God! Mark! Where is he? I can’t believe I didn’t notice he was gone!
KEN- Oh Jesus Christ... where’s my phone? Call his cell! I can’t believe this... I’ll
kill the son of a bitch...
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TRIXIE runs up to the house and returns with KEN’s phone. She dials and
collapses in the sand. KEN grabs the phone and tries to talk while pulling her up
from the ground.
KEN- Mark? Oh thank God! Where are you?
MARK-1 can’t really talk right now...
KEN- Did they hurt you? Are they telling you what to say right now?
MARK- What? I’m kinda busy right now... (whispers) stop it, Julie. I’m on the
phone. What are you talking about, dad?
KEN- Who’s Julie? Where are you?
MARK- She’s... uh... my girlfriend. You’ll meet her at Christmas. I’m at my dorm,
dad. What’s going on? (whispers) Julie! Gimme a second, baby...
KEN hangs up, disgusted. TRIXIE is standing up on her own now but looking
dazed.
TRIXIE-1 don’t feel so good... Where’s MARK?
KEN- At college, where he’s supposed to be. Who the fuck is missing?!?
KEN helps her walk up to the house and finds a note on the door.
TRIXIE- Oh no... what now?
KEN-It just says, “FUCK IT. NEVERMIND. WE DON’T WANT YOUR MONEY
OR YOUR KID.” I don’t understand. I think you should lie down for a bit. I can’t
drive all the way home by myself tomorrow. I’ll order some pizza. We can load
the car in the morning.
TRIXIE-I have to tell you something, baby...
They go inside. Down on the beach, a kid walks up looking disheveled. He
checks the shed, looks around on the floor. JOE comes outside and walks up to
him.
JOE- Hey, Stu. Sorry, man. I couldn’t get any money out of them. I can’t believe
they didn’t even notice you were missing. Do me a favor and sit shotgun on
the way home so you won’t get left behind. You stink, dude. Take a shower
sometime, will ya?
STUART sits on the back porch and lights a cigarette, shaking his head. JOE goes
inside and the audience hears TRIXIE’s voice offstage
TRIXIE- Hey, JOE! You’re just in time for the good news. Gather around,
everyone! Guess what?!?! I’m pregnant!!!
STUART- Son of a motherfucking bitch!
He turns away from the house and walks back down to the beach.
96
Gossip / Svetlana Tokarchuk
MARTHA and GLORIA sit on a pew at church. The PREACHER’s voice is heard
off stage.
PREACHER: Brothers and sisters, this world is falling into damnation. The
tongue is a very powerful tool.
MARTHA and GLORIA: Amen.
MARTHA: What a lovely day it is.
GLORIA: Truly lovely.
PREACHER: Satan uses the tongue against the Lord and we have to prevent that!
MARTHA and GLORIA: Amen.
MARTHA: It’s a much nicer day today than last Sunday.
GLORIA: Much nicer.
MARTHA: Did you notice Mary and Paul walkin’ into church together last
week?
GLORIA: Mary the tramp?
MARTHA: Mary the tramp. And do you know what else?
GLORIA: What?
MARTHA: They were holdin’ hands and actin’ like they were gonna get married.
GLORIA: No
MARTHA: Yes. Sad thing is that they didn’t walk in together today.
GLORIA: What did she do to him?
MARTHA: The usual, she cheated on him with her ex Jimmy.
GLORIA: Why doesn’t Mary just stay with Jimmy?
MARTHA: Because she cheats on Jimmy too!
PREACHER: This world is falling into damnation.
MARTHA and GLORIA: Amen.
MARTHA: I saw Francine the other day at the beauty parlor. She paid over $100
to get her hair done. She should have donated it to her bastard grandchild so her
daughter could support him with something. Poor thing could barely get by on
Macaroni and Cheese.
PREACHER: The tongue is like a sword that emotionally stabs and wounds and
we must master it before it works destructions.
MARTHA and GLORIA: Amen.
GLORIA: Michael got caught again.
MARTHA: Stealing from old lady Lucy? I tell ya, if Michael was my son I would
beat the living daylight out of him with George’s belt!
GLORIA: This time he tried to take her great grandmothers chinaware.
MARTHA: Nope, George’s belt won’t do, I’d go after him with a skillet!
GLORIA: How is George?
MARTHA: Oh you know, comes home from work and goes straight to the
television to sec if he missed wheel of fortune. I tell ya, I keep telling him that I’m
gping to throw that TV out, I outta actually do it!
GLORIA: Susan threw Roger’s television out and he straight up almost divorced
her!
97
MARTHA: Roger would divorce her if she done makes him a slightly over
cooked egg for breakfast.
GLORIA: Shame, he needs to be grateful for that woman. She tries so hard to
make him
happy.
MARTHA: That’s not what I heard. Elisabeth told Hanna, who told me, that
Susan is a no good house wife who spends Roger’s paychecks playing Bingo
every Wednesday night. I witnessed it myself.
PREACHER: We gossip, we slander. We need to control ourselves!
MARTHA and GLORIA: Amen.
PREACHER: Let us pray.
(GLORIA and MARTHA bow their heads in 10 seconds of silence. The prayer
ends. MARTHA and GLORIA rise from the pew.)
MARTHA: What a nice sermon that was.
GLORIA: A very nice sermon with a powerful message.
(Walking out of the church.)
MARTHA: Did you hear about Janice?
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notes
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St. Louis Community College is committed to non-discrimination
and equal opportunities in its admissions, educational programs, activities and employment regardless of race, color, creed, religion, sex, sexual
orientation, national origin, ancestry, age, disability or status as a disabled
or Vietnam-era veteran and shall take action necessary to ensure
non-discrimination. For further information, contact at Meramec
Daniel R. Herbst, Acting Vice President for Student Support, 11333 Big
Bend Road, St. Louis, MO 63122-5720, (314) 984-7607 or contact Section
504 / Title II Coordinator Dr. John Ganio,Vice Chancellor of Education,
300 South Broadway, St. Louis, MO 63102-2800, (314) 539-5286
St. Louis Community College makes every reasonable effort to accommodate individuals with disabilities. If you have accommodations
needs, please call 314-984-7673 at least within two working days prior to
attending a scheduled event. Individuals with speech or hearing impairments may call via Relay Missouri by dialing 711.
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