MEMENTOES
ISSUE III
THE LITERARY JOURNAL OF
QUEENSBOROUGH COMMUNITY COLLEGE
The City University of New York
1 9 9 0
BAYSIDE, NEW YORK
.
Editorial Board
Anthony Bellon
Scott Bresinger
Joseph Casottana
Jeanne Marie Parisi
Manuel Peguero
Tony Slikas
Joan Wynne
Faculty Adviser
Dr. Eli Merchant
2
Foreword
Mementoes, currently in its third issue, is comprised of stories
and poems submitted by students in 1989. Its objective is to
serve as a literary journal for the students of
Queensborough Community College, to promote the cause of
creative writing at the College, and to provide a forum for the
creative work of its student body.
Appreciation is acknowledged to all students and members
of the Writer's Club who have made this project feasible through
their enthusiastic involvement and receptiveness. Appreciation
is particularly expressed to Jeanne Marie Parisi for
contributing her services as reader and typist of the materials
involved and to the offices of Publications and Printing
Services.
PROFESSOR
ELI MERCHANT
Department of English
3
Table of Contents
"The Surprise," a story by Scott Bresinger .................. 6
"The Squeeze," a poem by Edward Bujans
13
"King of the Valley," a story by
Joseph Cassotana ....................................................... 14
"Black and White Make Grey," a poem by
Electra .......................................................................... 16
"Sleep Now," a poem by Electra ..................................... 17
"The Meadow," a poem by
Brooke Lunn-Bourne ...............................................
"Just a Place for You and Me," a story
by Steven Morales ....................................................
"A Christian Spirit," a story by
Jeanne Marie Parisi ..................................................
"Daniel," a story by Jeanne Marie Parisi ...................
18
20
23
27
"Tommy," a story by Joan Wynne ......................................... 30
5
The Surprise
SCOTT BRESINGER
Eric Reed shafted on the stool almost unconsciously. His
undivided attention was focused on attaching a thin red wire
onto a circuit board taken from an old computer. He figured
that Mom and Dad wouldn't miss the old thing. It was in the
family since I989, practically an antique. Of course, its primitive
construction was perfectly suited to Eric's ten-year-old mind.
The newer models were too small for his purposes, anyway.
His fingers weren't shaking, but any observer could have
told he was nervous. Eric didn't want to screw this up. He
wanted to give his father a special present, one that he made
himself. Ile thought of Dad as someone of unlimited intelligence, and Eric thought the little device he was making would
impress him. Eric wanted to prove he was smart, too.
Of course, he didn't know the reality of the situation. Even at
ten, he had far more intelligence than his father. If he had gone
to a private school, the instructors would have declared Eric a
genius. The boy had a keen mind for electronics and, one day,
might have been a great scientist.
Dad was a different story. Charles Reed had trouble following
many TV shows. He was functionally illiterate and recently
unemployed now that the factory had switched entirely to
robotics. This made Charles extremely hateful of machines even
though he used at least three dozen of them in his daily routine.
His generation was the last to believe in hard work and its
rewards. He felt useless and impotent lying around the house
and would occasionally yell at his wife for no reason. But at least
he loved his son, whom he thought of as his greatest
achievement. Not that it would have changed what happened
that day, Inn he had sonic idea of his son's intelli-
6
gence. Ile also sullenly realized that this intelligence came
from his wife, Susan.
Susan Harris was the daughter of one of the ten richest
people in the country. Her father was an early developer of the
air car ("You'll feel like you're floating on air because you are!"
the ad went), and thus provided his beloved daughter with a nice
home anti a steady flow of money. He didn't like Charles Reed,
but he loved his daughter and grandson, so he put op with "the
lazy son-of-a-hitch." In any case, Susan had also inherited her
father's intelligence. She was also a hit of a genius, but her
privileged life had led her to waste it. A mind that could have
easily tackled quantum physics was put to memorizing completely
useless trivia, mostly from her favorite TV shows. In fact, the
only thing she really put herself to work on was her son.
Today for the most part was a typical day. Charles slept until
Noon, then wandered around the house aimlessly looking for
something to do. Susan was in front of the huge living room TV
("Maxi-vision" was written across the bottom) since 9:00. She
would remain there trance-like until somewhere around
dinnertime. Eric, however, was busy. He turned down his
friend's offer of checking out some new holographic vid-games, locked himself away in his father's workroom (which
Dad had constructed, stocked up, and promptly forgotten),
arid constructed something he saw on a TV documentary
once. He hadn't seen the whole show, but had tuned in on time
to see how it could be built. He didn't have a dear idea of what
"it" was that he was making, but he knew it had something to do
with light. Maybe even illuminate the whole neighborhood!
Whatever it was he knew Dad would be impressed. Finding
the power source he needed was the hard part, but he
remembered that it was used in the form of large batteries to
power houses these days. Eric simply took one from the stock in
the basement and altered its inner workings a
7
hit. Eric didn't know the kind of fire he was playing with
by doing this, but he was careful. He had successfully avoided
an accident. Now he made the hookup of the thin red wire
to the circuit-board. He screwed it in tightly and then sat
back to observe what he had done so far. The device looked
like a mess of wires and dismembered appliances. The 12-inch
TV and the microwave oven were probably as old as the
computer since Eric found them on the bottom of the workroom cabinet. The battery was buried in the middle somewhere under the complicated mass of wires. There was now
just an on/off switch to be attached. Then the whole thing
would be stuffed into a large plexiglass box to make it look
good.
Eric stretched his neck and looked around at the workroom.
In the left wall near the door was the videophone. This model
had a high definition screen which could make Japan look
and sound like it was right there in the Bronx. Attached to
the wall right next to it was the digital directory with its 200
preset phone numbers. The directory also served as an
answering machine. The whole setup was a bit outdated, but
this was only a workroom, after all.
The door was locked but it had a one-way window in it.
You could see outside the room hut those on the other side
couldn't look in. Eric saw his father pass by, yawning and
scratching his beard. The wall directly behind Eric had long
shelves attached to it. The shelves were a clutter of flotsam and
jetsam that Charles had gathered over the years: broken
cassette players, assorted small parts for air cars (donated by
Susan's sainted father, of course), holo-cubes with old images
of Eric in different stages of childhood. One of them showed
Eric as a toddler staring with rapt fascination at the huge TV
his mother was so fond of. Eric could remember being more
interested in how the machine worked rather than the show,
which was Sesame Street, i.e., "Big Bird Visits the Moon Colony."
8
On the shelf was a 20-inch TV that Eric turned on when he
came in the workroom. He always did that since he was more
comfortable with it on. The sound and the flickering images
actually helped to focus him (and not only him; in a recent
Time magazine study, it seemed that today's kids were like
fish out of water without a video screen on). The TV in the
workroom was showing the news at noon. There was a report
about the homeless "shelters" in upstate New York. In 2008
New York's poor and homeless were placed in government-run
"shelters" to accommodate the desires of the new affluent
young professionals. The Bronx was mostly rebuilt and was
now practically a part of Manhattan. Some politicians said
that the shelters and the forced displacement of the poor and
homeless were like concentration camps in Nazi Germany, but
in a country where only 30 percent of the people voted in
the last presidential election, no one cared what happened.
The Yuppies wielded the true political clout these days; if
they wanted to get rid of a few useless people so they might
have new condos, the government listened. The TV report
Eric saw had images of dozens of people crowded into barracks.
The reporter commented on the incredible crime rate in the
camps, not to mention the alleged brutality of the security
guards. Eric watched for a few minutes but it bored him.
It might be interesting to note that Eric rarely forgot
anything he saw. In these days, the air was alive with every
conceivable form of information. Cities especially were
bombarded with a constant flow of words and pictures. The
average house had seven televisions. People would watch for
about ten hours a day. In Eric's house, there were twelve
working ones. Three of them were in the living room, so Susan
could monitor programming to satisfy herself; television for
her was like a food substitute. For Eric it was an air
supplement. This was not uncommon either. So it was
perfectly reasonable to assume that Eric's brain was partly a
huge media storeroom.
9
The device he now worked on could have been a million
things. Eric almost didn't have a choice in building it. Ile had to
do it to relieve some of the amassed weight of information.
For no real reason, Eric looked over to the digital calendar On
the wall to his left. Written on top of the screen in large red
letters was "AUGUST 2030." Below was the standard calendar
form in blue with today's date, the eleventh, highlighted in red.
The numbers on the calendar were one of the only things
Charles could read, but he didn't because it reminded him of his
illiteracy. This problem was Charles' one kept secret, one he'd
take with him to the grave.
Now, more wires were carefully being attached to the on/off
switch. At first Eric worried that he wouldn't have enough
wires to complete the job, but now he saw he had leftovers. Ile
looked at the shells of the TV and microwave and wondered if
he should keep them for a future project. He decided to worry
about that later.
At 2:05 pm, after cleft manipulation of screwdrivers and
wires and hookups and relays that was remarkable considering
the age of the technician, the "Surprise" was nearly finished.
Eric then attached the entire thing to a fluorescent light bulb,
which would be necessary if this was a light machine, as he
believed. As it turned out, the bulb was to say the least
unnecessary, but he didn't know that then.
At 2:52, the device was secured within its plexiglass tank, with
only the on/off switch and the light bulb hanging out. Eric
decided that it looked great, just as he planned. He picked up
a black magic marker and wrote on the side of the plexiglass
box, "I love you, Daddy." The "love" was written as a heart, also
in black. Eric then thought that it should have been in red, but it
really didn't matter.
Just looking at his creation was exciting to him, and therefore
he forgot to test it. This also didn't matter. Ile looked around
at the sackcloth-colored walls of the workroom one
I0
last time and decided it was time to spring his "Surprise." Ile
walked over to the door, unlocked it, and opened it. Learning
halfway out, Eric called out for his father.
Charles was in the kitchen staring at a half-eaten bagel.
From here it was: Either finish it or fall back to sleep, then
maybe watch "The Price Is High." Yeah, that'd be okay. Then
Eric's voice sliced through the air like an arrow. Ile was calling
Charles. Ile sounded anxious, but cheerful. A deep pit of
fear opened up in Charles. What has he done now? Charles
loved his son dearly, but the kid was smart enough to be
scary. Charles yelled something to the general effect of
"yeah?" Eric retorted with "Come here!" When Charles asked
what he wanted, Eric said that it was a surprise.
Charles walked from the kitchen through the living wow,
where Susan's televised revelry was broken. She wanted her
husband to go see what Eric wanted. Charles grunted as he
walked by her.
Charles stopped as he came to the workroom door. There was
Eric, standing next to the table. On the table was a large box with
an on/off switch and a fluorescent light bulb hanging from out of
the top. On the side of the box was "I love you Daddy"
scrawled in black magic marker. The father couldn't help but
feel love for his son. "What do you got there, Eric?" Ile grinned
and nodded toward the box.
As the boy looked at his father smile, a smile crossed his own
mouth. He loved his father. At that second he remembered he
forgot to test his device, but it was too late now. Ile just hoped
it would work. Eric wanted to prove he was as smart as his
father. "Watch, Dad!" he said as he reached down and pulled the
switch on.
Just five hours after a nuclear explosion leveled New York, the
Army had the perimeter of the disaster secured. Of course, it
was too late by then. Seven films of the blast had
surfaced two hours after the event. Nevertheless, they had
orders to waste anyone who came within a mile.
By the next day, six terrorist groups had each claimed
responsibility, hut the government didn't want to acknowledge any of them. Not yet. Since Wall Street had been destroyed too, there were bigger problems. The financial damage
was not as bad as it could have been, not since japan had become
the world's leading economic power. Still, this could spell the
end of America as a major nation.
Not to mention casualties. That would easily run into the
millions. Not that anyone could tell for sure yet; New York
would not be safe to enter for weeks.
In the meanwhile, the media would record it all. The president made a long speech, trying her best to seem more concerned about loss of life than financial losses. Speculations
and theories and debates flew through the airwaves seeming to
almost squeeze out the oxygen.
On one of the many "Man-on-the-Street" interviews done
about the explosion, one comment seemed to stick out. When
asked his opinion, a writer from California commented, without a hint of sarcasm, "Armageddon has been televised."
The Squeeze
With long "wirery" hands
that never seem to end
my Grandmother wraps
her arms of aged skin
about me like a
water-hose coiled
around a deflated
basketball She
squeezes
She turns
She lifts
She bounces
She kisses
She Eskimo kisses
She
She
She looks at me with
her eyes of grey
tier love is immeasurable
SHE SQUEEZES SHE
S Q U E E Z E S SHE
SQUEEZES
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13
King of the Valley
JOSEPH CASSOTANA
The warmth of the sun slowly dried the dew on his feathers.
Looking around at the valley, which had been his territory for
twenty years, he was extremely pleased. With a sudden shake,
he spread his enormous wings and headed directly east, the
warmth of the morning sun feeling glorious to his old bones.
The passing summer had brought great beauty to his home.
Never could he remember a time when the valley stretching for
miles and miles beneath him looked so lush and spectacular in
its rich coloring! Yet he was saddened by the thought that he
might not survive another year.
Swooping clown, he neared a crystal lake, a large jumping
trout sending ripples across its mirror-like surface. Floating on
the air currents, he crossed the meadows where he observed rabbits
playing in the still green clover and other small animals scurrying
around in their endless chores. These scampered hurriedly at
his approach. No, not now, he thought. Ile was not hungry yet.
Deer and elk nibbled on berries high up on the mountainous
ridges, undisturbed by his passing. The great bull moose that
had lived in the valley almost as long as he had rambled towards
an unknown destination, its huge antlers swaying in the wind. As
he veered and headed towards the high country, a huge grizzly
fished in the upper stream with her cubs, secure and
undaunted in her enormous strength. Not even he would dare
to tangle with it or its prey.
In the distance, his favorite pine tree appeared windswept and
alone as other trees lay felled and scattered around it, victims
of previous storms. Sensing a change in the wind, he realized
that it would not be long before the entire valley
would be blanketed in snow, remote, cold, inaccessible, and yet
majestically serene during the winter months.
Suddenly remembering the trout, the Old One turned
round and headed back to the lake. Like a bolt of lightning, he
swooped clown and as quickly soared upward, the trout
clenched in his razor sharp talons. As he devoured it, his
pride was nurtured by the knowledge that he had not lost his
hunting ability.
As the sun disappeared from the western sky, he headed
home. High up in the mountains, his nest atop the largest
ridge, the Old One sat reminiscing about all the years that had
gone by, anguished by the thought that in the very near future
he would not see his beloved valley again. He hoped for one
last session in which he could soar across the vast realms he
claimed as, his own.
****
As the last snows melted, huge wings could be seen floating over
the valley. Death would have to wait. For now the Old One was
still King!
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15
Black and White Make Grey
Sleep Now
Black and white make grey
You looked to the stars,
Hate and pain make rage
And saw more than the brightness.
"They are black," she said, 'They must be criminals." "They are
Sleep now, Reverend King:
black," they yelled. "Let's chase them away." On the road,
You have served your purpose.
On the highway
You brought peace,
Now forever a martyr and a saint.
There is nowhere to run.
To the racists?
To the cars?
Which way to go?
You were great
Because you were blind,
To the cars!
COLORBLIND;
You saw black and white blurred together. So,
At least they don't care what color you are.
sleep now, great King,
ELECTRA
You made life like the stars,
bright and complete.
ELECTRA
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The Meadow
The meadow
Where I once played as a child Is
gone
The lone trees
Uprooted
The flowers
Plowed under
Houses
Are now planted there
Only one tree
In the whole meadow A
giant oak
Towering regally
Over field and flowers
Boards
Nailed in its trunk
Used as a ladder
To climb upward and sit
Perched like a bird
Among the branches
Gazing at the vastness Of
the meadow
Little yellow buttercups
So very small
Dainty queen anne's lace
And white daisies
They were tall
The clover
Was a lavender hue
And the cornflower
Such a pretty shade of blue
Sometimes it matched the sky
The meadow
Where I once played as a child
Is gone
Yet happy memories linger on
The meadow
Where I once played as a child
Is gone
Gone
But not forgotten
BROOKE LUNN-BOURNE
Wild country flowers
They would bend and ripple
Like a field of wheat
With each passing breeze
A bouncing rainbow
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18
Just a Place for You and Me
STEVEN MORALES
JUNE 4, TUESDAY
I awoke to a sudden jolt causing a sharp pain in my abdomen
which came from the seatbelt of the car and which had suddenly become my reality check.
What had, in reality, happened was that Alex had jammed on
the brakes to avoid a damned jack rabbit deciding to take its
early morning jog across Route 66—Alex, you see, having just
received her license a little over two months ago and having to
drive with a stick shift to boot!
It was approximately 5:36 a.m. according to the dashboard clock
glaring at me every time I cracked my eyelids. I could see the
serene morning hues of the desert sky adjusting them-selves to
and associating with the canyon-lined horizon. Beautiful
shades of pale orange and rich aqua blue blended together so
harmoniously that it seemed nothing could change. The crisp
sharp outlines of the canyons smiled in ominous glee ready to
attack the unblemished sky. A huge cactus, about a hundred
and fifty yards from the highway, looked impassively at me as I
passed by it at sixty miles an hour. The desert was quiet.
Alex and 1 were about two hundred miles from the
Arizona-California border and that feeling of inexorable anxiety
once again overwhelmed my emotional struggle to remain
calm. Alex and I had been talking about the move to L.A. since
the beginning of time, and we both thought the day would
never come.
“Justin, when do you think you'll be ready to make the big
move, huh?! When do you think you'll feel ready, huh?" Alex's
voice penetrated my mind like a fork poking a piece of meat.
I was crazy and we both knew it. But, hey, we were both young
and uncommitted, right? Unfortunately, for both Alex and myself,
the insidious voice of maturity was directing our every move. She
wanted to move, to have a change of scenery, and, oh, to get away
from the governmental dictatorship known as "home.- I, on
the other band, was just looking for answers.
I had somehow managed to drift Off for another fifteen
minutes when a draft from the door began to passionately
caress my ear. I don't know about these imported cars! They seem
to fall apart Lister than the moral structure of our society.
I began to awake, blinking at the intense morning sun
permeating our car.
"Tired yet. Alex?" I grunted. She had only been driving since
four this morning when we both awoke to the unrelenting call of
California.
"No, I'm fine actually. I just wish you hadn't packed the tapes
under everything last night because the radio station out here in
no man's land stink! And you're not doing much to entertain me
either," she added.
Alex seemed to complete the painting unfolding before me.
Blissfully staring at her and fully awake now, I was able to see a
startling resemblance of the radiant glow on her face and the
rosy pale orange sky—both both of promise and mysterious
loveliness.
By eight o'clock, it was warm already. The pre-dawn darkness
had given way to the sunlight, permitting it to enact its daily
deed of replenishment. I noticed an insignificant green dot near
the vanishing point of the highway. It seemed suspended in
midair but was so distant that it could very well have been an
illusion. I could not control my imagination which by this time
had become my secret co-pilot, and was
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21
able to envision the L.A. skyline on the other side of the
canyons.
Alex and I had been oil the wad for five days now and we
were both craving to plant our feet on steady ground. The
green spot was getting bigger.
I was able to picture our new apartment overlooking Santa
Monica Boulevard. The faded cream-colored stucco facade
actually began to look pretty in my mind. I could envision Alex
and me waking to the shadows of the swaying palm trees as
they wafted in the quiet Pacific breeze.
Alex was driving at sixty-five miles per hour now. I was
staring out the window at the cracked desert ground with its
solemn look of suffering touched by poetic innocence.
The green spot turned out to be that dreaded sign: "Los
Angeles, 410 miles."
Alex and my future were only 410 miles away. It was
treacherous and we both knew it, but we were happy. We were
finally doing something we both felt confident about.
Alex pulled in at a Texaco gas station, just past the sign. We
were low on gas, but I hadn't noticed. I was still a little weary
and getting hungry.
As we rolled into the unattended island, Alex shyly asked me
if had any change. I just looked at her, hoping in feeble dismay
that she was only kidding.
"I don't think there's a cash machine out here," she cringed.
"Wonderful," I thought quietly. "This is going to be one
interesting future!"
A Christian Spirit
JEANNE MARIE. LARISI
She came flying into the room, lighter than air. Twenty
minutes late bubbling with apologies and excuses as she
greeted each of us individually. Graciously and joyously she
spoke to everyone around the table. "Oh, Lisa, is that a new
haircut? It looks great!" "Did you get that job, Mike? I'm sure
you'll hear soon." "Oh, Maria, I wanted to tell you there's going
to be a show on Thursday about ..." Though she moved
quickly, she forgot no one. At seventeen she was as lively and
effervescent as one could imagine. Fresh and alive with the
beauty of a young person exhilarated by life itself. Fear seemed
unknown to her, and her entire being exuded joy. Her eyes
were her most spectacular feature that night. There was a light
in them that I'm sure one could notice even in the dark, an inner
sparkle that betrayed her love and belief in life. It warmed my
spirit to see someone again so free of bitterness and regret, so
eager to see what tomorrow would bring.
She spoke rapidly as if her words could not keep pace with her
thoughts. I r speech could not be contained as she jumped
from thought to thought with never a pause. Not yet
chastened by convention, she was as uninhibited in her speech
as in her thoughts. Often her sentences were misworded,
ungrammatical, and even unclear but their delight and carefree
happiness were transparent and unmistakable.
This alien girl was my niece. I had flown in three thousand
miles to introduce my would-be-fiancée Teri to the family, and
we were both staying with my relatives. This was my first visit in
five years, and life had taken a toll on me. After a nasty
divorce, things had finally begun to clear for me and I could
again see the lighter side of life. I had decided to remarry, to
settle down and begin my life afresh. Renewing
23
22
my connections with my family was part of the changed outlook
dawning upon me. Needless to say, I was refreshed by my
nieces vivaciousness.
Jesse had walked in late, something by then taken as normal
within the family. "But," she exclaimed, "you wouldn't believe
what I went through to get here!" She proceeded to describe in
detail each of the items in her hectic day that had delayed her.
The car wouldn't start, and this kind gentleman stopped his car
wanting to help her, but it turned out he had no cables, but
then an older woman with two kids in her car stopped and
even with the cables the goddamn car wouldn't start. Finally it
started of its own mind. Da ............................... aggravating
thing! Then she realized she had forgotten the pastries her
mother had asked her to get, so she had to go the whole
goddamn way back to pick them up, however the line was so
damned long, and there was this sweet old woman in Front of
her who was just like something out of a novel, so charmingly
cute, but of course it took her a whole damn fifteen minutes to
make up her mind, you really had to see her ..
On and on Jesse went, racing from anecdote to anecdote,
however minor or disconnected. Her animation was fresh and
warming, pulling you right into her day's experiences. Even as
she complained about the car, you could hear the
unmistakable gratitude for the man who stopped despite his
inability to help. It was the fact of the experience itself, the
interaction with life and people, that delighted her ... and this
she shared so beautifully with us.
As I've mentioned before, her speech often moved too
quickly for her to take cognizance of the words she used. She was
somewhat crude and rough in her delivery. Rather than a fault, I
considered this an advantage. She was too carefree and
unself-conscious to monitor her words ... or her
thoughts. Although she may have rambled, her youthful vitality and exuberance amply compensated for this.
24
I refer to her carelessness because it is central to my story. My
would-be-fiancée, who sat across from Jesse, was obviously not so
easily enchanted as I. All at once, in a harsh superior tone, I
heard her announce across the crowded table: "Is it really
necessary to take the Lord's name in vain with each and every
sentence that conies front your mouth?"
Silence ensued for more than a moment. Jesse glanced at Teri,
my fiancée-to-be, in puzzlement, sincerely apologized, stating
she had no intention of offending, and quietly returned to
her dinner. Though Jesse politely responded to any further
conversation directed at her, her brightness had dimmed and
she volunteered little else during the meal.
To be fair, I suppose Jesse did exclaim "goddamn this" or
"goddamn that" several times in the course of her ramblings. But
to be equally fair to Jesse, I personally hadn't noticed it until it
was so harshly pointed out to her. When Jesse left the table
to compose herself in the ladies' room, I imagine I tridy felt
guilty that I had brought her "antagonist" to the table. Poor
Jesse! Her bubble had been pricked and burst and we were
now deprived of her vibrancy.
My heart reached out to her. Though I tried several times to
reengage her in conversation, she was merely being polite. I
knew of no way to right the situation and had to let nature take
its course. Truthfully, this was not likely to be the first or last
time that that vivacious spirit was to be threatened with
harness. Life would hold much more of that for Jesse, and I
believed, to be fair, that as much as 1 felt for her, I also
realized the necessity of her adjusting to it. Things would
work themselves out.
After dinner we returned to my sister's for after-dinner
drinks and engaged in nostalgic reminiscences, catching up on
the time we had missed in each other's lives. We sat around in my
sister's living room, warm and relaxed, enjoying one another's
company. Jesse had as yet still not returned to her
25
previous joyful self, but was instead the perfect lady, irreproachable in her manners, polite and attentive, sufficiently
partaking in the conversation without being overbearing in any
way. Even it) this subdued state, she was still thoughtful and
caring, sincerely hearing what was said and responding. Even
now, her eyes sparkled and radiated warmth. I was once again
enchanted as I watched her rise to help Teri in the kitchen,
who was looking for one thing or another. We retired shortly
because, as I now remember, of Ted's insistence, though at the
time I hadn't taken notice of this.
The next day I understood. Waking up in my sister's house, I
realized Ted was already downstairs. As I walked towards the
kitchen for my morning coffee I overheard Teri speaking to one
of my cousins, the family gossip. " Anti to think that that
brat had the audacity to say to me in the kitchen last night
that although she may have been wrong and unmeaningly
offensive in her speech, she certainly didn't think I needed to
point it out so rudely, especially not in defense of God. She
dared to tell me that she didn't necessarily believe that God would
condone my actions any more than her own! Can you believe
the audacity of that brat? She's entirely too indulged "
I walked past the kitchen, preferring to have my coffee at
another time.
Needless to say, my fiancée-to-be never became my wife.
Daniel
JEANNE. MARIE PARISI
The sun didn't shine that day. No, you couldn't call it a
bright sunshiny day at all. The sun glared strong and piercing.
So intense it was harsh, so penetrating it was cruel—a sinister
jeer at the fragile flicker of hope lingering in her soul.
She had lost. The final performance had been played, the
final tragic line written, and again she was the loser. She
couldn't act well enough. She never had. Her vulnerabilities
were always only too visible. Deception was not in her nature.
And this harsh glaring day only made the despair darker. She
was forced to face a reality that could riot be wished away. No more
weekend parties to escape the monotony of school. no more
school to escape the weekend's frivolous cares. The time for all
that had passed. No more allowable schoolgirl fantasies. No
more running to Mommy .and Daddy to beg them to change
the world. Her world had now passed beyond their influence.
She walked into this guideless maze of reality that had
forced itself upon her. She had only herself to rely on and it
frightened her. She was afraid to trust her intuition. She didn't
understand the new paths opening before her and she felt
completely alone. Walking these hot streets in blind delirium
beneath the glaring sunlight, she was lost in her thoughts,
her fears, her embarrassments. She longed for someone to hold
her hand, to guide her or just to walk with her. She had always
wanted that someone special to he at her side. Now her soul
cried out for him.
She would not, though, ask again. She had asked once,
inviting him to join her, in part from hope, in part
from desperation, in part from duty. But he had heard
only the last call of duty, and refused quickly for fears she
was too young to be aware of. She had stated her intentions
simply
27
and straightforwardly, standing in the doorway of his apartment. As he looked evenly into her eyes, "Go ahead" was his only
answer.
"Fine," she answered quietly, afraid of raising her voice and
bringing tears to her eyes. She turned her back and waited
silently for the elevator.
She walked along the blinding streets, her head and heart
dazed from the shock of being truly alone. She walked for
what seemed hours directed only by her confusion and fear. Yet
in time, her thoughts began to clear, her vision became
stronger. She was determined not to fall. She would stand and
see this through. There would be no more requests for help, no
more signs of vulnerability. Oh, she knew she could scream, and
if loud enough, someone would conic, someone would help.
But she was too weary for such an effort ... too proud. She
would stand alone.
With no reason for hesitancy, her doubts resolved, she
packed her bags and was gone by morning.
And in this new place, she thought of the new life beginning: both hers, about to change irrevocably, and the child's
within. She thought of this child often, achingly, longingly.
Already, she knew he wasn't hers to love. Of her flesh and
blood certainly, but she had little right to claim the love of the
child brought into the world this way. She could not keep him,
but neither could she deny his life in exchange for a few
months of her own. She would have this baby.
But it hurt. It hurt when strangers stopped to congratulate
her, painfully reminding her of the joy he should have been. It
hurt when he tumbled and kicked and when she thought of his
short presence in her life. It hurt when he climbed to her
ribcage and she felt how close they were for this short time.
Never before had she been so logical since he joined her life. I r
thoughts were clear at last and without self-pity. Aware
of the pain, she refused to wallow and drown in it. She feared it
was a trick. This was just a mask, a wall to hide her emotions
behind, a false sense of control. She feared the wall would
tumble when the emotions grew too strong. She had never
known herself to be so rational, so collected, so pragmatic.
And she was terrified that the baby's birth would bring this
protective wall of logic crumbling around her.
He was born, healthy and vibrant. She was offered to hold
him, even nurse him for the few hours left. Brusquely she
refused. To hold him in her arms now, for even a moment,
would completely destroy this wall of logic which had protected her this far. She could not risk it. But she watched him.
In every moment available she gazed through the nursery
window with an intensity only a mother is capable of. She
watched as he sucked his tiny thumb, hoping he would give it
up sooner than the nine years it had taken her. She looked at
his eyes and knew they were hers. But not that lull head of jet
black hair. No, that wasn't hers. Perhaps the chin? Ile was so tiny
to have been part of her body. So small, so minutely small.
Whom would lie take after? Would he have that maniacal grin
of his father's or her more serious reserved nature? Would he
have her love of poetry ... or his father's taste for beer? Would
he ... she stopped herself.
Her mother was waiting downstairs. She feared her
mother's practical need to remind her of her ever-present
options. Her wall was weakening with each moment and she
could not bear any mention of the possibility of keeping her
son. She looked one last time through the nursery window, her
baby's little lists shaking at her now, his face bright red as he
screamed, as if in protest of her going. She wiped the falling
tears from her face, wished her son love and forgiveness,
turned from the window, and was gone.
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28
Tommy
JOAN WYNNE
Although I had kept in touch with my friend Wallie by
telephone, I had not seen him for pike a while so I just decided
to visit him at his art studio to chat and watch him work. He
had become a changed man since Viet Nam and given up all
desire to be a part of the business world he left behind when he
went to war. The war had made him question the whole premise
of American society, especially its treatment of
African-Americans, and he had opted to express his
considerable art talent in images related to his people.
When I walked into his studio, he did not turn around.
"Who's there?" he asked. "Who comes to see an ugly man make
beautiful pictures except me?" I replied. With that, Wallie
swung around smiling warmly, embraced me, and said, "Well,
well, well! Brother Ron, if you've come, I gotta do a masterpiece
today. Bless Patty's pig! What's happening, man; you are a sight.
Let me have a good look. You are still a part of the system
judging from your fine rags. You sure look well." We laughed
and exchanged news about friends and acquaintances, analyzed
the state of the nation, and continued the never-ending process of
defining ourselves and the process by which to effect the
liberation of our people.
At heart, Wallie was a very sensitive, jolly person although
anyone who did not know him well might think him to be a bit
melancholy because of that something in his eyes that bespoke
an ever-present inner sadness even when he smiled. Whether it
was caused by some profound loss or disillusionment, I could
not say, but the look was unmistakable.
I always enjoyed viewing his works, portraits of Malcolm X,
Sojourner Truth, Martin Luther King, Jr., St. Martin de
Pones, young black men and boys of the ghetto, children at play,
elders, young men and women caught in sport during
a moment of supreme challenge straining to reach some goal,
family scenes, men playing cards, and men, women and children
en at worship. This day as I appreciated that special soulful quality
about his work 1 noticed tucked away in a corner a solitary
white subject, a young athlete seated on a bench, presumably
after a game. Rejoining my working friend I jested, "Don't tell
me, Brother, that you are finally integrating your art!" Wallie
did not join me in laughter. Instead, the sadness in his eyes
deepened, and he replied pensively, "Oh, that's Tommy ...
painted him recently. He was my main man in college ... called
him Brother-Man ... he was on the team." Lapsing into what I
called his blue moments, he sat shaking his head up and down
slowly, deep in his own thought, muttering, "Tommy was the
best, yes—the best." In this mood, he began to describe an
extraordinary friendship that began when he was a sophomore in
college in Connecticut fifteen years ago.
****
When Tommy entered college that fall during the early
seventies, his openness, his ready smile and spontaneous
greeting, his sparkling bluish-gray eyes, his freshly scrubbed
look, his medium-length, wavy blond hair, his six-foot-two
frame, and the bounce in his step made hint stand out even
before it was known that he had been class valedictorian of the
prestigious school he had attended or that he would be a
straight-A student during most of his college days. Nothing in
his manner betrayed the slightest hint of snobbishness or
uncomely pride. Extraordinary as his academic background
was, he was a gilled basketball player. It was for this reason that
he was the only white boy on the college team. After only a few
months, it became apparent to the entire team that Tommy was
all soul, a regular fellow, a down-to-earth guy, and one hell of a
teammate. In recognition of his uncommonly line character, they
nicknamed him "Brother-Man." This was
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not an honor bestowed lightly, nor was it given frequently or
frivolously. "Brother" meant that his friends really thought him,
without reservation, to be a true friend. The other
epithet—"Man"—meant that they felt that he was what a
person ought to be.
Don't get me wrong, now. Tommy was not perfect, nor was
he always serious. As a matter of fact, he could cut the fool with
the best of them ... yes he could. There was the time that he
played a joke on the swimming instructor who tried to add
"challenge" to his course by requiring students to be able to
describe the complex muscular involvement in the different
strokes taught in class. He frightened the life out of this
stodgy man. That day in class, Tommy stayed stretched out on
the bottom of the pool so long that the instructor dove into the
water to rescue him. Just as lie touched Tommy, he noticed that
Tommy wiggled like a tadpole and floated easily to the surface
of the water. Hopping out of the pool like a spring, he thanked
everyone for their great concern and used the old Twain
quotation about his demise being greatly exaggerated. Yeah,
that was one lovable fool.
Another fault of Tommy's was his penchant for telling
worse-than-bad jokes. They were downright silly, and he
would laugh until he cried sometimes. It did not seem to
bother him that they were not appreciated. After a while, I
guess, it did not bother us either. It was a blemish loved and
tolerated in him.
The basketball team became Tommy's "significant other," and
although he belonged to a few clubs, his main socializing and
serious philosophical conversations, his attitudes about
sexuality, and his attempts to define what he was and what he
strove to become were shared with me. When Tommy's
freshman year ended, he asked me if we could be roommates the
next year. I consented on condition that he stop telling jokes.
Our friendship continued to grow, and when Sharon
32
and I started getting serious about each other, it was Tommy who
became my sounding board and shared my thoughts about
marriage and my thoughts about sexuality during courtship.
We studied together a lot, too. Tommy was really a brilliant
student who searched for truth, and I must say
that I credit him with inspiring me to make better grades
and instilling in me a serious desire to find a meaning in life.
As a matter of fact, he was responsible for my striving to make
the Dean's list and remain on it until I graduated.
Two things I remember most vividly when I think of
Tommy—my junior and senior year summer work experiences. Tommy had believed with his whole being that one
person could make a great difference in life. We had debated this
premise many times, and as often as I spoke about the
omnipotence of the system, Tommy argued for the power of
the individual. As I said, it was my junior year and Tommy's
sophomore year when he begged me to work in a settlement
house in an impoverished area although he knew I preferred
working in an office. Finally when I could not find another
job, I consented to work with him.
By the end of the summer, I had gained even greater respect for
Tommy after observing hint work with the youngsters, adults,
and elders of the community. Ile had a unique way of
approaching people with such openness that he was accepted.
enthusiastically by the settlement community. He could relate
to the teen-age crowd as well as he could swap jokes with the
elders. Old man Cunningham was especially fond of Tommy.
He was about seventy-eight, and he always sat on the same
bench regaling Tommy with stories of his youth in Alabama.
They began each day with the high-Five ritual and
Cunningham's query, "What's the good word, "Tommy boy?"
Tommy usually spent ten or fifteen minutes talking with
"Pop," and finally one day he told Tommy that he had spoken
so much about him that "the missus" wanted
33
to meet him. One Sunday, Tommy came back to meet his
invalid wife, and they, too, became friends.
Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham were not the only friends Tommy
made that summer. He got along so well with the rest of the
staff that you would think that he had known them for years.
By the end of the summer, others had discovered in Tommy
what I had found in him as his teammate, roommate, and friend. It
came as no surprise that he received the award for outstanding
service when the settlement held its annual block party at the
end of the summer, for he was by far its favorite son.
The next summer, the one before his senior year and the one
before my graduation and marriage to Sharon, Tommy and I
worked in the same neighborhood. Because he was so excited
about my forthcoming marriage he had insisted that he had an
inalienable right to hold a smoker for me in his home. One
Saturday in August after an exhausting work week he called his
parents, arranged for them to vacate their premises for the
evening, and invited the male staff and the basketball team
members to his home. After work, they all piled into three cars
and drove to Tommy's house.
After the usual smoker activities, we just sat around chewing
the fat about life and experiences that had had some impact on
our lives. Around two in the morning, we decided that we
needed more food. Tommy suggested that we go into town to
an all-night diner for hamburgers. Walking out into the mellow,
moonlit August night, we crammed ourselves into three cars with
that feeling of general well-being that accompanies a
stimulating evening in which you share so many important
ideas, feelings, and just plain happiness with good friends.
Tommy and his four teammates were in one car. Tommy sat
on the back of the convertible with his feet inside the car and his
hands resting on the trunk. Drifting down the dark,
winding road at a moderate, cautious speed, the car hit a
bump, and Tommy went flying out of the car. We stopped and
ran back to him, only to find that he had bumped his head on
the pavement and was unconscious. We tried in vain to revive
him and were about to move him when we heard a car
approaching that seemed to be travelling at considerable speed.
Instinctively, we raced up the road to want the car to stop so that
it would avoid Tommy. The four of us were yelling frantic ally,
and with terror in our eyes we screamed, "Stop, stop, please stop,
stop, stop, stop, help, stop." The car slowed down, the driver
looked at us, and without rolling down his window, he pulled
around us to the side of the road, re-entered the road, and
crushed Tommy to death.
By the time the other two cars retraced the path to find out
why we had not arrived at the diner, we were devastated beyond
control. I wept and held Tommy's body so tight that it was as if
his body was an extension of mine. The other three members of
the team were stretched out on the road on their knees
crying, "Oh, God, please not Tommy—Tommy, Tommy,
Tommy." Kissing, hugging, shaking his body to restore life, I
began to rock back and forth in a hypnotic trance. I t was as if in
that moment each of us realized for the first time how very special
Tommy was. No one came to any of us until the police and the
ambulance arrived. The policemen and the attendants spoke
gently to us, touched our arms and patted our heads while our
friends stood by stunned and in team Finally after much
consolation they removed my three teammates and placed
them in the ambulance. Another ambulance arrived, and they
approached me. I was told that I was just staring into space,
clinging to Tommy so hard that the impressions of my fingers were
on his skin when they peeled him from my arms. I passed out
when I heard the driver explain that he didn't know that the kid
was in the road and that he had thought that the Blacks were
thugs.
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35
"Tommy's parents arranged for his funeral to take place in the
church in the area in which we had worked for the past two
summers, and they allowed us to be the pallbearers. When he was
laid to rest in the cemetery of his own (Intuit, we were
permitted to shovel the din on his casket because we needed
and wanted to do for him those last things that are done for the
deceased.
I tell you, Brother Ron, I have never felt anything the way I felt
that sudden, incredible loss. Recently I was able to bring
Brother-Man to life on canvas. No, I am not integrating ... just
remembering my soul brother.
A meaningful silence passed between us, and I saw a large tear
well up in Wallie's eye without rolling down his cheek. I
touched his arm and left shortly after understanding something
of the look in his eye and understanding a little better his
immersion in his blackness.
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