Crack the Spine Literary magazine
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Issue 104 February 27, 2014 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2014 by Crack the Spine This issue is sponsored by‌
Cover Art by Keith Moul Keith's poems and photos appear widely. Three recently published books include: T"he Grammar of Mind" from Blue & Yellow Dog; "Beautiful Agitation" from Red Ochre Press; and "Reconsidered Light," a collection of poems written to accompany Keith's photos, from Broken Publications
CONTENTS
David Melder Girls Night Out
Joan Marie Wood After Twenty Years a Disciple Steps Aside Morning Chocolate on the Cape
Douglas Collura Cracked Buttons
Andrew Valencia Old Pro
Wayne Burke Seat 27-B
Ashley Scheil Un-planning
Chelsey van der Munnik Throat
David Melder Girls Night Out Walking down the street to the restaurant where he was going to meet the guys, Phil Bates noticed his slacks. First of all, they were slacks, no two ways about it. Second, they were also high-waters. Floods. Clam diggers, Doug Radinski would have called them in fourth grade. Christ, Phil thought, I’m wearing fucking clam digger slacks and I’m thirty-nine years old. A sense of grade school shame crept up his legs, starting about where the bottom of his slacks flopped around impotently, up toward his stomach. He had blossomed out of his grade school nerd-hood and become a musician in high school. He had been in a band that gigged around San Francisco, had real promise. But now that was over, and he was a mindless HR drone for a bank, working in a giant neo-Gothic structure downtown. The grade school thoughts
had started because he had kids on his mind. He was thinking about kids because he and his wife, Mary Ann, had embarked on a quest for fertility. He’d beaten off into a plastic cup five times so far. The first time had been a disaster—the receptionist had given him the sterile cup with the cap and pointed to the bathroom. It was a one-seater, with the dual blue man/woman sign on the door. Great. As he pulled his pants down, about five feet away through the door, he could hear the gyno office having their Christmas party. As he flayed at his flaccid member, a cold sweat forming on his forehead, he could hear high-pitched laughing and, every couple of minutes, someone muscularly trying to force the door open. He had given up after about twenty minutes of futility. On Tuesday Mary Ann had said, “What do you think about adoption?” while they were
watching 24. Can’t we just sink into our down cushion couch and watch Jack Bauer punch this terrorist? he’d thought. He’d hemmed and hawed and said let’s talk about it later. So now THAT was hanging over his head. Mary Ann had always been more like the dude in the relationship—she worked longer hours than he at a biotech firm, she farted indiscriminately in front of him, she forgot his birthday one year, etc. So it had been kind of surprising to him how fervently she had grabbed on to this parenting thing. They hadn’t ignored the idea of having kids previously—they’d checked in every once in a while about how they were feeling, and both of them shrugged and agreed they weren’t ready. Phil had grown complacent, assuming that they’d run out the clock and would end up happily without kids, touring Europe dressed
like Rick Steves. But one night over lamb chops she had uncharacteristically cooked a couple of years back, Mary Ann had looked at him intently and said she was ready. He loved her, she was beautiful—tall, willowy with dark-green eyes and a crooked smile, her black hair now sprinkled with white, which she didn’t bother to color. He could never say no to her. There was the restaurant, So Chicken. Within fifteen blocks of the house. His suggestion. He didn’t like going too far afield these days. When had that happened? Why had he let Mary Ann and the gay guy from Banana Republic talk him into these high-water slacks? He was still handsome. But lines were starting to show up around his mouth. His chin was becoming formless—he grew facial hair to sharpen it up. He still had almost all of his hair, but gray was starting to show up for him, too, and not in a distinguished Clooney way. He was getting old. He wasn’t ready to raise a child, especially one that wasn’t
his own. A crying, red-faced baby with his genes, one that he’d feel obligated to take care of? That was bad enough. But some other person’s howling, canned-ham devil child? There were days it seemed doable, with Mary Ann. And there were days it seemed like the worst idea in the world. He could barely deal with himself some days—mornings, standing in the shower, the warm water falling over him, staring at the drain. Another day wasted, no end in sight. In those moments he didn’t ever want to get out of the shower. “Girls night out, whoo!” Stroop and Jerry were at a table, a couple of Tsingtaos in front of them. Jerry had a big smile on his broad Asian face, the kind of smile where his whole face was involved, so genuine it looked fake. Jerry, London-born Chinese, had married a college friend of Phil’s years back and had quickly become a close friend. He ran his own special-effects design firm in the Presidio. God, that sounded so cool to Phil.
Stroop had a more shy smile, his small, shaved-bald head angled down, his glasses hiding his eyes, but Phil could tell he was excited too. The only things that got Stroop excited were making cabinets and drinking beer. He made good money building furniture in his basement workshop, and he seemed delighted with the work on top of it. He raised his beer bottle to Phil in salute. Girls Night Out. So it begins. “So it begins,” Phil intoned. It was nice to see the guys. “You always say that,” Jerry said, his English accent making it sound like “olewaays.” Girls Night Out had originated when Phil, Stroop, and Jerry had gone out to the Pig & Whistle for drinks together one random evening and gotten tipsy. Mary Ann had asked innocently what they had talked about, and Phil had told her about their earnest conversations about babies (both Jerry and Phil were trying to “get pregnant” with their wives, and Stroop was hoping to
avoid them at all costs), love (Stroop had recently gotten engaged), and house-hunting, among other touchy-feely things. Mary Ann had looked slightly disgusted and said it sounded like girls night out to her, implying they were a bunch of pussies, and thus a tradition had been born. Now it was three years later, Jerry had a little daughter, Stroop was still childless, and Mary Ann was talking about adoption. The restaurant was a Chinese dive, cheap, thick plastic chopsticks, and worn plasticcovered, misspelled menus. They got three orders of the signature spicy/sweet chicken. Phil rubbed his hands on his thighs and launched into his first topic, a nostalgic comingof-age movie about a nerd trying to get laid. Stroop had seen it, Jerry hadn’t. “So you’re saying you identified with the selfconscious dork who couldn’t get laid? Odd…” Stroop said. He pursed his thin lips at Jerry, who chortled appreciatively. “No, here’s the thing. It got
me thinking about all the girls I missed out on. Watching this movie, this guy made the same EXACT mistakes I made…it’s infuriating!” “I read something in the new Chuck Klosterman book about what adults would tell their teenage selves on the phone if they had a fifteen-second phone conversation. All the fellows said, like, GET LAID MORE, DUDE! And all the women said, whatever you do, don’t sleep with Jimmy Whatever, no matter how much he pressures you,” Jerry said. “I would have told myself, ‘Doctor Who is rubbish, you understand that? Quit watching it so much, wanker.’” “You’re missing the point,” Phil said, leaning in and grabbing his beer glass with purpose, “I’m saying if I could have been a little more selfaware back then, how different would I be now? I mean, I can look back now and remember all these moments where if I’d just done something differently. Like there was this girl, Sally Hopperman—Stroop, you
remember her—and she was totally into me. The one dance I went to in junior high, I worked up the nerve to ask her to dance. In the middle of the song, I can’t think of anything to say, so I say…man, this is a long song. And that was it, she got all cold after that cause she thought I wasn’t into her…Eh. Maybe this is all coming up because Mary Ann started talking about adoption.” “Wait, what?” said Stroop. “Talk about burying the lede! Jesus, Phil, you’re here talking about how you should have made out with Sally Hopperman in eighth grade, and…you guys are going to adopt? That’s awesome!” Stroop said, grabbing Phil’s bicep across the table with a steely grip. He had locked eyes with Phil, glasses glinting in the fluorescent light. He smiled a gap-toothed smile. “I don’t know, man, I…” “Hey, there’s Malcolm!” Jerry said excitedly, pointing out the window. Shit. Phil had conveniently forgotten Malcolm was coming. He fell back in his chair, his
shoulders slumping like a deflating air mattress. Stroop insisted on inviting Malcolm to seemingly everything now, including Girls Night Out. Stroop and Malcolm were friends from way back, semester at sea, and Malcolm had moved back to San Francisco recently. “Does Malcolm understand the goal of Girls Night Out? He seems a little too douchey, you know what I mean?” Phil said to Stroop, aware that he was stepping over the line a bit with the douchey thing. But he wasn’t happy—he felt like Girls Night Out (which they now referred to as simply “GNO”) was something the three of them should take seriously. He was suddenly dying to talk to Stroop and Jerry about this adoption thing, but not in front of Malcolm. He wanted to see if they thought this “someone else’s kid” concern was just some kind of defense mechanism on his part, a way of sabotaging what should really be a wonderful thing. Before Stroop had a chance to react to Phil’s “douchey”
comment, Malcolm had walked in. The fact that Jerry seemed as excited about Malcolm as he was about Phil’s entrance was not lost on Phil. Malcolm was tall, with dark, curly hair and dark circles under his eyes that gave him an air of tired mystery. He always wore wristbands, like he was in imminent need of mopping his brow while flailing at his guitar. “What’s crackin’, bro?” Malcolm said, clutching Jerry’s ham-hock forearm in some kind of an urban musician arm shake. Still douchey, Phil thought. They ordered more food and quaffed more Tsingtaos. Phil wasn’t normally a big drinker, but everyone was guzzling freely now. He was beating back disappointment like it was a floppy penis in a fertility clinic bathroom. “Wait, let’s get back to this adoption thing, since I so rudely interrupted you,” Jerry said, turning to Phil. Phil waved him off, shaking his head. Malcolm was eyeing the raven-haired, pretty waitress from under his curly locks.
“Dudes, I soooo need to get laid,” he said. “See, that right there isn’t a Girls Night Out kind of comment,” Phil said before he could stop himself. He tried to make a joke out of it. “I mean, aren’t we supposed to be talking about anniversary gifts or Manolo shoes?” “Bro, you ever watch Sex and the City?” Malcolm answered, turning toward Phil. “AAAlll they talk about is getting laid. I’m just coming correct, C. Bradshaw style, yo!” Stroop and Jerry laughed. “You should be getting laid like a rug, Malcolm,” Stroop chimed in. “You guys just won that best San Francisco band award, right?” “Best Unsigned Band, Spin Magazine,” Malcolm corrected, shrugging. “No joke?” Jerry said, eyes lighting up. Phil couldn’t believe it. Malcolm’s band played some kind of clamorous, atonal neopunk, like Fugazi, Phil thought, but a lot shittier. The band was called “Justin Case,” which Malcolm had told Phil was a
name successful touring bands used to reserve an extra room at hotels they were staying at, Just In Case, get it? It was a stupid name. Phil had written off Malcolm’s band as anything to consider in any way seriously a couple of years back. Malcolm was thirty-nine years old, for fuck’s sake, maybe forty—no band with a fortyyear-old should suddenly be a hot ticket. It was a ridiculous, horrible development. “Didn’t I tell you guys that? That’s big-time stuff there, right?” Stroop toasted Malcolm and took a long pull of his beer. Phil’s hand was shaking slightly as he picked up his beer. The food arrived and he sincerely hoped the subject would change. Malcolm smirked, showing his dimples. Phil had to admit Malcolm had a certain presence—having smooth, clear skin, good posture, and a silk shirt helped, but there was something else; a selfconfidence, an assurance that came from within and that Phil himself would never be able to
achieve. Fro Cube, Phil’s AfroCuban/World/Rockabilly band, had opened for Third Eye Blind at the Fillmore back in ’99, toward the beginning of his fledgling music career playing bass guitar. The band kept playing for years after, but they never got a gig nearly that good. One of the booking agents had told them they were “too white” for an Afro-Cuban world music band. Cock. After eating they moved on to Stroop’s favorite dive bar in Phil’s neighborhood, the Silver Spur. The décor was like a particularly debauched and dirty ’70s basement den. Every night the same guy drinking Jaeger on the rocks held down the bar at one end, while an old tequila bottle literally held it up on the other end. Phil had hoped Malcolm might have somewhere more important or cooler to be by this point, but it appeared that not only was Malcolm in for the long haul, but also reveling in the now-tipsy fellowship. Phil walked a few paces ahead of the others, and from the way they
were talking loudly and giggling with each other, he mentally pictured them behind him walking abreast, arms linked. Phil watched as Stroop took a deep breath after they entered, and breathed it out, like he was smelling the air in a meadow right after a spring shower and not the vomit-like smell of stale beer and ancient body funk. Stroop shouted, “Thank you for being such a glorious shithole, Silver Spur!” Phil cringed inwardly. Something about dive bars and drunk friends raised his fear level. He catalogued the bar’s clientele. Jaeger guy. Giant old Russian dude with red face and white hair inexplicably hanging out with younger Mexican guy in a Google t-shirt. Two slightly crazed-looking contractor-type guys playing pool. Oddly, two attractive twenty-something women looking drunk. Most of the customers looked askance at Stroop’s theatrical entrance. Phil took stock of his group’s appearance. Jerry was just a large Chinese man wearing nondescript clothes.
Fine. But Jerry tended to make loud, sarcastic comments about anyone in his vicinity. Then again, he was very large, with forearms about the size of Phil’s thighs. And Stroop was wearing a tshirt that had a large picture of a well-coiffed Patrick Swayze, with a caption saying I Used to Fuck Guys Like You in Prison, a nod to an infamous line in Roadhouse. His overly demonstrative, ironic love for the Silver Spur also made him stand out. Stroop was a sweetnatured, quiet guy until he had too many beers. Phil himself was probably all right. Malcolm, on the other hand. Malcolm was wearing a silkylooking black shirt with the top three buttons open. Curly locks. But it was the shoes that really worried Phil. They were extremely pointy and made of some kind of patterned (fake?) leather. They looked like shoes only a (female) art gallery owner in NYC, or maybe a gay elf, would wear. Phil wasn’t a fighter, but if HE were a large
Russian guy hanging out with a Mexican on a Friday night at the Silver Spur, he would probably consider punching Malcolm in the face on principle. Phil felt a little bad for hoping this would happen. A little. “This is great!” Malcolm said, ordering another round of beers at the Silver Spur. “Am I one of the girls now?” he added, looking coy. “I can feel our menstrual cycles synchronizing already,” Jerry responded. Phil felt like going home. The Russian guy was looking at Malcolm’s shoes with a dull, dead-eyed menace. Phil simply couldn’t keep up with the other three, and he hated the idea of being hung over the next day. Stroop put his arm around Phil as they bellied up to the bar. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it,” he said. “You don’t want to go home. What are you going to do, get into your Snuggie and watch Lord of the Rings 5 for the hundredth time? C’mon, stay out, it’s been too long. I need some QT with you.”
“All right,” Phil said begrudgingly. Stroop was probably his best friend at this point, if Phil still kept track of such things. He had a solid, reassuring presence. The problem was, he was too nice of a guy. He sold his furniture for half of what he could. He still wrote letters to his mother, for Christ’s sake. He became friends with douchey limited-talent poseurs like Malcolm. Who was now in a band that was about to somehow make it big. Jesus fuck. Maybe another drink wasn’t such a bad idea, Phil thought. He put on his HR hat and told himself that calling Malcolm douchey wasn’t productive behavior. He walked over to Malcolm. “Hey, man, congrats on the award, that’s really, really…fantastic,” Phil said, patting Malcolm’s silky arm. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. “You really, really deserve it, you know? You guys…have worked really hard.” Malcolm looked Phil in the eyes in a meaningful way. He
drew his mouth in a tight line, like this was a serious thing. He hugged Phil soulfully. Phil saw the Russian guy’s basilisk stare over Malcolm’s shoulder. Phil was feeling more than a little light-headed later when the two twenty-something girls came over and struck up a conversation. The slightly chubby blonde and her bigeyed, dark-haired, long-legged, and slender friend had just moved to the city from Lake Tahoe. That explained why they were hanging around the Silver Spur—they didn’t know any better. Soon enough, Phil knew, they’d be going to the other places where young people performed mating dances. At least the pretty, dark-haired one would be. I can be a real asshole sometimes, Phil thought, his vision jumping slightly like he was in one of those quick-cut action movies. He flirted shamelessly with the darkhaired girl, Linda, who seemed to be enjoying the attention, stretching and folding her long legs. Her knees seemed to be
oddly inverted. Jerry was talking to the chubby blonde; they seemed to be analyzing some MMA fight on the TV. Phil started cracking jokes about the people at the bar, about Malcolm’s shoes, about the Jaeger guy. They were meanspirited jokes, but Linda was eating them up and laughing. The chubby blonde and Jerry, along with Stroop, were now talking to the Russian guy and his Mexican buddy. Some kind of a challenge seemed to be in the works. By the time Malcolm came over and started talking to them, Linda had her hand on Phil’s knee. It felt good. Phil didn’t want to sleep with her, but he was enjoying feeling like this girl maybe would not be averse to touching his penis. She stretched her legs again. “Wow,” he said, just to fill in some dead air and try to prevent Malcolm from horning in, “has anyone ever told you your legs bend backwards, kinda like an antelope’s?” And Linda’s smile turned into bared teeth, and her hand came off his
knee. And then Malcolm started talking about music. Linda exclaimed when Malcolm mentioned his band’s name. Phil closed his eyes. His vision was somehow still jumping, even with his eyes closed. His heart was pumping very quickly. “Oh my God, you’re in Justin Case!” Linda’s antelope legs suddenly seemed to be springloaded. She ran over and said something to Chubby, and the two of them started squealing and jumping. Meanwhile Jerry and the huge Russian were about to arm-wrestle on the dilapidated pool table. Phil stood up, feeling like he’d been electrocuted, his limbs unable to stay still. Linda was fawning over Malcolm now, her hand on his bare chest, for God’s sake. Somehow the giant Russian had beat Jerry arm-wrestling. His face stayed stoic and unmoving, but he raised his meaty hands over his head in triumph. This filled Phil with a dark rage. It seemed like the moment in the after-school specials where the drunken party turns bad. The laughing
faces that he walked by as he lurched toward the pool table in slow motion were not pleasant faces but mocking, evil ones. Teeth flashed, red eyes stared. He walked over to the pool table, where Jerry was shaking hands drunkenly with the Russian, who was smiling broadly. Stroop, his glasses askew on his nose, started playfully poking the Russian with his finger, a sloppy smile on his face. The Russian picked up a bar stool and swung it. Phil jumped toward him, yelling something, he wasn’t sure what. The Russian, still smiling, stopped his swing, the bar stool a few inches short of Stroop’s small, bald head. Stroop didn’t flinch; he laughed. But this all happened too fast for Phil. He found himself swinging his fist at the Russian, where it pitifully bounced off of the man’s beefy cheek, having no effect. The Russian turned slowly, still holding the stool over Stroop’s head. “What the fuck, Phil?” Jerry said, pushing him away from the
Russian, who put down the stool and put a hand to his face. “FUCK YOU!” Phil yelled at the Russian, pointing and breathing heavily. But he was backing up, legs shaking. Stroop was talking to the Russian, hand on his shoulder, his drunken smile gone. Linda was hugging Malcolm, her face buried in his chest hair like she’d just witnessed a school shooting. “FUCK YOU!” Phil said again, this time to the whole bar. Jerry put a single hand on Phil’s chest, which stopped him cold. Phil’s hands were shaking. He had this rage in his body and it was brimming over. He flipped off everyone and then directed both middle fingers at Jerry, then Stroop, then Malcolm. Jerry’s mouth hung open; Stroop shook his head. “What is wrong with you, Philly?” Jerry said sadly. Phil turned around and walked out of the bar. Girls Night Out. And so it ends, he thought to himself. Adrenaline had burned through the alcohol. He was thirty-nine years old, and he had
just gotten in his first fight, he thought. If you could call it that. He stood in front of the bar. He thought, I should go home, but his feet didn’t move. Jerry came out of the bar, followed by Stroop. Phil turned around, looking at the ground. He could hear their feet shuffling. He looked up. Stroop and Jerry both had their hands in their pockets. Their eyes were dancing toward, then away from his. There was a pause. Jerry took his hands out of his pockets and lurched toward Phil. Before Phil could brace himself, he felt Jerry’s warm broadness folded over him as Jerry hugged him close. Phil closed his eyes, felt Stroop’s arms join below Jerry’s. He opened his eyes, afraid he might squeeze out a tear if he wasn’t careful. Malcolm came out of the bar behind them and nodded, once, quickly at Phil. Malcolm shrugged, flashed his dimples, and joined the hug. Phil felt a rush of gratitude, and a girlish sigh, almost a sob, escaped him. He wished he had slept with
Sally Hopperman in tenth grade. He fervently wished Mary Ann had gotten pregnant. He wished he could just be happy for Malcolm.
Joan Marie Wood After Twenty Years a Disciple Steps Aside
standing at the open back door into night
sky graying
not the thirteen universes I say tension near to bursting it’s this universe I want to know this universe this moon its origin these stars
Joan Marie Wood Morning Chocolate on the Cape
Steven mothball-shuffles as buoys clank pulls a library nod from the steaming ocean sets it on the flimsy rhubarb horizon and sips
sniffing, he
Douglas Collura Cracked Buttons
Exiting my building, I good morning Harvey, my blue uniformed doorman. Instead of good morning back, his eyes scream and mouth sputters. I look myself over: Am I bleeding? Did I forget my pants? No. I turn toward the lobby mirror for the larger view. There’s none of me there. Only General George S. Patton. Starched greens and starred helmet. Face clenched. Taller than expected. Harvey’s wavering salute never reaches his forehead, face switching back and forth between me and Patton, panicked as if all his holiday tips are in jeopardy, and saying, “I, I, I—” Patton scowls. “What’s that jackass hand maneuver, soldier?” He unholsters a pearl handled pistol. “Whoa,” I say. “We’re men of peace.” “You’re men of lemon meringue,” he says and shoots Harvey in the chest. “Maniac!” I yell at Patton. “He’s the best doorman we’ve ever had. When my shirts come back from the cleaners, he always calls my apartment. I don’t even have to come down. He hooks them on the elevator railing. Doors open and they’re waiting. Just like in my closet!” Patton holsters his pistol. “If I don’t lead, they won’t follow.” He walks straight as a lamppost into the mirror’s falling horizon. I lean over Harvey. The corners of his mouth can’t hold up his smile. Eyes running out of sight. He says, “I work with the public. I do what I can. I try to stay happy.” I speak as if praise could hold onto a necessary life. As if pleading could. “You’re great at your job. I miss you already. My cleaning misses you. My shirts. All those cracked buttons.”
Andrew Valencia Old Pro By
the time Joel landed at
Incheon, his cold had gone from bad to worse. As the plane taxied up to the gate, Joel sat hacking into a soiled airline pillow, his lungs wheezing between coughs with a high and airy rasp that seemed to confirm that he was in the grips of full-blown bronchitis. If he could have anticipated getting sick, he would have paid the extra money for a direct flight to Taipei. Instead, he had another short trip across the East China Sea to look forward to, and that was on top of the three-hour layover in Korea. He had hoped to spend his time in the airport revising the story he had been working on for the past month and a half. But after six years in and out of various airports across Asia, he should have guessed that some demon would intervene to disrupt his best-laid plans. Once inside the terminal, Joel
staggered off to find the nearest currency exchange kiosk. His sudafedrin had been confiscated in San Francisco, and rather than try to make sense of the labels on the Korean medicine in the gift shop, he took his stack of blue 1,000 won notes and went looking for a reasonably priced bar. The beer garden at the mezzanine food court was running a special deal on Hoegaarden—buy one 800 milliliter stein and get a second free. Joel carried his two beers to the dining counter and drank them both very quickly. The alcohol and fluids had an immediate effect on his cough, and by the time he had finished the second stein even his chill seemed to have subsided. He tried to get through a few pages of The Good Soldier, but he was still too groggy to focus on the story. And since the jet bloat was giving him recurring side pains, he decided to skip lunch and headed out to find his next
gate. Moving sluggishly through the endless procession of travellers, Joel’s was the only light-haired head to be found. There were always fewer Westerners on the morning flights, not that it would have mattered much to him if the entire terminal was towheaded from corner to corner. He had long since given up trying to make new friends in airports. Once the romantic air of living abroad had worn off, he realized that most Americans changing planes in Asia were so sleepdeprived and listless at that stage of their trips that they could scarcely articulate themselves to another person, much less hold down a decent conversation. It had come as quite a blow to Joel, who had once made a point of chatting up strangers as part of his grand philosophy that the world is full of interesting people and that he would be doing himself a
disservice by not seeking them out wherever he could. But living for so long as an itinerant English teacher had hardened him against the possibilities of chance encounters, so that, sickness or not, he was bound to keep to himself until it was time to board. With only a few gates left to go, the aches in Joel’s arms and legs became too much to bear. He tore off his backpack and collapsed in an open seat across from a Lufthansa desk. Though his lungs had cleared up for the time being, the scratchiness at the back of his throat remained despite his constant attempts to clear it. Using his backpack as a pillow, Joel stretched out across the row of hard plastic chairs and fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes. The nap felt like a short one, but when he awoke the Lufthansa flight had already departed and an elderly Westerner in a gray seersucker suit was sitting cross-legged three chairs down from him. “I do hope I didn’t disturb you,” the old man said. “Judging from your congestion, I
surmised that you needed a good long rest. Even so, the lighting in these terminals is always so poor, I’m forced to sit on the outer edge of the gate to ensure the longevity of my eyesight.” The Westerner stuck a leather bookmark between the pages of a thin hardback, then slipped the book into the red leather satchel resting at his feet. Joel sat up and pinched his fingers between his tear ducts. The sinus pressure was so bad that it was hard for him to get a clear look at the stranger. He might have been pushing ninety as easily as sixty, but in any case there was an alert and introspective quality about him that made his age seem inconsequential. He certainly wasn’t ageless, in that sense. Timeless, more like. But also imbued with more character of a bygone time than anyone Joel had ever seen. From his oldfashioned clothes to his meticulous demeanor, there was nothing to indicate that he hadn’t emerged recently from a yellowing photograph of
colonial Burma circa 1933. He was less anachronism than artifact, and what he was doing here now at Incheon, Joel couldn’t begin to imagine. “I hope you’ll forgive me for sidling up beside you while you were en repose,” he said. “But once I recognized who you were, I felt I simply had to make your acquaintance.” “Recognized me? What do you mean?” “You’re Mr. Joel Frank, are you not? Joel Frank the writer?” Joel shifted his jaw from side to side, but his ears failed to pop. “How do you know me?” he asked. “Have we met before?” “Not that I can recall,” the stranger said. “I recognized you from the photo accompanying your story in the latest issue of Blue Ocelot.” “My story?” Joel rubbed the crust from his eyes and tried to blink his way into a more complete understanding. “You recognized me just from reading my story?” “Quite so. It was a very impressive piece.” The stranger nodded quickly, stretching his
thin arm out over the backs of the empty chairs. “You have a fine eye for detail, an almost Sophoclean sense of irony.” “Thank you.” Joel couldn’t believe it. It was true that Blue Ocelot had featured one of his stories online a few months back, but the thought that someone would see it as something worth remembering, or that he would be recognized in person because of it, had never crossed his mind. “I’m sorry if I seem stunned,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not used to receiving this kind of attention for my writing.” “Then it would seem that you’ve been running in the wrong circles,” the stranger replied. He moved two seats closer and extended his hand to Joel. “McAllister. Bartram McAllister.” “Nice to meet you,” Joel said. McAllister’s hand was somehow both boney and soft, as if the skin was only there as a glove to keep the skeletal fingers warm. “What brings you to Asia?” “Business,” he said. “But I’m
returning home for the time being. You should look me up the next time you’re in Tangier. I’m something of a patron of the arts, and my door is always open to English and American writers passing through.” McAllister pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to Joel. It read, “Bartram McAllister, Esq.” followed by a caption in Arabic. “That’s the address of my bungalow in the upper Medina,” he said. “Show it to any driver and he’ll know where to take you. The place is something of a local landmark among us exiles.” “I’ve never been to Africa,” Joel said, sticking the card inside his wallet. “But if I ever make it out that way, I’ll be sure to take you up on your offer.” “Alas, it’s true Tangier isn’t what it once was.” A wistful sadness appeared in McAllister’s eyes. He took a red silk handkerchief from his pocket and patted the sweat from his forehead. “I remember a time when artists and writers would come flocking to the city,”
he said. “Allen and Truman once shared a canvas sleeping bag on the floor of my salon. Did you ever meet Allen or Truman?” Joel laughed weakly. “They were before my time,” he said. “Pity. They were such fine fellows.” Joel was about to say something else when he felt a powerful tingling at the back of his throat. He turned around and sneezed loudly into his hands. Without hesitation, McAllister offered up his silk handkerchief. “Thanks,” Joel said. While Joel sat wiping his swollen nose, an Arab teenager appeared from behind the nearest support column. He was thin and frail with a soft, feminine face, and beneath the frayed cuffs of his denim shorts his slender legs were completely hairless. He served McAllister a fizzing cocktail in a rounded highball glass, bowing at the waist as he placed the drink directly in his hand. “Thank you, Kiki,” McAllister said. “Bring Mr. Frank hot rum punch.”
“Yessa, Missa McAllista,” Kiki said, and trotted off down the terminal. McAllister turned back to Joel. “It will help your throat,” he said. “I don’t think I should have any more to drink.” “Nonsense. It’s the oldest and best medicine there is.” Joel watched as McAllister slurped the cocktail down, the lump in his neck pulsating between the taut chords of muscle. When only the thinnest layer of liquid remained, McAllister licked his white lips and moved over another seat so that he and Joel were sitting side by side. “If I may speak with you for a moment sans indiscretion,” he said, “I’m interested to know where you’re going and what business you have when you get there.” “I’m moving to Taiwan,” Joel said. “I’m starting a new job at a school there.” “So you’re earning your bread giving English lessons, is that it?” “Pretty much. I have a one-
year contract at a cram school.” “And last year? What did you do for money then?” “Same thing. Teaching at a cram school.” “In Taiwan?” “No. Here in Korea.” “Well. It would seem that you’ve been at this for quite a while, then.” “Six years. Since I graduated college.” “Interesting. Then I suppose I have another question for you.” McAllister set the glass down on an armrest and leaned in closer. Joel hadn’t noticed until then that there was something unwholesome about his body odor, an almost chemical presence that brought to mind high school biology class and preserved animals floating in jars. “In all this time that you’ve been teaching, has your writing developed the way you wanted it to?” “What do you mean?” “Your writing. Are you satisfied with it?” Joel stared at the short gray carpet under his feet. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s difficult.
Sometimes it feels like I’m struggling alone in the dark.” “Alone?” McAllister shifted his head from side to side, tsking softly between his teeth. “My dear boy, what do you mean? Don’t you have a community of peers to help you?” “Not really,” Joel said. “You’re the first literary person I’ve met since I came to Asia.” “How dreadful.” Another round of tsk-ing ensued, and this time Joel paid close attention to McAllister’s mouth. He noticed the dark red flesh of his tongue pressing through the thin gap in his front teeth. It seemed that any second the roots would give way and the full tongue would come bursting forth a hundred feet long yet still articulate. “It sounds to me like you’re due for a change,” McAllister said. “I recommend a drastic relocation.” “What do you mean?” McAllister laid a curled hand over Joel’s shoulder. “Come with me to Tangier,” he said. “You need to be with your own kind. There’s nothing left for you here
in the Orient.” “It’s not that simple,” Joel said. “Flights don’t come cheap for me.” “Never mind about that,” McAllister said. “I can get tickets anywhere in the world.” “But what kind of job could I find in Tangier?” “You already have a job, my dear boy. You’re a writer. Everything else is incidental.” “I don’t have enough money saved up to live on for very long.” “A real writer doesn’t need money. That’s what friends are for.” “I don’t know. It all sounds very risky.” Though it was hard to read any emotion in his stone black eyes, Joel began to sense that McAllister was growing impatient. He threw back the last of his cocktail and, as if summoned by telepathy, Kiki reappeared from around the corner. He set a paper napkin on Joel’s lap and served him a silver chalice in the shape of a small grinning monkey. The rum punch steamed sweetly with the
smell of cinnamon. Joel could feel a difference in his throat after the first sip. “Kiki, bring more medicine,” McAllister said, rattling the glass of ice. Kiki winced nervously and waved his arms across his chest. “No, pleasa, Missa McAllista! You drink too much, they no let us on the plane!” “Insolent bastard,” McAllister snapped. He sprang to his feet and grabbed a tuft of Kiki’s dark curls in his fist. Kiki screeched sharply as McAllister pulled him aside by the hair and all but hurled him down the terminal toward the alcohol. “Get going, you spoiled cur!” he shouted. He ran his hands down the front of his suit and took a deep breath. He sat back down. “Now,” he said. “Where were we?” “I…um…” Joel draped the handkerchief over the seatback and coughed into his hand. “You’ve been very kind to me, and I appreciate that,” he said. “But Tangier doesn’t seem to be in the cards right now. I should really get going to my next
flight.” “No, stay.” McAllister touched Joel’s knee and stopped him from rising. “Look at you. You know you can’t keep going on like this. You need a patron, a true friend, to help you reach your full potential.” “There’s got to be another way.” McAllister smiled and pulled the red satchel onto his lap. “Your illness is affecting your judgment,” he said. “But I have medicine that will help make everything clear again. I suggest you follow me into the lavatory so we can get you back into tiptop shape.” Joel looked down at the small piece of luggage. Faint plumes of purple smoke seemed to be rising up from between the clasps. McAllister kept a tenuous grip on the sides. His fingers left bright streaks of sweat on the leather. “What kind of medicine do you have to give me?” Joel asked. “What it is doesn’t matter,” McAllister said. “The important thing is that it works. Take it
from an old pro—there’s not one of us who doesn’t need a little medicine every now and then.” McAllister stood up from his seat. He began walking slowly away, the satchel swinging at his side, and as his figure merged with the dizzying flow of traffic across the terminal, Joel felt compelled to follow. By the time he reached the men’s restroom, the smoke was so thick he could barely see himself in the mirror. McAllister stood outside the stall door, his eyes glowing bright yellow through the shroud. “There are many types of medicine,” he said, his voice reverberating off the tile walls. “Now if only someone could figure out the name of the disease.”
When
Joel came to, he found
himself in a cream-colored room with sunlight streaming in through the blinds of a nearby window. He was too weak to sit up, but from his bed he could make out the steady beeping of
a heart monitor whose gray and white chords ran down onto the floor and up to his chest and fingertips. An Asian doctor stood over him holding a pen and clipboard. He was on the older side of middle-age with a smooth, bald head and square eyeglasses. “Good morning,” he said. “You speak English, yes?” “Where am I?” Joel asked. “You’re in a hospital in Seoul,” the doctor said. He spoke in a low monotone with only a slight trace of an accent. “You were in pretty bad shape when they brought you in. But with some rest and antibiotics, you should be fine.” “What…what happened? How did I get here?” “You fell asleep in a chair at the airport and lost consciousness. When the ambulance arrived, you had a fever of one hundred and four.” The doctor shook his index finger at Joel and unleashed a series of disapproving tsks from the front of his mouth. “Not good. You should never risk travelling when you’re feeling
unwell.” Joel managed to crane his neck enough to see the clock on the wall. “My flight to Taiwan,” he said. “I missed it.” He gripped the bedrail and tried to pull himself up. But his head started spinning and he fell back against the bed with a soft grunt. “Please. I need to get online. My boss is expecting me to arrive in Taipei any minute.” “You can worry about that later,” the doctor said. “For now, try to get some rest.” “You don’t understand. I’m supposed to take over my new classes on Monday.” The doctor frowned severely and slapped the clipboard against his leg. “Your immune system is very weak right now,” he said. “That’s why the fever progressed so rapidly.” “What does that mean?” “It means you’re exhausted.” The doctor shook his finger one last time and started walking to the door. “You’ve got to take better care of yourself from now on, or you’ll wind up getting sick like this more often.” “I’m still a young man,” Joel
said. “I’m only twenty-eight.” “If you keep going like this, you’ll be an old man before your time.” The doctor walked out into the hallway, leaving Joel alone to sweat out the last of the fever under the heavy brown blanket of the hospital bed. After a short while, a nurse came in to check his vitals and temperature. Before she left, Joel asked her to retrieve his wallet from the closet. He wasn’t surprised that the card was gone, but he also wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
Wayne Burke Seat 27-B
we are at twenty-seven thousand feet there is an old lady on my right she is chewing and fidgeting maybe saying her prayers she becomes self-conscious when I look across her to see out the window on my left is an asshole with a suit on, Mr. Spic and Span he looks like the MC on Jeopardy he is invisible, does not want to be touched or looked at or acknowledged in any way he reads a New York Times he has taken possession of the armrest, I am in the middle stuck without a newspaper or a prayer.
Ashley Scheil Un-planning Plan A - Unhappily Ever After I might subconsciously be making up statistics that fit my needs, but one time I probably read in a sociology book that the average age at which women are getting married has increased. More women are focusing on advancing their educations or careers in lieu of early marriage and babies. When I was sixteen, I planned to have a happily-ever-after with it all: education, career, marriage, and a baby. I would graduate from college at twenty-one and begin teaching. Engaged by twenty-two and married at twenty-three. After a couple of years of newlywed bliss and a stable career, my wonderful husband and I would start our family. My plan was so well detailed that I even had a groom picked out. I’ll refer to said groom as Pre-Husband so I won’t risk tarnishing his happiness since Pre-Husband
has now been happily married for over two years to a woman known as Not Me, and Baby Girl is expected to arrive in May. Pre-Husband, the overachiever, stuck to the plan. Wonderful. I’m so happy for him . . . them. Lately, I’ve been having frequent dreams about being pregnant. I’m undecided whether it’s only a random firing of neurons or the loud internal ticks of my biological clock interrupting my sleep, or possibly, it is my subconscious grasping for forward movement in my life. The circumstances in the dreams change and usually the specifics quickly fade. Sometimes I’m happily married, but once I was abandoned and afraid. I always feel the baby, warm and heavy. A fulfillment. When I wake up and push against my lower abdomen, nothing. Still empty.
Plan B - Eh. He’ll do. As a lover of stories, I once asked my mom how my dad proposed, imagining a storybook proposal full of romance and clichés. She was his teenage sweetheart, his first love, and the mother of his daughter. One day he handed her the ring and grunted, “Do you want this or not?” No down on one knee, no flowers, no sunset, and barely a question. I was sorry I asked, but she only rolled her eyes and said, “You know how your dad is.” Well, yes. Does that stop me from being pessimistic about love? Not exactly. Like, admire, adore, desire. Love and in love. Maybe I spend too much time with words, but I keep expecting the “in” to make a significant difference. I want incredible, indelible, inspired. Romantic relationships are complicated, but potentially, a woman looking for a love-ish
relationship could simply choose a guy. My mom tells me that I’m just too picky, and her assessment is usually followed by something maddeningly unhelpful like, “You and Guy Friend have known each other for a long time.” Wink wink. In that same sociology book with the marriage statistics, however, I might have read estimates about women outnumbering men in the United States. Knowing that bit of information makes finding an acceptable partner an infinitesimal fraction more urgent. Once while flirting with Guy Friend, we made a marriage pact. If we were both still single by the time we turned thirty, we would get married. I’m beginning to wonder if that would hold up as a binding verbal contract.
Plan C - Be My Own Womyn With the completion of a Master’s program, I’m beginning to collect framed college degrees like a mother would accumulate eight-by-tens of her children. According to my
revised plan, I’m somewhat ahead of schedule. When PreHusband from Plan A and I separated after claiming irreconcilable differences, I had to start over. The rebound strategy developed: Bachelor of Science, starter career, husband, Master of Arts, promotion, children. Unfortunately, there was a flaw in the fundamental design. As for finding a suitable husband, see Plan B. I can choose to be a wife and mother, but that’s not the only option. A little bit of resentment paired with enough feminist jargon and I can dedicate my energy to exposing misogyny. Prince Charming is nothing more than a male fantasy concocted by patriarchal assumptions of female inferiority and forced on the impressionability of young girls. Women can slay their own dragons, and will fight their battles wearing combat boots or pink, strappy heels if they please. I will advocate my life as a womyn. I do not have to accept the subordinate nature of
being an extension of man. He is not my root or my stem. Take back your rib; I can stand on my own.
Plan D - Get Cats Recently, I adopted a kitten. I have trouble remembering to feed myself daily and there is no place in my one-bedroom apartment to put a litter box. Still, some warped desire to satisfy my maternal instinct wanted a creature that I could nourish and love. Kittens are easier than babies and just as cute. So far, the kitten has been a sufficient companion, but eventually, the void will grow. I’ll have an urge to adopt another cat and, then, begin taking in strays. One day I might be the neighborhood cat lady. Every day I can wear pink or purple velour jogging suits and too much red lipstick. My house will be sunshine yellow, and I’ll outfit my kitties in frilly dresses and tiny bowties before taking my fuzzy babies out for walks in their pet stroller. Unless I become bitter with
age. Then, I will be a reclusive spinster hag and live in a dilapidated house on the corner. Little children will only sprint past my barren lawn after running to the opposite side of the street. My solitary life will make me a monstrosity, the fear-provoking figure in their scary stories. Either way, I will never get married nor have any children. Instead, I will have hordes of cats because I’m afraid of dying alone.
Plan E - Fake It Conditioned by fairytales to start planning my wedding to my future Mr. Prince Charming, I dreamt of white lace, grandiose flower arrangements, and fondant-covered, septuplelayer cakes. Once, I married a childhood friend. I wore a braided dandelion chain in my hair and we ate shrink-wrapped chocolate swirls for our wedding cake. The game ended when I grew bored with making mud pies and decided that I wanted to be a Ninjutsu-trained, mutant turtle instead of a wife.
Now, it is unnerving to have actually reached the age when marriage becomes an imminent possibility and morphing into a crime-fighting turtle is no longer an alternate option. As cupid systematically picks off my single female friends, I make appearances at bachelorette parties, bridal showers, and baby showers to nibble on pink frosted cupcakes and write advice about husbands and babies on little strips of pastel paper. I’m probably not the best person to be giving advice since my knowledge of husbands and babies is lacking and somewhat faulty, so I scrawl illegible scribbles in hopes that no one will accidentally take my advice.
Plan F - The Un-Plan In all honesty, I have no idea what I’m doing. I plan to bake a cake and end up with a burnt mass smoking on the stove while I eat frosting from the container. The problem with planning is that one moment can undo it all, and we are left wondering what to do with life
after all of our plans fall apart. Maybe it’s best to let go of all of the planning, to avoid the micromanaging and subsequent macro-meltdown when everything goes to hell. I like that planning a romantic evening isn’t anything more than calling for pizza and agreeing on a video game that we both want to play. I eat Cheerios for dinner usually four or five nights a week, and I’m okay with it. I can cook pretty well, but once burnt rice so badly that I had to throw out the pan. I really don’t like to go grocery shopping or wash dishes. Housekeeping mostly seems like a waste of time, and generally don’t scour and scrub unless I’m avoiding writing or my mom is coming to visit. I am completely incapable of telling if I have a fever by feeling my own forehead and can’t do it for anyone else either. I still call my mom when I’m sick or my car makes weird noises or my heart is broken. I don’t have plants because I forget to water them or water them too often. Plants
only really need water and sunlight to survive, so I should probably wait a little longer before committing to anything more complicated or more alive than a plant. Thank goodness, cats are so self-sufficient.
Chelsey van der Munnik Throat Throat. Trot around my neck with your hooved, saddled-up fingertips Thumb the ridges of the front spine, one mound at a time to my chin Pinch the tendons, each like grabbing a single grape from a collection on the vine Take the track of my jawbone with each car of your conducted, trained hand Feel me swallow down the swelling blankness of my mind easily Become soul mates with my panting, then cut it off with scissors in your hands, break it’s heart, take it’s life Wrap your hands each a sailor’s knot round and round my neck’s mast, shielded with a cast, hardened, unmovable Press four valleys into one side (pointer, center, ring, and the little). the thickness of the thumb, a deep crevice made on the other side. Choke to contentment, squeeze to happiness, make me faint, watch me gasp, love my throat.
Contributors
Wayne F. Burke Wayne F. Burke's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Bluestem, Black Wire, Dead Flowers, Red Savina, Industry Night, FORGE, and elsewhere. His book of poems "Words That Burn" is published by Bareback Press (2013). Douglas Collura Douglas Collura is the author of the book, "Things I Can Fit My Whole Head Into," which was a finalist for the 2007 Paterson Poetry Prize. He was also the 2008 First Prize Winner of the Missouri Review Audio/Video Competition in Poetry. His work has been published in The Alembic, BLACK&WHITE, The Broome Review, Coe Review, Crack the Spine, The Cynic, Dislocate, The Dos Passos Review, Eclipse, The Evansville Review, Paterson Literary Review, Lips Magazine, Many Mountains Moving, The Monarch Review, Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine, Sierra Nevada College Review, Soundings East, Spillway, Stickman Review, 2Bridges Review, and other periodicals and webzines. David Melder David Melder grew up in the Boston area, spent some formative years in Tokyo and currently resides in San Francisco. Keith Moul Keith's poems and photos appear widely. Three recently published books include: T"he Grammar of Mind" from Blue & Yellow Dog; "Beautiful Agitation" from Red Ochre Press;and "Reconsidered Light," a collection of poems written to accompany Keith's photos, from Broken Publications.
Chelsey van der Munnik Chelsey is a student and poet living in the uppermost corner of New York. She has been writing for a couple years but has only recently felt confident in her work. She enjoys Hitchcock films, cooking, and growing cactus and tomatoes. Ashley Scheil Ashley Scheil currently has multiple part-time lives while trying to figure out exactly what she’s doing. She works too much, writes too little, and spends an obscene amount of time correcting grammar mistakes for students who insist all English teachers eventually go crazy. Andrew Valencia Andrew Valencia worked for several years as an EFL teacher in South Korea, Panama, and Taiwan. He returned to the United States to pursue an MFA degree in fiction at the University of South Carolina. His short stories have appeared in The Fat City Review, Eclectica, Independent Ink, Mixed Fruit, Switchback, and other journals. Joan Marie Wood Joan Marie Wood’s poetry has appeared in Peregrine, decomP and Paterson Literary Review. "Her Voice Is Blackberries," a book of poems, was published by AWA Press. She has led writing workshops in Oakland, CA since 1995.
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