FOREWORD
Mementoes II is similar to its predecessor Mementoes I in that it
constitutes a collection of selected stories written by creative writing students in
English 201 (Fall, 1987). Amongst its purposes are: One, to serve as a journal of
class achievements. Two, to provide sources of genuine literary pleasure and
enjoyment. Three, to promote the cause of creative writing at Queensborough
Community College and fill the breach left by the disappearance of student literary
journals. And four--and perhaps most importantly--to foster the aspirations of
students who have amply demonstrated their commitment to creative writing by
providing a forum for their work.
I would to acknowledge my gratitude to all the students for making this
project feasible through their enthusiasm, involvement and receptiveness and to
express the hope that this publication may play a fruitful role in their personal,
intellectual and creative development.
Professor Eli Merchant
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
A GILT CAGE
Celia Coffey-Caswell
1
THE ATTRACTION
Christopher-Scott Cherot
3
INFIDELITY
Christopher-Scott Cherot
5
BORN LOSER
Karen Garcia
7
J.C.
Holly McGrath
THE LITTLE INSPIRATION
Manuel Pequero
12
THE LAST STOP
Anthony Scianqula
15
A GILT CAGE
CELIA COFFEY-CASWELL
She wakes up with the morning sun and sweetly whispers in a sing-song
fashion, "Cood morning." Gently she stretches, first on one side, then the other, shaking
sleep from her small frail body, preparing herself for another day.
The radio is always turned on to her favorite station--a morning talk show with
lots of laughter and jokes--which gets her in a happy laughing mood. For variety,
she listens to Soft Rock, Country-and-Western, and an occasional opera which
she loves to accompany at the top of her delicate lungs. Of course the neighbors
are quite amused but she doesn't seem to care who hears her. She is often off key,
but neither does this fact disturb her in the least. Over and over she repeats her
monotonous off-key lines "La, la, la, la ...” and throws in some original notes as well
as words like "La cucaracha, la cucaracha."
Now it's time to eat. She smells the buttered toast and immediately all her senses
zero onto the breakfast table. When asked whether she would like some, she whines,
"Please!" One would think she hadn't eaten in a week, the way she carries on over
ordinary staples like milk, cheese, peanut butter, and buttered toast. And the way she
gobbles up those fatty food and high calorie nuts, one would think she would look like a
Butterball Turkey. But, no, for all her years she is quite petite.
Very prim and proper, she routinely goes about prettying her beautiful golden
nape. Unconscious of those around her she spends at least half an hour grooming
herself until she attains what seems to her perfection. Then as expected she sits quietly
and regally for hours, looking out the window, as if waiting for someone to pick her
up. Occasionally she will call out to the children playing in the street, "Michael! Joanne!
Sally! Anne! What are you doing?"
As someone reaches for a coat or walks towards the door, with unpredictable
impatience she yells, "Come on! Come on! I want to get out!" She has difficulty
walking, so she is often carried out or is gracefully perched on shoulders' height. She is is
happy to be outside--outside and unconfined.
Tiring easily, she needs to take frequent naps throughout the day. Vet
paradoxically she is a "night" bird. Should anyone return, however late, she
immediately awakens, radiant
2
MOMENTOES
with kisses and affection.
She is ingratiating and friendly, perhaps overly so, greeting all those she
meets with a cheery laugh and a hearty hello. If she really likes someone, she says
"I love you! Do you love me?" Naturally everyone finds this charming, and she makes a
lot of friends. As she leaves, she always waves and says, "Bye! Bye! See you later!" The
impression she leaves is a lasting one. Inevitably, someone asks her name but once a
person's attention has been obtained she just stares in impassive silence, not
uttering a single sound. When as frustration turns to desperation she is provoked
and challenged, "I know you don't have a name and can't talk," her matter-of-fact
answer is, "I can talk. Can you fly?"
THE ATTRACTION
CHRISTOPHER-SCOTT CHEROT
Dark.
That was what she thought of when she watched him. He w a s dark . I f
t her e w er e o ne w o r d she co u l d t hink o f t o describe him, his personality, his
movements, his voice, it would be dark. At first, she thought that one word could be
quiet, but he wasn't quiet. Occasionally, he would make some type of extraneous
noise from where he sat at the back of the classroom, like a cough or a sniff
(although never a vocal sound), but she always knew he was behind her. Oddly
enough, because she heard his silence, she couldn't think of him as quiet. Then, she
thought The One Word might be my sterious, but he wasn't such a mystery to
her, either. His actions were precise; his voice, clear; his movements, perceptive.
Without speaking, he alway seemed to let everyone around him know how he felt or
what he was about to do. Finally, as she sat there in her seat in front of him,
her back to his face, not seeing him yet able to feel his presence, The One Word was
revealed like a shining object set on a pedestal from behind a blue velvet curtain
drawn in her mind.
He was dark.
His clothes were dark, his skin was dark, his hair even darker, his eyes darkest of
all. Everyday, she would purposely come to class earlier than the rest, and like an owl
awaiting the oncoming night, she would patiently yet nervously watch the door
from the corner of her eyes for his arrival. Sometimes, when he didn't show
up, she felt as if her time in class had been a waste--that she would have been
better off staying home. But when he did arrive, she tensed with apprehension.
Suddenly her face would feel thick and flushed, and inside tight, curled fists, her palms
became uncomfortably warm and moist. Upon entering the classroom, he would
stand for a moment at the front of the room as if surveying the entire class,
seemingly staring everyone in the eye at the same time. Then, he seemed to glide
to his seat in the back, like the cold, hard leaves in the wind gliding across the walks of
an empty park on an icy autumn night. He seemed to put so little effort into his
movements, yet always appeared strong and swift. He said so little, yet left a
deep impression on those around him. He seemed to represent the wind itself.
He represented the night itself, because he was ...
So dark.
3
4
MOMENTOES
And when he sat behind her, she always found herself wondering who he
was, who he really was outside the classroom. Where did he come from before he came
here? Where did he go when he left? Why did she feel an odd blend of emotions whenever
she saw him? His soft, almost feminine features attracted her in such a way that she never
knew possible. T o be at t r act ed t o ju st a f ace w as n ew t o he r. Bu t his
characteristics and mannerisms disturbed her, almost frightened her to a point that was
inexplicable. How could she be afraid of him, and at the same time, still feel so strongly
attracted to him? The unknown answers frustrated her. She needed to talk with him, to be
with him. She needed to feel him....
The need had suddenly grown stronger than before.... Finally, she knew
what she had do to prepare herself to confront him. Tomorrow, she would arrive at
school wearing her black skirt. Her dark gray sweater. Her pair of black, flat shoes.
Dark earrings. Black mascara. And to insure her success, she would bring her black velvet
jacket. She might even dye her hair black. Tomorrow, she would be dark, too.
So very dark.
INFIDELITY
CHRISTOPHER-SCOTT CHEROT
The sun, the all-pervasive source of energy and light, suddenly appeared at the
end of the day, wedged between the dark horizon and an unbroken blanket of
angry gray clouds. Its color had turned a crimson orange, a hue so deep and rich
and persistent that it seemed liquid; the sun now resembled a giant glowing
ember, silently dying out below a thick bed of ashen clouds. Its golden rays, no
longer perpendicular to the earth's surface but parallel, flowed across the city
weaving among the great buildings long, murky shadows in the dusty haze, and tinting
the clouds red. The heat of the city rose slowly from the pavement, casting an
invisible veil over the sun, making its crimson image appear to ripple and pucker in
the humid air.
On the roof of the brownstone building on Eighth Street, Genevieve turned to
face this sun. She stood immobile, her hands behind her back, her ankles
together, her eyes closed. The thin oversized shirt she wore hung limply on her damp
body; undone to the third button, it clung to the tops of her breasts and back in moist
patches. Her tennis shorts, hidden underneath the long tails of the shirt, were hot and
uncomfortable between her legs and would most likely leave burning red rings on her
waist when removed. The hot tar of the rooftop stung her bare feet, but in a way that
was tolerable only in that type of weather. Her hair was pulled back in a loose,
last-minute pony-tail to relieve the p ack of her neck from the heat, and loose
strands adhered to her temples and forehead in wet, black curls. Her face remained
placid, enveloped in a slick film of sweat. Had she been on her back, one might have been
inclined to think she was asleep.
Yet Genevieve was awake, very awake. As she stood on the rooftop, it felt
as though the sun's last dying rays were not only around her; they were flowing
through her, entering her body through her open pores, as she absorbed them like
syrup in a sponge. She thought she could actually feel the thick sunlight coursing
through her veins, cleansing her like her own blood. It felt good to stand there and let
the warmth run through her. Every breath inhaled made her nose tingle and her
nostrils flare. The humid air seemed as dense as the sunlight, and when she filled her
lungs she could feel the warm rush of air roll down her windpipe like molten lava. She
breathed slowly, concentrating on the damp warm air as it entered her nostrils,
savoring each breath, tasting it, holding
5
6
MOMENTOES
it in her lungs a moment before exhaling, and when she did it was as slowly as
when she first inhaled it. The heaviness of the air enveloped her like water. Had she
moved, she would have found it as difficult as trying to run in a chest-deep swimming
pool. However, Genevieve did not try to move, nor did she have any intention of moving
soon. The sun provided her with strength, and she would need to prepare herself for
tonight. The sun also provided a sense of peace, a feeling that all was calm
around her. As Genevieve stood on the roof of the four-story building in her bare feet,
inhaling the heavy air and the liquid sun and the strength of it all, she used this
new sense of euphoric calm to think about what she had done and what she now had
to do.
So Genevieve stood there like an angel, keeping a silent vigil over the city, with
her eyes closed and her hands behind her back--her body slick with perspiration from
the roots of her smooth, black hair to her naked feet; her breathing slow and
pregnant with concentration; and her all being suffused with the feeling that
everything would be alright, a trusting sense of serenity we all need when tempted
to do something we later realize was wrong.
BORN LOSER
KAREN GARCIA
The train stopped. Its doors colored by generations of artists that had
come and gone opened instantly, releasing a horde of kids coming home from
school--all except Hope, returning from the laundry. She was the only one who seldom
had time to laugh. "Hi Hope. You didn't come to school again?!" "I know Jimmy. Today's
laundry day. My mother is working late again." She said these words as if she were
an old tape recorder and, looking at him with almost layful eyes, added, "Jimmy, can
you carry one of these bags for me?" "Anything for you Hope." Jimmy was one of
the many boys who admired Hope's beauty. "Why do you go all the way to this laundry
when there's one where you live?" She tried to formulate a reason that would be plausible.
"I really am late," she said hurriedly. "Thanks for carrying the bags for me."
"Hope, why don't you come to the Mickey D's with us tonight? I'm working at the
corner drugstore now. I'll treat." "Sorry, Jimmy. Your life is so different from mine." "No,
it's not." He tried to persuade her, but in the end it was a waste of time.
Jimmy was
Hope's best friend, yet no one really knew her at all.
She walked down the wet and dirty streets until she came to her favorite bodega
where Pablo would give Hope her brief experience of happiness as he did whenever
she came around. "Pablo, do you have this month's Vogue for me?" "Yes, but
hurry! The boss is coming pack any minute." She rushed off, expressing her
appreciation... The elevator at her project was just about to take off. "Wait!" She ran as
fast as a person with two heavy laundry bags could manage. "Thanks." The
people didn't answer, but just waited for their floor, sunk in silence. Most people
in her neighborhood never talked
to unknown people. Hope pretended to be on a rocketship floating in outer space riding
the elevator. Each floor became just another galaxy with its special planet. On the
fifth floor, the Rivera sisters got on--all two hundred pounds of them--and immediately
stared at the lonely looking girl with the two laundry bags. They were known for
their gossiping. Eighth floor. Hope's eyes began to lose the little shine they had as
she stepped out into the dark and lonely hallway and down to her apartment door.
Everything looked sad and dull in that dreadful place called "home." Where had all
the noise and laughter gone?
She sat down to catch her breath and immediately ran her f ingers through her
beloved magazine. She star ed at the beautiful faces and clothes. How happy
everyone looked! She
7
8
MOMENTOES
smelled the perfume samples, and found her old-looking clothes
rather dull. She felt cheated and worthless. The odor about
her was far from elegant. It was more like the tuna-fish sandwiches she ate every night.
The lonely girl, all woman at sixteen, walked over to the mirror near her bed. She could
hardly get a glimpse of her complexion in that old and dusty thing. Beauty, she knew, was
her major asset. Suddenly, her eyes got wet and the pain in her heart started again. How
she hated her mother for becoming pregnant at the young age of fifteen! How she hated her
father who having all the booze he could returned home to fill her mother's and her lives with
violence!How she hated the apartment's smell and everything about it. How she hated her
entire predictable world at that moment! The only good thing in her life was when she did
not have to see her father and could play with her three dolls--the three dolls that reminded
her of the child she had once been.
Her tears were so hot that they felt as if they were going to burn as they fell down
her cheeks. "Hey Hope baby, aren't you gonna open the door for old daddy?" She
turned her eyes to the door and beamed her eyes on the knob. "You just better get the
hell away from there!" She trembled as she spoke those words....
J.C.
HOLLY MCGRATH
Debbie was tired that day--more tired than usual. Her temperature was up.... Dr.
Loden was called.
More bad news. Debbie's white blood cell count had risen
due to a throat infection. She would have to stay in the hospital a few days. A few days,
weeks and sometimes even months here and there--our lives revolved relentlessly around
Debbie's chronic disease. It had been three years since she had been diagnosed: Acute
Lymphoblastic Leukemia. God! How our lives had changed. Whereas once a
wonderfully bright and beautiful little girl had filled our lives with promise, all we
were left with was the hope that the disease would stay in remission a while
longer and that our Debbie might make it a few more years. Please God! Just a few
more years!
Two weeks had passed before we were able to take her home. Debbie was cheerful,
bubbly, full of smiles--like any normal seven-year old. "Daddy, can I ask you
something?" Looking at her I felt my heart burst with love. Please God! I whispered to
myself. Just a few more years!
"Daddy, can I have a dog? I really want a dog, Daddy.
Billy has one and his name is Pepper. He was there yesterday. Everybody loves him,
even the doctors and nurses. I want a dog too," she gushed. "Slow down, slow down,
Deb. You know you'll have to ask your mother. A dog is a lot of responsibility, and I'm not
so sure your mom is up to it right now." Debbie pouted and then smiled.
"Okay, we'll ask Mommy."
The next day we went to the ASPCA. Debbie had somehow talked her mother into
it, and we were all pretty excited. "Maybe a dog will be good for her, Joe. I've heard lots of
stories, you know." Agnes was still hoping for a miracle cure. "Don't get your hopes up,
dear," I said. "Debbie's thrilled about this, and for now we should just concentrate on
making her happy." "Well they say laughter is the best cure ... " she said this with a lilt in
her voice.We smiled sadly at each other, knowing there wasn't much time left for laughter.
With that, Debbie came bounding down the stairs wearing her favorite purple pullover
and blue jeans. "Are we ready? We have to hurry. I don't want anyone to adopt J.C. before
we do!"
The ride there was filled with Debbie's incessant chatter. I felt myself relaxing, my
mind carried away by the sweet tide of her voice. There was no music more lovely.
9
10
MOMENTOES
J.C. turned out to be a small brown and black terrier
mix. Debbie passed by the cages of dogs until she saw him at the end of the second aisle.
She ran and pointed to him, "That's J.C. That's J.C." She yelled exuberantly. There was
something about that dog. From the moment I laid eyes on him I knew in fact that
he was special. "I know that that's J.C.," Debbie repeated enthusiastically.
It seemed that as soon as we brougnt J.C. home, our lives
changed. Where we were once gloomy and waiting for death, there was now light. J.C.
uplifted our hearts in an inexplicable fashion. When I looked at Debbie there was no ache
in my heart--just hope.Agnes felt it too. "Joe, this is it. It's going to work, I'm sure.
I can feel it," she said. I tried to tell her not to get her hopes up, but I could not form
the words. Over the next few days, Debbie gradually improved. She was tired less and less
of the time, and there
was a new color in her face. For the first time in a long while, she looked healthy.
A week passed, and I had to take Debbie for her blood tests."Daddy," she said, "I
really don't need to go for any more tests." I'm getting better, J.C. told me so." I
didn't know what to say. How could I contradict her? Besides, maybe if she really
and truly believed that she was getting better, this could do something for her. Power of
the mind and all that.... I just smiled and said, "Well Deb, we have to check anyway.
I
mean, if you're not getting better than you do want the doctors to know, don't you?" "Yeah
Daddy, I guess you're right. Dr. Loden is going to be so happy!"
Dr. Loden called the next morning with the test results. There was a jubilant
undertone in his otherwise professional voice. "Joe? Good news. She's in remission, it's
almost a miracle. Her blood count is normal, no indication of infection.
Quite a turn
around from last week, I might add. She's been on the same medication for the past six
months and I've not seen any improvement like this. I don't know what to make of it. I
hate to jump to conclusions Joe, but this
is a good sign. Have her come in next week for the marrow biopsy, okay? See you
then--bye." I gently placed the receiver in its cradle wondering if I dared take this for all
it was worth.My God, if it was true ... no, I could not think of it.
Agnes and I stayed up late that night discussing Debbie's
MCGRATH
11
metamorphosis. Our Debbie's illness had been a roller coaster of hardships even
before diagnosed. We agreed that it was best to take it lightly, at least until after the
marrow biopsy. Nevertheless, we were overjoyed. Before shutting off the light, I went to
look in on Debbie. She was sleeping silently, a perfect angel. Her blond curls framed her
face like a halo, as the moonlight streaming in from the corner window created a heavenly
effect. J.C. lay curled at her feet, eyeing me with interest. I knelt down by the foot of the
bed and prayed for my daughter. As I said the Lord's Prayer J.C. closed his eyes and
sighed. It looked as if he were smiling.
"As you know, Debbie's particular type of leukemia involves the abnormal
reproduction of white blood cells in which immature lymphocytes are produced in large
quantities. These immature ymphocytes flood the bloodstream and invade body tissues
and organs. This is the nature of her disease. We have been trying to control it with the
use of certain medications and radiation therapy. It seems that Debbie no longer
needs our help. What we are saying is that she shows no sign of having the disease. Her
blood count and marrow production are completely normal. Neurological tests
confirm that the disease is not being harbored in the nervous system.
We can
therefore rule out remission. Of course we would like to continue testing."
J.C. was gone. As soon as I walked into the house I felt it. Jesus, how was
Debbie going to take this? I scooped her up in my arms and looked into her eyes, at a
loss for words. Debbie smiled sadly and said, "It's okay Daddy. I knew he was leaving--he
told me so." I held her tightly to my chest and wept.
Alec stared at the older boys playing football. "When
I grow up, I'm going to play football too. And I'm going to run and walk and jump!" He
swore to himself. The sun was setting. It was getting cold. It would soon be time for
supper. Alec gazed at the sky, an artist's rendition of heaven in pink, gold and orange.
He felt something brush against his crutches and looked down where, between
his braced legs, sat a small brown and black dog.
THE LITTLE INSPIRATION
MANUEL PEGUERO
It was long after the flames died out in the abandoned building. Most of the
floors and ceilings had caved in. Only accumulated heaps of debris where there had once
been furniture and appliances remained. Fortunately before the fire's flames had
spread and consumed everything, smoke had served as a warning to all the
tenants to evacuate the six-story edifice in time. Anyone that might have
remained inside would not have had the slightest chance of surviving. Not a single
piece of personal property was salvaged according to the reports of the
exhausted firemen who had battled all night long the vicious flames devouring the
building's insides. The basement was naturally the only floor that did not cave in.
Down here, no tenants lived ... only stray animals.
I t w a s h e r e t h a t a s u r v i v o r o f t h e c a t r a s t r o p h e remained....
The kitten slowly made its way over the massive pile of rubble in search of an
exit. It was a few weeks old, blind in one eye, its black fur completely covered with
dust--and
totally terrified. Not knowing what had happened, it tried to remember the little
it had learned from its mother about the hardships of surviving as an alley cat.
Reaching the other side of the pile of rubble, it managed to squeeze through an opening
along the wall that only led it deeper underground. But it continued as instinct told
it that nothing remained for it where it was.
It Knew chat its mother and brothers were
gone--that it was alone.
Underneath, everything was pitch dark and cold. Although it could not see
its new surroundings, it sensed a great vastness of space all around obscuring any
sense of direction. It walked further and further, ignoring its hunger and the pain
over its blind left eye. Up until this time it heard no sound except the distant
echoes of drops forming puddles. Then the silence was broken. It recognized the fierce
shrieking noises lurking about it as it remembered the large dangerous creatures its
mother had shielded it from. The shrieks drew closer, fiercer, louder in the
darkness. Not knowing how many of them would come, it held its ground, arched its
back and released its needle-sharp claws. Circling around it, the rats seemed to know
exactly where it was and prepared to attack and bite. The first one to spring at it got
its face bloodily carved by continuous blows from the kitten's paws but another gnawed
at its hide, exacting a loud cry of pain. Fighting furiously, the kitten finally was able to
break free from its
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PEGUERO
attackers and fled as quickly as it could. It could not see in the pitch blackness
and had lost all sense of direction. Then the pursuing steps died down and could no
longer be heard. The chase was evidently over.
Quickly weakening but too frightened to stand still, the young kitten became
aware that something was different about the ground it was walking on. The
ground was colder, harder, drier, more level. About every few feet, it encountered
hard wooden objects, and its legs ached from the seemingly endless times it had to
climb over these to continue its journey. Then it began to sense a faint vibration
accompanied by a deep hum that grew ever nearer and more powerful finally engulfing
the entire earth underneath. It had never known anything like thi s bu t f e ar
ab so rb e d al l s en s e o f cu r i o s it y . T h e n a n approaching circle of light
increasing in size illuminated the previously invisible surroundings in all their horror.
disturbing the vision in its good eye. The noise was frightening and unbearable. Its heart
beat incontrollably fast against its chest. It remained motionless. But to its
surprise the monster merely continued to move above it without devouring or killing it.
Then all was over. The monster was gone. The noise grew fainter--the darkness
returned. Despite its hunger and sleepiness, the kitten continued its journey, afraid
another monster might catch up with it. Everything seemed like a dream. Finally
its eye caught glimpse of another light ahead of it. Had the monster returned? But this
light, it realized, pouring in through a hole from above was different and would provide
safety and escape. When it finally crawled outside, it closed its eye and lay down, ready to
give in to sleep--safe at last in the warm glare of the sun. Suddenly its sense of safety was
threatened by the approach of another giant, peering down at it. With one last
remendous effort, it released its claws and stood upright. However, when it was
picked up it realized it was held in a grasp that far from hostile was the gentlest it had
ever known since it had been with its mother.
II
"You know the way people can become inspired sometimes from the
simplest of things, the smallest of details." The young man spoke into his phone
while lying comfortably on his back on his living room couch as he was about to tell his
friend on the other end a most unusual story. "It's pretty interesting to know how you
got your life together again," the friend responded. "I still remember clearly the
shape you were once
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MOMENTOES
in." He had heard the story before but .anted to hear it again, so he urged him on. The
young man belan. "Well, there I was standing on that bridge that overlooks the railroad
tracks. I just stood there grasping the walkway rail. My thoughts were so miserable--it
was unbelievable. I began to recall what had happened to me up to that point. On
top of being out of a job, I was flat broke. Then there was the other thing that was
altogether too devastating. As I was going home the night before, I was shocked
upon seeing the entire building I lived in and everything I owned totally gone, all
burned to the ground. Luckily no one was hurt but it was said that all the stray cats and
dogs dwelling in the basement were t rapped and k il led. I nev er f elt so helpl ess.
As I w as thinking about my fate and standing on that bridge, I didn't know whether
to continue my existence or to jump. My attention was not in the least distracted by
anything, not even the cars behind me. I really did want to give up. Then my
attention was drawn to a small animal emerging out of a train tunnel. I don't
know how I noticed it because it was so far below. For some strange reason, I
needed to go down and investigate. When I got there, I was so moved by what I saw."
The young man concluded his story. After listening to him, his friend ask,
"So why was it such an ego boost for you to see this poor dying cat?" "You see," the
young man began, "when I saw this poor animal, I could not imagine the suffering it must
have endured. It traveled that entire two-mile tunnel alone, injured and hungry. It did
not know the meaning of giving up. I had lost my job and my home but it had lost a lot
more. It could have closed its one seeing eye and died but it decided to struggle until it
reached the light at the
end of the tunnel. It defied the laws of nature and lived more than its mere alloted nine
lives. This black cat was an omen of good luck for me. I was inspired. From then on, I took
heart and improved my life." "It's a nice story," his friend responded. The young man
smiled. "Well, Lucky sure likes to hear it," he said as he stroked the soft black fur of his
now-full grown feline friend cuddled before him. The
cant looked at him with a beautiful green slant of an eye. "Isn't that right, Lucky?"
The cat meowed its reply deep with understanding.
THE LAST STOP
ANTHONY SCIANGULA
King was pacing back and forth. This caused the rug
in the room to become threadbare. The man was late again. King was hungry. Darkness
had almost descended.... King waits.
The evening sun disappeared behind the horizon as the rain barreled
through urban caverns to its final destination when it sudden came to a screeching
halt. "This is the last stop," said the conductor, barely audible through the obsolete
speakers. Sitting in the last railcar, dressed in clothing meant for someone else,
was John Zammi, hardly aware of his surroundings.
Five minutes elapsed. Suddenly the conductor a rather obese man with a large nose
shouted angrily, "Can't you hear? It's the last stop. Everybody off!" At that moment, John
Zammi awoke. "Oh Lord! It can't be the last stop. King is hungry." The conductor tapped
his foot menacingly. "What time can it be?" he wondered as he got off the train onto the
strangely empty platform where no one was around to answer him. The conductor and
the train had disappeared. None of the clocks in the station, all set at the
twelfth hour, were working.
John wanted to flee, but he stood still in order to survey his surroundings. He
had never been to the Last Stop before. For a moment he forgot about King's hunger
and his own dilemma in returning home. He thought he heard sweeping sounds like those
made by the ocean against a wind-swept beach. He felt a tug on his shirt and a tap on his
shoulder. John turned around, startled because he
thought no one was about.
Standing before him was an old man whom he did not know but who seemed to
recognize him. "You scared me. I thought there wasn't a soul here." Finally, the old man
spoke, "Are you lost, fellow?" "No!" said John adamantly. "It's just that I've never been to
the Last Stop before." "Before what?" the old man shot back. "Before this time," John said,
trembling and perspiring in fear. "What time is it?" the old man asked. "I don't know. All
the clocks seem to have stopped at twelve. I'm so confused. I don't know if it's
twelve noon, midnight, or never." "Don't you carry a wristwatch or pocketwatch to keep
track of the time? You don't want to be late?" "Late? Late for what?" John laughed
nervously, wondering whether the old man knew about King. "You're going
15
16
MOMENTOES
to be late for your appointment with the trainmaster." "How will I find him?" John
asked, feeling the old man's eyes pierce into his soul. "Go to the exit up those stairs." John
followed the old man's directions and saw a lit stairwell he had not noticed before.
"Are you listening to me?' the old man asked. John nodded.The old man continued. "Turn
right. Go down the dark hall. Then you'll see the light." John repeated the
directions to himself until they started to sound like a chant--"Go to the exit, turn
right, down the dark hall, then you'll see the light" ... "Go to the exit, turn right,
down the dark hall, then you'll see the light."
John wanted to thank the old man for showing him his way, but to his dismay
he had disappeared. John started running to the light--and he thought he would
never stop although, at first, it had seemed so close. Finally, when he reached it, he saw
that it illuminated the word TRAINMASTER appearing in large block letters on a door
underneath. The door was ajar. John knocked hesitantly.
"No need to knock Mr.
Zammi, just walk right in," bellowed a voice from within. "How did this person know my
name?" John wondered as he entered.
Once nside, John could not help but notice how bright the room was. A
glow seemed to emanate from behind the leather chair and large oak desk, and the smell
of a good cigar suffused the room. The clock on the wall was set at twelve.
"Hello," John said. "How did you know me?"
The chair turned round. Sitting in it was a rather obese man with a large nose,
who proclaimed in the most official of tones, "You're late." John exclaimed in surprise.
"You're the conductor!" Laughing, the man continued, "Lost your way, fellow? We
haven't got much time." John looked again and said, "Oh my, you're the old
man!" Taking a few steps back, John looking pensively at the clock in the room,
still set at twelve. Suddenly he grasped at himself and said in a pitiful voice, "Oh my
heart. I feel my chest caving in. I don't know what to do. I am so confused. Someone help
me. There are bills to be paid. King is on the verge of starvation. Help!" John felt as if he
would choke in uttering these words.
At that moment the trainmaster began his lecture, "Stop it John! No one will
feel pity for you. You are responsible for your own actions, fate and circumstances. If King
is hungry, feed him. If bills are to be paid, don't run away. You will be found out.
SCIANGULA
17
"John, society is like a railroad. If you stay on track
everything runs smoothly. If you're late or if you derail, you cause confusion, delay,
chaos. John Zammi, there's only one place for people like you. It's the Last Stop." As he
said this, his eyes reddening glared at him fiercely. "The Last Stop, John. The Last Stop!"
"Stop him! Oh my God, he's going to jump. Please stop him!" an old lady
dressed in black screamed as the train blared and screeched relentlessly forward. A
unidentified man quickly grabbed John Zammi before he could jump. Lying on platform
in a daze, John could see that the unidentified man was a blind man wearing dark
glasses and dangling a walking cane. John pleaded, "Please tell me what time it is.
Please!" "I believe it's twelve noon,' said the blind man touching his wristwatch. John
wanted to thank him but before he could say anything the blind man departed. At this
time John Zammi, torn between reality and fantasy, said to no one in
particular, "I must go home and feed King! Yes, I must go home."