The View from Here (Spring 2023) by Allen Loibner-Waitkus

The View from Here

University of Arkansas—Pulaski Technical College Spring 2023 Literary Journal Volume XIII

The View from Here

Spring 2023 Volume 13

DR. ELISHIA FAIRFIELD Adviser CONTRIBUTORS BRANDI COTNER, KASEY GONZALEZ, JADA PARKS, GABRIEL SHUDAK & KATELYN SMITH The View from Here is a publication of University of Arkansas—Pulaski Technical College 3000 West Scenic Drive North Little Rock, Arkansas 72118 501-812-2200 www.uaptc.edu

©2023 University of Arkansas—Pulaski Technical College Works appearing in The View from Here are printed with the permission of the authors cited. Copyright reverts to the authors immediately following publication. The View from Here is published through the Division of Fine Arts, Humanities, and Social Sciences. NOTE: The views and opinions expressed herein are not necessarily those of the college or its personnel, and the language and content in this journal may not be suitable for all readers.

Is it not late? A late time to be living? Are not our generations the crucial ones? For we have changed the world. Are not our heightened times the important ones? For we have nuclear bombs. Are we not especially significant because our century is?—our century and its unique Holocaust, its refugee populations, its serial totalitarian exterminations; our century and its antibiotics, silicon chips, men on the moon, and spliced genes? No, we are not and it is not. —Annie Dillard, For the Time Being

Contents Chronicles of a Serial Job Hopper: Time Theft, Underdressed Vampires, Salmon Ceviche, and Other BS by Kasey Gonzalez.................................................................................7 Haunted by Gabriel Shudak.............................................................. 14 Reality by Brandi Cotner................................................................... 17 Untitled by Jada Parks...................................................................... 19 Womanhood by Katelyn Smith......................................................... 20

Chronicles of a Serial Job Hopper: Time Theft, Underdressed Vampires, Salmon Ceviche, and Other BS KASEY GONZALEZ I started a new job last week. I don’t really like working, but that’s nothing special. I don’t think anyone does. I’ve worked fast food, retail, summer camps, warehouses, I’ve even worked as a substitute teacher. It’s kind of absurd how America would trust me with a group of children before legally allowing me to drink a margarita. ⸻ “On the rocks?” I ask. “That’d be great,” The man grinned. “Alright, I’ll have that right out for you.” I said, grabbing the menus from the table. I smiled. I like saying “on the rocks.” ⸻ I’m not particularly excited about this new job. I wonder how much longer till I grow tired of it. I think I burn through jobs faster than anyone I’d ever met. My friends always compare me to Trish from the Disney show Austin & Ally. I like working different kinds of jobs though, it keeps things interesting. I hate being bored, so when something becomes too normal, too repetitive, too monotonous, it’s my time to go. The only thing that sucks about being a serial job hopper is tax season; I still haven’t touched those W2s on my dresser. ⸻

bar.

“Hey Kasey, you have two more on P3,” Melissa shouts from across the

⸻ One thing that’s been on my mind working as a waitress is the fact that we all have tables to tend to. We have the table of academics, the table of finances, the table of friends and family, the table of health, the table of love and romance, and so on. If I spend too much time at one table, it could affect the other. It costs to forget things (presuming that each table has close to equal maintenance levels, of course). I can’t leave certain areas of my life unattended for long, but it’s hard. And sometimes, even when I’m doing my best, things still don’t work out the way I want

them to. ⸻ “Uh, ma’am?” The lady looks up from the plate I just set down. “Is something wrong?” “What is this?” She curls her lip in disgust. “It’s Ceviche,” I say. “No, this is not what I ordered. I ordered Salmon.” “No…” I trail off for a moment, thinking. “No ma’am, I’m pretty sure this is what you ordered. The ceviche tostada with salmon.” I politely pointed at the menu. “So this is not the salmon?” “Well, it has salmon on it. It’s ceviche; that’s why it’s chopped up,” I clarify. She shook her head. “Uh-uh, see this is just not going to work. This don’t even look good.” I plastered a smile on my face that didn’t quite reach my eyes, “Alright then, no worries. I’ll speak to the manager and see if he can take it off your tab.” I remove the plate from her table.

⸻ The good thing about jobs is that I can quit them. Unless I’m in the military, of course. But if I’m honest, I’d think I’d find a way to quit that too if I really wanted to. I used to work at the Amazon by the airport from December of twenty-twenty one till early spring that following year. I sorted boxes in the palletize department for about a week, before being relocated to a place called “Chutes.” Everyone working in palletize who had been recruited for chutes at some point complained about it. After a few days of wiggling my way out of the training sessions and back to the familiar sound of the rolling rods, I gave up. I could see why people didn’t like Chutes. We had to load large boxes called “Gaylords’’ almost twice my size, with a pallet jack, to its corresponding truck. There was a bit of a learning curve to the system but once I got it, it wasn’t all that bad. I didn’t mind working in Chutes. It kept me busy, and the amount of walking proved to be beneficial since it decreased my back pain. There’s just no good in standing around for long periods of time. Besides, there were a variety of things I could do, like setting up the gaylords, placing stray packages from the bins into the large containers, etc. It was nice because for the most part, no managers were up my ass twenty-four seven, plus I could hide in the aisles if I wanted to catch a break. And there were dozens and dozens of aisles. We were short on scanners, and a lot of the time if we were doing miscella-

neous tasks we didn’t even need them. On those days that I didn’t have to use a scanner, since my badge hadn’t been assigned to any device, there was no way of tracking me on the clock, and I got away with coming in a few minutes late each morning and taking an extra ten minutes during lunch. Or twenty. Once, I had fallen asleep and was gone for a full hour. No one batted an eye. The only thing I had to be on the lookout for when I was doing work that required me to use a scanner were CPTs. CPTs are gaylords that have to be taken to a truck by a certain time. Expedited shipping I suppose. Sometimes the managers updated the CPT list without warning, and I’d miss a few every now and then. Missing your CPTs was a huge no-no. ⸻ “Paul wants to see you,” My coworker said. “Who’s Paul?” I asked. “He’s the manager upstairs, but I think he’s taking over for the week.” “Oh, okay. What does he want?” He shrugged. “I don’t know, he just told me to come get you. He looks mad. Did you mess something up?” He asked, teasing. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll go see what he wants. Is he at the desk?” “Yeah.” I walk through what feels like hundreds of ailes, pallet jack trailing behind me, until I finally reach the desk. And sure enough, there stands Paul, arms crossed, waiting for me. “Kasey?” He asked. “That’s me.” “So tell me,” He shifted, stroking his beard, his movements simmering with frustration. “What’s going on? Are you aware that you missed both of your two o’clocks?” He finished, face getting puffy. I don’t know what it is about middle aged white men, their faces get so red when they’re angry. “No. I wasn’t…aware of that.” I said. He towered over me, or at least tried to. We didn’t have much of a height difference. “I was told this wasn’t your first time missing a CPT, does this happen often? Do you even know what CPT stands for?” he said, tone boiling now. It wasn’t a serious question. He was mocking me. “I know what it means. I’ve been working here for three months.” I responded, challenging his tone. “So then explain to me why I had to take them there myself.” “Y’all keep updating the list without telling us.” I protested. “We discussed that during the meeting this morning. You’re supposed to check back every ten minutes.” He argued. “I just did like 3 CPTs back to back, there’s barely any time to check the screen,” I stopped to think. “I did check it though, I checked on my way back

from my last one o’clock. I think it must’ve updated as soon as I left” I realized. “You think or you know?” He asked. I just stared blankly at him, not sure how to respond. He sighed. “I’m going to need you to get it together.” Get it together? “Yeah,” I caved, wanting the interaction to end. I took my pallet jack and turned my foot to leave, but he reached for the handle. “Since you’re here right now, let’s go ahead and take a look at the updated list for this evening.” He scrolled through the computer, then began searching through his pockets. “You know what?” He took out a pen. “I’ll even do you a favor and write them down for you, that way you can’t say you didn’t know.” He smiled sarcastically, face still an obnoxious shade of red, and scribbled away on a sticky. “Thanks.” I said flatly, taking the note. “Hold on, these two are like twenty aisles apart.” I pointed out. He handed me my pallet jack, “Well, I guess you better get to walking.” I looked at him in disbelief. There’s no way he just said that. I was indignant. Still, I maintained composure. “Sure, I’ll do that.” I said, eyeing him, pulling the jack towards me. And I did get to walking. I walked out of there. I was getting sick of the job anyway. I wish I would’ve been there to see his face when he found out all three CPTs were still in their stations, miles apart. I wonder if he had to be the one to load them too. I laughed at the thought. After that incident, I vowed to never work at another Amazon again, but I made the mistake of reapplying in January for the early bird shift at another location, knowing damn well I wasn’t an early bird. I heavily underestimated how much I wouldn’t care to get out of bed. I didn’t even last two days. Caring. That’s been the problem. I couldn’t give two shits about the Salmon Ceviche, or getting the CPTs in on time, none of that really mattered. ⸻ At times I feel like I wasn’t cut out for the workforce. I don’t think I’m lazy, when I’m into something I work hard. When I care about it I work hard. The purpose of money alone isn’t enough to make me stay at a job for long, but maybe once I move out and become more financially independent it’ll be more than enough reason to. ⸻ “Excuse me miss, could we have our check please?” “Of course,” I say. “I’ll be right back with that.” ⸻

Sometimes I think it’d be nice to just be a housewife, as regressive as that sounds. I don’t mind cooking or cleaning, I’d have time to keep up with my hobbies. Morning yoga, kickboxing, I could learn new music on the piano, decorate the home, and not have to deal with the financial pressure of anything. But then I remember I have to actually marry a man, and that kind of makes me sick. ⸻ “You bought him a truck?” I asked, dumbfounded. “I mean, yeah, he needs it under my name since he doesn’t have a credit score,” my co-worker explained matter-of-factly. My jaw still hadn’t left the floor. She continued to fold the cutlery into the napkins. “But you’re making the payments,” I said. “Yeah, he’s got a lot going on right now, so I decided to help him out a little bit, at least these first couple of months.” “Well, that’s very nice of you.” I smiled. And I meant it. Brittany was nice, but sometimes “nice” leaves you with the shorter end of the stick. As insensitive as it sounds, she reminds me of what I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be the kind of woman that does it all. The “Super Mom’’ with three kids to feed, or the “Perfect Daughter” that clears her schedule at her parent’s request, or the “Cool Girlfriend” that pretends she’s okay with her man running wild at all hours of the night. And buys him a truck as a reward. All while working multiple jobs. Some people ask for too much, they’ll take whatever you can give, and leave you a shitty tip in the end– or nothing at all. ⸻ I brought the check to the table and absent-mindedly set it in front of the guy. He stared blankly at it. The girl sheepishly reached to pull it from across the table, glanced at it, and handed me her card. It hardly seemed fair if I’m honest. The girl put a lot of effort into her appearance, she looked well put together. Hair done, nails done, full face of makeup, she even had some of those pink custom crocs with little fur ball charms on them. I’m sure it took her at least an hour to get ready, while the guy was in joggers and a T-shirt, and just sat there the entire time, just sucking the life right out of the atmosphere like some sort of energy vampire. I’ve seen a few of those couples already, and they’re hard to watch. I’ve had my fair share of bad romances but if I ever allow it to get to that point, please do me a favor and throw me in a psych ward. ⸻ I don’t know why I chose to be a waitress. Sometimes I just do things for the plot.

Just to see what will happen. Like last year, I met this rich boy at an Arab wedding. He was the groom’s cousin visiting from Dallas, and I agreed to show him around the city. I didn’t like him much at first, he walked and talked like a typical frat boy, and was clearly interested in more than just the grand tour of our tiny dismal town that is Little Rock. But I’d never hung out with a rich boy before, so I accepted his request. ⸻

“So what do you do? Do you just take pictures?” he asked. He had a way with words; everything he said kind of sounded like an insult. I ignored it. “Pretty much yeah, I also teach piano on the side.” I took another hit. “What about you?” “I’m pre-med right now, but I’m thinking about switching to business. My brother goes to med school and just by watching him, I don’t think it’s worth it to be honest.” “Yeah, I get it. Everyone I know that’s in the medical field complains about it.” I shook my head. “So what are you studying?” He asks. “I was doing business too, but I switched to psych.” The cloud of smoke filled the air and I watched the stars through the haze, deep in thought. “Honestly, I don’t even know if I’ll end up using that degree. I don’t see myself doing any of that. Maybe I’ll use it to get into marketing, but I really don’t want to do that either.” “Why’s that?” “I get bored of things easy.” I admitted flatly, fighting a cough. “That’s it? You know, you don’t really have to like your job,” He says. “Of course you do. Or at least not hate it. We’re only here for so long and it feels awful just wasting your life away working. It’s draining. And if it drains me I’d rather just not work and figure it out on my own.” “Marry a rich guy,” he said. I snorted. “What? I’m so serious. Women have it so much easier, I promise you, you could find at least one old rich dude willing to marry you in this city.” “Right after saying I look like his granddaughter,” I cringed. “Marrying someone for money just sounds like a whole new set of problems. I wouldn’t marry someone unless I actually love them.” He shrugged. “You can grow to love someone. We do it all the time with the whole arranged marriage thing.” “That’s still a thing?” I asked “Well, it’s definitely not like it used to be. Especially here, there’s not as much pressure, but for older generations and families that are more traditional, yeah.” “Yeah, I think I’d rather just work,” I said. “Well you really seem to like photography, maybe you should stick to

that.” He suggested. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” ⸻ I swept the booths, careful to not leave anything behind or my manager would undoubtedly point it out. Maybe I should learn how to bartend, or join a program to work abroad over the summer? I don’t know what I’ll do next, and sometimes that can be a little scary, but I think I like it that way.

Haunted GABRIEL SHUDAK There’s a ghost in my house. She walks past me in the halls without a sound. She never looks up at me, Her eyes pointed towards the ground. In the afternoon, she reads her books and watches her shows. But when I try to check in, she gets up and goes. She resumes in another room, without a noise to be heard. Her silence is deafening. please, just one word! Sometimes I catch her in the kitchen, cooking a meal for one. She always loses her appetite. I enter and she’s done.

At night she comes in and lays in my bed. She sleeps a lot for someone that’s dead. There’s never been a night that I’ve seen her face, She sleeps facing the wall, her back to my space. The only time she ever lets out a peep, Is when I roll over, pretending to sleep. That’s when she starts to ask herself, when did it die? In all my life I’ve never heard a silenter cry. There’s a ghost in my house. He floats around the halls, unseen. Unaware he’s trapped in the world between. He moves from room to room, chilling me with his touch. He wants to share everything,

he wants too much. He pounds on the walls and stacks chairs to the ceiling, trying to be noticed with all of his being, Slamming the doors and relentlessly screaming. Now, I’m no medium nor a necromancer. I have no crystal ball that contains the answer On how to bring back life or resurrect, But believe me, he's not the only victim of neglect. On the day that he died I mourned and I cried, And truth be told There were signs before his soul was sold Before his body was even depleted Every night I begged and I pleaded To put down every bottle he said that he “needed” Until he drank himself away. The spirit left But the body stay. He was never violent or explosive. But I watched him eat himself away. His soul became corrosive. Now he wants my help for him to grow. It pains me, but he’s not the man I used to know. Now I’m too tired to help or assist. He’ll have to be his own exorcist. Sometimes I catch him late at night, Stopping right before the tunnel of light. There, when he thinks he’s alone, he pleads with the sky, Begging to know, why did it have to die? There’re ghosts in our house.

They’re you and me, Haunted by the love that used to be. You can’t always save what’s dead and gone. Now it’s time for us to move along. Even if we don’t see each other on the other side, I’ll still treasure The time We were Alive.

Reality BRANDI COTNER It feels different this year. I feel different, even though the other part of me fights day and night to suppress any change of thought from happening. I’ve come to learn that the mind is a very dangerous place if your inner dialogue is left unchecked. It’s like having an angel on your left shoulder and the devil on the other, like what you see on tv shows, constantly waiting to persuade your trainof-thought or emotions that determine what actions you take. That’s what I want you imagine when I try to explain the hold those inner dialogues have had over me. Though here lately more than ever I have felt such a huge tug at my soul that is begging to be happy, and I think it’s time to listen. As I write this, I am sitting outside on the porch swing, aware that April is here. Feeling a constant bitter sweetness in the air because March 31 and April 4 are my two sons’ birthdays, and what would I be without them? Being a mother has saved my life. It gave me a reason to keep fighting for a better life, not for me, but for them. I feel so blessed to experience such a selfless unconditional love for another being. Every year during this time fills me with so much happiness as I celebrate and watch them grow another year older. However, when their birthday leaves it takes my light with it. Leaving me to brace myself for what’s next; April 29, the day I lost my brother. This year will mark 5 years since he has passed away, and I regretfully admit the overwhelming numbness I feel when counting the years on my fingers, chest tightening more as each one goes up. The night I lost him, it was like my soul had opened a door in the middle of nowhere, walked inside a room of darkness, and laid on a cold floor alone crying before locking itself inside. While the shell of the person I used to be was left numb and on autopilot to deal with reality. It’s now been 5 years without him that I’ve realized just how long I’ve stayed there (emotionally). Everyone goes through trauma, loss, heartbreak, and I’m no one special. The truth is, there is no roadmap or cheat sheet for how people are supposed to cope with a new reality after going through something so devastating that you didn’t know how to breathe after it happened. My brother was 5 years older than I was, so I always wanted to be with him, wanting to go everywhere he went, do everything he did. One time when I was around 9-years-old, I remember I begged so badly for him to let me tag along with him and his friends when heading to a secret hangout they made deep in the woods. As I walked behind him, I fell into a small hole covered by tree branches and surrounded by thorn bushes. After continuing to walk ahead of me, he turns around and yells with sarcasm, “Oh no, you’re already getting roughed up. I told you it was a long way back here!”

“Come on, get up and dust yourself off, you’re ok.” He said, as I lay there crying. Embarrassed and angry I yelled, “You don’t even know if I’m okay! I can’t just get up and shake this off, it hurts too bad! And you don’t even care!” He turned around to head back to me, and when he approached me, he kneeled and said, “I always care what happens to you, Brandi, but you need to learn to get up, dust yourself off, and keep moving even if you get hurt and think it’s the end of the world. You’re stronger than to not let something like falling and a couple scratches keep you from never getting up again, now come on.” Without a word, but with an annoyed look on my face, I got up, dusted my shirt and jeans off, and continued after him realizing that he was right. He is still right. Every little inconvenience that happens in our lives isn’t meant for us to stop and put our world on hold and wait for someone else to come to help us out of it when things get hard. In fact, that’s the reason why when significant events happen to us that we can get up and keep going. This feeling that has been tugging at me is all the parts of myself that I have suppressed finally trying to say, “You are the only one who can live your life. Make it a life worth living.” The truth is I would want nothing more than to be able to open the door, welcome and acknowledge these feelings I get overwhelmed with, then also have the strength to know when it is time for them to leave and shut the door behind them. I’m not who I used to be and it’s going to take time relearning myself and things I love to do now. It is possible to pick up these pieces that have been broken and shine light on the shadows within myself so I can learn to accept them instead of ignoring them. It’s something I must work on daily to maintain, but I know the rewards I get out of it will only be greater as the time goes on. During this time of the year, it’s worse than any other as I replay memories in my head which then trigger my PTSD of the trauma that resulted from that devastating night. However, as I’m sitting here reflecting, I’ve come to realize something in return. Who I am today, how far I’ve come, and all that I’ve gained along the way is something I never would’ve thought would happen 5 years ago. This angel on my shoulder has outranked the devil who whispers in my ear reminding me that it can’t rain all the time. It’s time to get up, dust myself off, and move forward.

Untitled JADA PARKS There is someone watching me They are standing over me while I sleep Bulging eyes pressed against my eyelids Eyelashes mingling with my own I try to catch the voyeur in the act But I’m alone in darkness every time I open my eyes. There is definitely someone watching me. There is no other way to describe The eyeballs rolling through my scalp The burning of eyes into the side of my head, Melting the flesh, skin, and bone, And seeing right into my brain Don’t think about it. They’ll see.

Womanhood KATELYN SMITH There are things about being a woman That make the suffering worth it The little glimmers of hope Not the looks from creepy men Or the fear of being assaulted And the cop asking What were you wearing and Why didn’t you? Not fitting societies' standards And not your first heartbreak being your father But the little glimmers of hope that make up for it;

The connection you have with your girlfriends While you sit in comfortable silence Soaking up each other’s warmth Knowing the darkest parts of each other And understanding The little glimmers of hope Make this life endurable

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DEAN OF FINE ARTS, HUMANITIES & SOCIAL SCIENCES Dr. Richard Moss CHAIR OF LANGUAGES & COMMUNICATION Logan Oliver DESIGNER Allen Loibner-Waitkus