FreightTrain Magazine Summer 2006 by FreightTrain Magazine

Stalked by the Deadly Mountain Lion

Crazy Walk by

Sam Bahena

Felipe Briceno

Good Fences a play by

Jesse Jordan

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Zine Mission

SUBMISSIONS

FreightTrain aims to offer an outlet for new writers and for readers who want diversity in literary magazines. So, if you’re looking for something different than mainstream publications, you’ve come to the right place. Our intention is to fill FreightTrain with quality short fiction and one act plays, regardless of the author’s previous publication experience. In a world where who you know is the key to success, FreightTrain wants to show that what you know, and the talent you possess, are equally (if not more) important.

FreightTrain is looking for quality short fiction and one act plays. We accept email submissions ONLY. Send your files as word docs, pdfs, or open office files. Anyone can submit up to one play OR fiction piece per email. The max is 5,000 words for a fiction, and plays should be less than 30 pages in standard stage format. Please allow two months for response and do not contact the magazine for the status of your entry. No simultaneous submissions. We look for high quality, but we do not prefer one kind, or style, over another. Send to FTZINE@gmail.com.

From Justin Hoffman, Editor I am a fiction writing student at Columbia College Chicago. Over the course of a semester, I have turned myself into an editor and creator a new literary magazine called FreightTrain. The first issue will be made of two stories and one play, perhaps it will grow in size in the future. This simple, straight forward project will contain new and exciting work from young, quality writers.

TABLE OF CONTENTS Stalked by the Deadly Mountain Lion by Felipe Briceno . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Crazy Walk by Sam Bahena . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Good Fences by Jesse Jordan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

The People editor, publisher Justin Hoffman cover art, good ideas Heather Peck

Contact ftzine@gmail.com

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Zine Mission

SUBMISSIONS

Good Fences by Jesse Jordan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

The People editor, publisher Justin Hoffman cover art, good ideas Heather Peck

Contact ftzine@gmail.com

Ad Rates

773-276-7076

Inside cover Full page Half page Quarter page

FT Zine  N Pine Grove  Chicago, IL 

$25 $20 $10 $5

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Stalked by the Deadly Mountain Lion short ﬁction by

Felipe Briceno

Felipe Briceno is a Columbia College student. He is a short man, born to a humble immigrant couple in the rough streets of Chicago on the 11th of April, 1979. He is an Aries. he currently attends Columbia college as a playwriting major, and has never been convicted of a major crime. When he dies, he wishes to be cremated and have his remains spooned into the iced tea of his enemies. He also enjoys horseback riding. 2

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EYES. CRYSTAL BLUE ORBS staring hungrily from behind the bushes, gauging every move I made. Their focus wandered from my hands to my head as I rolled up the tent and shoved it into the back of the station wagon. “Dad,” I said, “There’s something out there. He wiped the salty beads of sweat off his forehead with his sleeve and peered at the tree line. His brown eyes searched for the aberration. “Oh, I see it now,” he said chuckling. “Mountain lion. They’ve got a hell of a lot a ‘em in these parts, in mountain country. It’s stalking us. They stalk their prey over a series of days, patiently waiting for it to let down its guard. But we’re getting on, so it put in all that hard work for nothing.” The packing was done, so we loaded the wagon with our tent and the rest of our camp. Still, those blue eyes haunted me; they waited, hungry. We descended on the winding mountain roads, our tires kicking rocks and gravel up from the back of the blue station wagon. I smooshed my face against the window and wiped the fog caused by my breath ever few seconds. I watched the thick tangle of brush and trees thin as we made our way home in the city. The scenery blurred when my dad pressed harder on the accelerator. Eventually, I opened my Slapperman comic book, but my eyes never focused on the page. Instead, the forest filled my mind, and layers of foliage peeled away. It didn’t register until that moment, but the eyes were there – in the forest – following me. “Dad, Dad! The mountain lion’s still out there. I think I saw…” But when I turned to explain, his eyes were closed; he breathed softly and evenly. He was sound asleep despite the fact that we were traveling sixty miles per hour downhill. “DAD!” His eyes jerked open and he shook his head violently, but he never lost control of the car. “Whoo, must’ve dosed off there for a sec. Don’t worry, Jeremy, we’ll be home in an hour.” He smiled looking straight ahead and blinked frequently. I tried to not worry and looked out the window. A gray tail curled, then snapped behind a gas station. Timmy called and asked if I wanted to play soccer in the park. “Okay,” Mom said, “But be careful. Parks can be dangerous. You boys keep your eyes out for molesters.” She laughed. It always creeped me out when she said that. It’s four blocks to the FreightTrain

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Stalked by the Deadly Mountain Lion short ﬁction by

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park, so I kicked the ball as I walked. The air was warm and gnat filled, with a soft breeze. The birds chirped, and I heard a car honk behind me. A group of girls, probably two grades younger, were across the street giggling and pointing at something behind me. I gave the ball a tap, and it rolled a few feet farther. There was a quick succession of honks behind me, and two cars sped past, yelling out their windows at each other. The girls were laughing louder now, creating an annoying high pitched music, each trying to laugh louder than the other. God, these girls need someone to shut them up, I thought. Then another car squealed by, honking repeatedly. “The speed limit’s thirty-five, asshole,” the second driver yelled from his red face. I smiled, because I enjoyed the sound of profanity. I turned to see what all the honking was about, and to see whom I should thank for increasing my swear vocabulary. A vehicle was keeping pace with me. I squinted to see through the glare on the windshield. The blood drained from my face and my eyes grew as wide as silver dollars. Behind the wheel of a black van was the mountain lion. Unable to differentiate between mountain lions, I would usually have considered this a coincidence – it could have been a completely different cat than the one I saw a few days ago. Any local lion could have decided on a weekend drive through a pretty neighborhood. But I looked into his eyes – those icy orbs – and knew it was him. And his only intention must have been to eat me. I froze with fear when he realized I had spotted him. My soccer ball kept rolling and went into the street. The best stomped on the gas, his fan fishtailed, and he sped by me with an agonizing howl. I heard a pop before his car disappeared around the corner. I could still hear tires screeching a mile away. I stopped to look over the remaining scraps of my soccer ball. Heaven help me! My mind pleaded. What sort of monster would run over a little boy’s soccer ball? Then I noticed I was so frightened I had peed a little – it showed on my shorts. I hopped on the school bus at eight-thirty, same time as every school morning. Timmy usually rides with me but he must have been invisible or maybe he got the chicken pox like Loretta. I sat behind the driver, humming as I kicked the back of his seat. I wanted to piss him off enough to swear so I could tell the teacher. This time he was extremely patient, so I quit and tried to come up with a dirty word that rhymed with Brian Blitoris’ name. Paper was flying, third graders were screaming, and a group of kids in the back were huddled around a deck of naked lady cards. I was still sleepy and yawned repeatedly while eating a pudding pack from my knapsack. From the bust window I watched passengers’ knees change 4

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as each car passed. At a stop sight a black van pulled up next to us with Timmy in the front seat asleep. My mom never gives me rides, I thought, the lucky bastard. At school, I slept through first and second period and most of homeroom. Kids were screaming until Mr. Monk entered the room carrying a blue box. “Shut the hell up, you little creeps!” Monk screamed. He walked over to me and set the box on my desk, narrowly avoiding the graze of a paper airplane. “Jeremy, this came for you.” He turned back to the class and blared, “Blitoris! If one more airplane goes in the air, I’m gonna teach this class some interesting words for parts of the female anatomy.” Ooooh! What could it be? Maybe it’s an award. Or maybe my mom sent me a cake to make up for last week, when she got drunk and threw up at my birthday party, I wondered. A few interested kids gathered around me to see what goodies I had received. In and effort to instill jealousy, I demanded to be left alone. They disbursed after a few ugly looks. The box was tied tightly with twine. I pulled a string from the knot and felt a satisfying pop as it came loose. I lifted off the lid. In the box was Timmy’s head, face up in a pile of entrails. I smashed the lid back on quickly, trying to forget, but the image stayed. His skull was empty but maroon blood clung to the skin around his eye sockets and nostrils. The torn end of his spinal chord hung alone where his neck used to be. To my left, I heard a tapping on the window. The mountain lion was waving his paw and holding up a note against the window, which read (in poor penmanship and spelling), “Thatt will B U!” His intimidating eyes stared for a couple seconds, then disappeared. “So what was it?” Sammy whispered in my ear. I stiffened and screamed. Everyone was silent and looking at me, pale and frozen. “Um, …poo. Yes, dog poo. My dog’s sick so I have to check for any abnormality,” I blurted. A collective “Eiewww!” bellowed from the chorus of onlookers and then a chant of “Poop Inspector.” Outside, I saw the mountain lion’s black van pulling away. His blue eyes were fixed on me. As he disappeared around the corner, he flipped me off. “Alright, Jeremy. Your mother and I are going to see the new Eddie Murphy movie, and then to the gun show,” Dad said that night. “Hah, your mother sure loves her ethnic movies.” I couldn’t believe they were leaving me home alone. I haven’t slept for two months because the creature has been stalking me. I’m eleven and I’m drinking six cups of coffee a day to stay awake. I see him everywhere, but my dad just thinks it’s either paranoia from all the sleep deprivation and coffee, or it’s just a regular child molester after me. The other day, I was riding my bike through the park, and I saw him FreightTrain

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on a bench watching me from behind a copy of Animals Eating Children Magazine. A couple of weeks ago, my family was at Wendy’s getting lunch. I was the only person that noticed the cashier was a mountain lion – he was wearing the severed skull of a pimple faced teenager on his furry head, as if a hat. Then, on Wednesday, Dad was pulled over for speeding. When the officer was next to the door he asked my dad for his license and registration. Next he demanded that my dad hand over his son to the police to be questioned and eventually eaten. I looked at the officer’s furry face and was greeted by a collection of sharp teeth – he was grinning at me with saliva dripping from the sharp points. He growled. My dad said he’d just mail the ticket in and drove away. Now, my parents were going out, leaving me to fend for myself. “Don’t you worry about anything, son. Your mom and I made sure to lock this place up tight. Nothing’s coming in or out, whether it be burglar or man-hunting robot. Well, unless of course they come in through the doggy door in the kitchen. But the only things that can get through there are dogs, or maybe some large, mountain cat. Well, we’re off. Don’t get into my liquor.” The night was mostly uneventful. I stood guard in front of the doggy door for three hours with an aluminum bat clutched in my white knuckled hands. The television was turned off so I could hear outside more clearly. Crickets chirped busily in the yard. Bullfrogs let loose deep groans and birds twittered. The sounds of nature began to sooth me and, despite my will, I began to nod off. “Bzzzzt.” The house was dark. I stood up fully alert. He must have cut the power, I thought. I ran to the phone and picked up the receiver. Dead. The best had cut me off from the outside world, but he wouldn’t outsmart me. The only way in our out was through that rubber square near the bottom of the kitchen door. We had put it in when I got a dog for Christmas. But four days later, my dad accidentally shot the dog, and we never got another. Dad said they were too dangerous. CRACK! A stick broke outside. I stood, bending over the opening, bat raised and ready. Grass shuffled near the door. I squeezed the handle tighter. There was complete silence. Not a cricket, frog or bird made a single sound. Suddenly, a furry object burst through the opening. I swung, hearing the twang of aluminum on bone. I kept bringing the club down with all my strength, even as blood sprayed drenching me in crimson. When my arms were exhausted I began kicking, feeling ribs shatter under my sneakers. My legs eventually buckled and I fell to the floor, as a pile of books tumbles to the ground. Panting and wheezing, I tried to clean the blood from my face with a sleeveless arm, but it smeared evenly. The hump of fir was motionless. No sign of breathing. But I was still afraid. I’d seen a thousand mov-

ies and knew it’s never that easy to kill the killer. One trembling hand reached for the body while the other gripped the bat. When I touched the soft hair I felt for a heartbeat – none, it was dead. I dropped the bat and felt the vibration through the ﬂoor. I sat and turned the mountain lion over. I examined its fur, its long teeth and sharp claws, and looked into its dead, brown eyes. Wait! The creature’s eyes were blue, not brown. I checked the body again, more carefully. My god, how didn’t I notice these tire tracks across its fur? Or the bullet holes in its chest? Or the wire still around its strangled throat? Or the six knives still sticking out of its back? Good Lord, help me. This isn’t the same lion. It’s a diversion. What kind of monster kills his own kind to get to an eleven-year-old boy? My mind screamed. There was a scratching sound above me. I looked up at the ceiling lamp. Instead of the stainless steel framing that we picked up at the hardware store, there was a mountain lion, hanging upside down, holding light bulbs in its paws and mouth. Before he leapt, those calculating eyes bore down on me. I thought to myself, How did a mountain lion learn to drive?

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Crazy Walk

is a ﬁction writer, marathoner, and bee catcher from Chicago. He is currently working on a Fiction Writing Degree at Columbia College.

GLASSY BLACK STILETTOS, buffed chrome heels, flawless fishnet stockings; tight black dress, every strand, every hair in just the right place, confident, right here, right now, without a doubt – loud! Name: Glory. She was the one woman all the other women on her block would leave their husbands, their children, and their meals cooling on the dinner table, to rush out onto their front stoops to gawk at as if a flock of vultures homing in on their prey. This was no easy hunt. Glory was no victim; she would not lie down to die for them. They all hated her, and she in return hated every one of them twice as much! Hatred! Hatred! They would claw at her and she would scratch right back. They wanted her out and she, without a doubt, would not leave, not alive. Only death would remove these warriors from the battleground. “Glory, you should cover up your merchandise when you walk around here. There are decent people living in this neighborhood. You’re attracting the horseflies with your merchandise hanging out like it is; you are a spoiled woman, and at your age!” Mrs. Cronksfield preached while perched on her stoop like it were the pulpit in her church. “The First Baptist Church of The Almighty Christ,” her hands reaching, stretching high for the heavens as she spoke down to Glory on the sidewalk. She stood there in one of her many Sunday’s best dresses, cut just below the curve of her knees. She maintained a dress in each of the eight primary colors, sunshine yellow was her favorite. As a Christian woman, it was her religious belief that she be dressed in her finest at all times; she dedicated her life to the work of God. She slept with her jewelry on: around her neck, she wore a 24k gold necklace with a cross-shaped medallion encrusted with diamonds from the mines in South Africa, which she believed to be the true birthplace of civilization. At least once a day, she pulled the medallion out from between her two heavenly mounds and raised it high above to the heavens before bringing it back down to her lips to kiss the cross quickly, saying, “Praise the Lord.” Then she squeezed it back between her bosoms. On the fourth finger of her right hand, she wore a ring jeweled with six rubies, also formed in the shape of the cross. She polished her ring so often it sparkled in the dark of the night sky. She claimed the rubies to be the blood of Christ. She believed God had placed Glory in her path as a test to her Christian faith. It became her mission to destroy Glory at all costs in the name of the Lord. But Glory would not bow down, instead she fought back.

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Sam Bahena

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Crazy Walk

is a ﬁction writer, marathoner, and bee catcher from Chicago. He is currently working on a Fiction Writing Degree at Columbia College.

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Sam Bahena

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“Tell that to Frank. Frank says he loves the way I dress. Every time he sees me, he says, ‘Mmm, Mmm, Mmm, there is a reason why your name is Glory! Glory!’ Frank, Sherrie’s (Mrs. Cronksfield’s) devoted husband, was a church-going, God-fearing man who would not go out onto the steps and degrade Glory. Sherrie frantically searched for something to throw at Glory, as she strutted past, to strike her down like the heathen Sherrie believed Glory to be. “That woman is the devil, without a doubt. Her very presence is a sin. Lord, strike her down… ” Sherrie looking high towards the heavens cried out. Glory didn’t stop and never gave her a second look. She believed Sherrie was no closer to God. Glory passed Mrs. Gonzalez next, and she was always standing out there with her four children, Alex, Martha, Junior, and little Miguel, from tallest to shortest. Maria Gonzalez stood next to them, facing her children, while all their little eyes were fixed on her. Glory stared at Maria. Maria looked at her, then to her children, and began a loud thunderous fury, pointing angrily at Glory and then at each of her four children, but never once taking her eyes off of them. “Estan viendo esa puta! Ella es el diablo! Mirenla! Mirenla!” The children looked horrified. Glory saw tears forming on Miguel’s face. She was sure Maria was saying something awful bad about her in Spanish, but she didn’t understand a word. She was never quite sure whether to be mad or be scared, but she figured if she couldn’t understand it, and she wasn’t saying it directly to her, why bother. Besides, she had enough enemies on the block without having one that spoke a language she couldn’t begin to understand. She had also heard rumors that Maria dabbled in black magic; on her front lawn stood a hand painted concrete statue of the Virgin Mary the size of a small child but weighing four times as much. For some unexplained reason, the statue was never in the same place twice. In the morning the Virgin Mary was close to the sidewalk, and in the afternoon she was several feet back – closer to the house but never in the same spot twice. Even stranger was the fact that no one on the block could ever claim they saw the statue being moved. Maria, herself, denied ever moving it. “No es mia! ¿Porque la voy a mover?” She claimed the statue was there when she bought the house and had no right or reason to move it. Neighbors claimed to see women and men coming out of Maria’s house at all hours, covered in egg whites and yellow yolks. Neighbors claimed it was her way of cleansing people of the evil spirits. But Glory had her doubts. She knew Maria ran a beauty salon out of her basement and figured it was some Aztec concoction to get rid of dandruff. Either way, Glory figured angering Maria wasn’t worth taking a chance. Next were the Clapps. No matter how many days in a row came to pass, nor the time of day, be it morning, noon, or night, Gladys Clapp

would come out of her house in the same green polyester nightgown. It was worn out in all the necessary areas. She also wore the same purple slippers, which had turned a shade of gray, and the same crusty rollers in her hair caked with dust. She looked as if she was always getting ready to get ready or to go to bed. No one ever quite knew which of the two it was. She was never seen beyond the porch and carried a wooden rolling pin with her at all times. It was her sword, always ready to strike down her foe as she stood on her porch. Following closely behind, in her shadow, was Jasper. They had been married eighteen years but he had always been quite taken by Glory. Jasper was a big man with even bigger arms and bigger hands, who looked untouchable. Just the same, he made sure to stay out of Gladys’ line of ﬁre, for fear of being struck by her wooden rolling pin, by standing in the background. He would shyly smile and desperately sneak and wave at Glory when he felt the time was right. Jasper was the only man in the neighborhood known to have gone beyond the dead end sign at the end of the block where Glory lived, to visit her in a state of drunkenness. He was gone for two whole days. No one ever found out what came of that matter, least of all Gladys! No one else ever dared to go beyond that metal barrier. It was a dead end – a wasteland. “You should get out of here. You’re ruining people’s lives. Are you listening to me? Are you deaf from all that whorrin’ you do?” If Glory ignored her, Gladys would say the one thing she knew never failed to get Glory’s attention. “Is that bastard of yours in prison yet?” Glory stopped dead in her tracks, heels glistening in the remains of summer’s setting sun. Glory had stopped one too many times to not know how to deal with Gladys. She looked past Gladys and smiled innocently. When she saw Jasper looking her way, she put her hand up high toward the last rays of sunlight and gave him a little wave rocking her hand gently back and forth. Back and forth! Gladys would catch him every time with his hand in the air waving back. For the life of him, Jasper could not help himself; he was a mere child in Glory’s playground and all he could think about was going down her slide. “How you doing, Jasper?” Glory purred. “Hello Glory! I’m doing… ” Gladys glared at Jasper, appalled that he would dare respond to Glory at all, but especially in her presence. “Don’t you dare say hello to that whore. Put your arm down before I put it down for you. Jasper, I swear to God!” Gladys swung her rolling pin, and Jasper put his arm down right before getting hit. “It sure is hot out here. It’s so humid I can barely stand to wear my clothes in this heat. I think I’ll take a bubble bath to refresh myself just as soon as I get home.” Glory fanned herself, waving her hand back and forth across her chest. She smiled because she knew Jasper ate every word she said. Gladys burned up inside, watching him swallow it. Jasper would ﬁght the smile forming on his face while Gladys’ eyes burned

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deep into him. She turned towards the stairs with her rolling pin high in the air ready to strike. “I’ll teach you to talk to my man like that, you whore.” Glory stood without shaking a feather as Gladys came running down the stairs. “Maybe if you knew how to take care of your man, you wouldn’t come running at me with a rolling pin, you nagging hag! Look at you in that damn costume you’re always wearing. No wonder your man is searching for something else.” “You whore!” yelled Gladys. Jasper grabbed her right before she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Let go of me, Jasper. Why are you defending that whore? Let go!” He held her the whole time with his big arms, while avoiding the rolling pin. Gladys continued yelling and waving her rolling pin until Glory decided she had had enough and it was time for her to leave. Glory walked away, strutting her stuﬀ, gyrating every part of her body that wasn’t held down as a nail to a board by her tight dress, just to spite Gladys. Poor Jasper was lost as he stood there and watched Glory walk away. She headed down the street to the end of the block searching for the metal divider. Glory knew she would make it home once she passed the dead end sign.

We lived past the dead end sign at the end of the block. Glory and I lived just beyond that metal barrier, which drew a line between good and bad. We were last; the only thing past our house was a downward slope that led to a muddied barrier wall made of concrete. Beyond that was the expressway. Even the mailman refused to pass the metal divider to bring our mail. At all hours, day or night, the sounds of cars and trucks zipping back and forth on the expressway could be heard from all eight rooms in the house. The noise was such a constant it became part of you.

In the morning, I ate breakfast during rush hour. Traffic bumper-tobumper, horns beeping, the news radio playing travel times and weather conditions, engines revving, and the smell of exhaust fumes permeated the house. In the late afternoon when I got home from school, it was the beginning of evening rush hour. Cars sped past, radios blaring to the latest tunes, then traffic would swell, and people would slam the brakes, swear, smack their horns as if the end was near, and occasionally gunshot cracked the air. At dinnertime after traffic finally died down, cars passed by less frequently, making a sound reminiscent of a fly caught in a windowsill, zipping back and forth looking for a way out. At night, I went to bed to the sound of stragglers whizzing by and semi-trailers huffing and bouncing along the empty road – I counted them instead of sheep. The many different sounds of the expressway kept in my life. I knew I was alive because of the traffic. Beep! Beep! In the late afternoon, I sat on the blue velvet sofa in front of the large picture window in the parlor, at the front of the house. I would do my homework or read a book while I waited for Glory to return home. Sometimes, but not too often, I would gaze out, catching the last rays of daylight coming through the weeping willow in the front lawn. Or, I would stare at all the similar houses that were completely different from ours. The others were modern and ours was old. They were small, single family flats, made of brick, wood, and aluminum siding. Ours was big, really big, two stories of wood and brick, plus an attic. The other houses all shared the same amount of exposed brick. What differentiated them was the shade of pastel aluminum siding chosen by the owner, of which there were six varieties. Our house, on the other hand, was painted sky blue from top to bottom. The paint was old and peeling, with white showing underneath. Blue was Glory’s favorite color; not any particular shade of blue, just blue. When Glory came home at the end of her day, she would stand in front of the house for a few minutes before entering. She looked at the house as if it was a loved one. I believed, if she could, she would have hugged the house like it was a living person. It was her shrine. This house had everything to do with who she was. Glory then climbed the stairs and came inside. Glory was two different women in one. The first was the one known to the outside world: in your face, tough, sexy, and confident. The second woman, the woman I knew, was sweet, loving, caring, stern, and always dependable. The transformation from outside Glory to inside Glory was complete the minute she entered the house and took off her shoes. I sat in the parlor waiting for her to come in. I never witnessed but I always imagined a grin coming wide across her face as her shoes came off. Inside this house,

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if nowhere else in the whole of Memphis, Tennessee, she could let her guard down and be herself and not have to worry about the outside world and all of its rules and judgments that went along with living in such a society. Glory stepped into the parlor where I was sitting and glanced over me without saying a word. She looked around the room to make sure everything was in its place, including me. The furniture had to be up against the wall but not touching, and the pictures had to be hung level with the right relatives facing each other. If even a pillow was in the wrong place, she would let me know. “Harvard, how old are you?” “Thirteen.” I answered knowing quite well she did not want one, and yet if I did not answer she would scold me for that too. “Thirteen? Thirteen! How many times do you think in those thirteen years I have told you to clean up your messes?” Because she told me this everyday, I had lost count after a million so I shrugged my shoulders. “Exactly, it’s been too many times for the highest counter to keep count. What if we have company? What will they think? ‘Those people beyond the dead end live like animals!’ That’s what they’ll say.” Like I said, I was thirteen at the time and as far back as I could remember, no one had ever entered our house. Not even Jasper when he came over drunk, begging Glory to let him in. So again I shrugged my shoulders. “Clean this mess up while I make dinner.” Most of the time, she wouldn’t even tell me what was out of place so I moved everything just a little hoping it would do the job. Same thing everyday. One day, not long after Glory told me the story of her great, great granddad, Lexun Porter, I was coming home from school thinking about how one day this old house would be mine. As I got closer to the house, I could see Glory sitting in front of the picture window with her head down. This was a surprise, so I ran inside because I was afraid she might be sick. When she heard my footsteps, she looked up with a letter held tightly in her hand. She was crying and mascara streaked down her face. At that moment she looked older somehow – there were lines on her face I had never seen before. She had always been perfect, without any ﬂaws, but her face and her tears. Glory never cried. I moved closer, wanting to hold her. But, before I could reach my arms around her, she stood.

“Don’t!” she said. I didn’t know why, but I was shocked and choked on my tears. “I… I can’t!” she stammered before storming away. She still held the letter tightly in her hand and a moment later the door to her room slammed. I put my school bag down and waited on the blue velvet sofa. She didn’t come out for the rest of the afternoon or that night. The next morning I got up and went straight to Glory’s room. Her door was open but she was gone. The letter was lying on her bed. I grabbed the letter, still moist from her tears. I read the letter.

FreightTrain

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FreightTrain

Dearest sister, Glory. I know it’s been a whole lot of years since you heard from me and I heard from you. I ﬁgure you must have thought or hoped I was dead by now. I know that is how I have often felt over these thirteen years since I left you and the baby. That I was dead! I mean. I wished! I still do sometimes. Glory, there is no other way for me to say what happened back then other than to say I was just plain stupid jealous. Jealous of you, I was. Even today I still ﬁnd myself burning inside with jealousy when I think of everything you have and I didn’t. I cannot begin to say I understand anything about you or me. We might have looked identical but for some reason we were never the same. You were always considered prettier than me. Everyone liked you more than me. Momma loved you more! Poppa loved you more too. He even loved you more than he loved momma. I can still hear Momma’s voice saying to us, “You two girls are like water. Glory you is the cold water. Maisa you is the hot water. You two need to learn to love one another because the best water for living is cool water. Neither one of you can be the right temperature without the other.” That’s what she would say. I never believed her. The night Henry and I got together, I cried the whole time. He kept saying, “Glory, I love you. I want you to be with me forever.” I didn’t answer him and he got upset. He said, “I am spilling my love to you, baby. Don’t you want to be with me? Don’t you love me?” After he made love to me I told him I never wanted to see him again. I told him I wasn’t you. He got upset and left. He loved you and only you, but I wanted him to love me too. What it has taken me all summer 

FreightTrain

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FreightTrain

these years to learn, is that I just wanted to be loved by one person, like you were loved by so many. I wanted someone to tell me that they loved me the way Henry told me he loved you. When he stopped coming around, because of what I did, because he thought you wouldn’t love him anymore, I thought you were going to die. I remember seeing you cry. I felt bad and I wanted to tell you what I had done but I couldn’t. I knew no one would understand and everyone would take your side like they always did. When I found out I was pregnant with Henry’s baby I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to tell him it was his and make him love me. I wanted to tell you so you would hate him. But I knew he could never love me or my baby the same way he would have loved you if it were your baby. I knew I couldn’t love a baby that was mine but was supposed to be yours. That is why I left the baby with you. I knew you would love him like he was your own. I knew you would raise him to be a strong person like you always were. I knew you would never think twice about it. And, I knew you could do what I couldn’t. In the long run I knew it wouldn’t matter to you whose baby it was. I thought maybe Henry would get back with you if I left. It has been long enough, I want to come home. If you can forgive me, write me. Does the baby know you are not his mother? I am sorry for everything I did. It has been a very long time. Please let me come home. I will wait for your letter. Your sister: Maisa Porter

sweetly. “You are my boy, and will always be. No matter what.” “I love you too, Glory.” I never doubted her love before and I never would. Love wasn’t something we talked about because it was always there around us. It was something we felt in the way we treated each other. We were family. Even though some families are ﬁlled with hate, ours was ﬁlled with love and always would be. We never talked about the letter. And I never met Maisa. I realized that no matter what, I belonged to Glory, my momma.

After I read the letter I folded it up and put it back on Glory’s bed. I went outside to sit underneath the Weeping Willow to wait for her. When she came home later that night, she followed her usual routine. She stood in front of the house for few minutes. When she came into the parlor she looked at me, and I stared at her. We were both silent. Finally she took a step and I stood. Tears were forming in her eyes again, and I started choking. Glory put her arms out; it was my signal for take oﬀ, and I rushed to her. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed tightly. I could feel her love emanating. She kissed me on the cheek and the let me go. She looked at me again, as if I had been away for a very long time. “Harvard, I love you! It doesn’t matter what the letter says,” she spoke 16

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FreightTrain

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FreightTrain

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Good Fences a play by

Jesse Jordan

A BACKYARD AT NIGHT. One o’clock in the morning. The yard is walled in on both sides of the stage. Stage right is the side and back of a two-story house with gray siding and a wooden wrap-around back patio. The back of the house faces upstage. The back stairs turn and face stage left after they’ve descended a bit. The patio stretches out, past the middle of the stage. On the end of the patio is a lawnchair, a large, freestanding telescope, a bottle of wine and a wineglass. Stage left is the Fence, running the complete length of the stage and just about seven feet tall. It looks new and the wood is untreated. As the play begins, hanging lights and streamers can just barely be seen hanging on the other side of the fence. The sounds of a party are in the air: laughter, glasses clinking, and Salsa and Spanish rock music. The volume must be at a level where the party is obviously noticed, but not offensive or blaring. ANNE MARIE, early to mid-fifties, classy, even now in her robe and slippers, stands against the fence with her head leaning against it. She has a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. ANNE MARIE: (softly) Please. Please break up the party. Tell them your wife is tired and you’re drunk. Shake their hands and thank them for coming. Tell them to drive safe, put your kids to bed, and have soft, tired, drunken sex with your wife. Please. Please, this is hard enough already. I have to say it to him tonight. I planned it for tonight, built myself up. I have notes. Please. (pause) He needs to be happy. The back door opens and Anne Marie drops and stubs out her cigarette quickly, waving away the smoke around her. GEORGE, mid-fifties, dressed in sweatpants and an old Notre Dame sweatshirt, walks down the stairs and onto the patio.

is a Columbia College student. He lives in Chicago with his wife, his dog, and the White Sox. He always dances at weddings and takes 10mg of Paxil every night.

GEORGE: I called the cops. ANNE MARIE: George. GEORGE: What? That’s what you’re supposed to do. In situations like this, that’s what you’re supposed to do. ANNE MARIE: It’s not that bad. We could just ignore them and enjoy ourselves. GEORGE: How could you ignore that? (He begins sloppily miming Salsa dancing) Bom bananuh Bom Bom BomANNE MARIE: George.

FreightTrain

Jesse Jordan

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FreightTrain

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Good Fences a play by

Jesse Jordan

is a Columbia College student. He lives in Chicago with his wife, his dog, and the White Sox. He always dances at weddings and takes 10mg of Paxil every night.

FreightTrain

Jesse Jordan

summer 

FreightTrain

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GEORGE: All night. That. ANNE MARIE: I just think that we’re ﬁxating on it, and if we let ourselves, we wouldn’t even notice it. GEORGE: I’ll tell you, I won’t notice it when the cops come and shut down that party. ANNE MARIE: (pause) You could have just went over and talked to them. GEORGE: Are you kidding? Have you ever spoken with them? ANNE MARIE: Yes. GEORGE: The father- What is it? Bartolo?- he can barely speak English. ANNE MARIE: George, he could understand you ﬁne. Plus, Esmerelda speaks very well. GEORGE: Oh, and his brother. Jesus Christ. Is that his brother? God, does he look like a thug. What’s his name again? It’s not even like a name, is it? ANNE MARIE: It’s Catche. (Kah-chee) GEORGE: Catche, right. What the hell is that? ANNE MARIE: Let’s just get set okay. If the police are coming, then there’s nothing we can do until they get here. Okay? GEORGE: That’s what I planned on doing. Anne Marie heads for the house, while George begins checking his telescope.

ANNE MARIE: I’m glad. A Cheer comes up from the other side of the Fence. GEORGE:

(shaking his head) Almost perfect.

Anne Marie walks over and gives his beer and the corkscrew. George continues to stare at the fence. Anne Marie looks at his set up for a moment, then shakes her head. She looks at him, then back at the lawnchair and the telescope. She looks back at him. ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE:

So what’s the plan tonight? What do you mean? I mean, what is going to happen tonight? (looking at her) You know what’s happening tonight, Marie. ANNE MARIE: I thought I did, but could you please tell me again. GEORGE: (confused) Well, we’re gonna watch the shower. We’re going to sit out here and have some wine and relax and, in about a half-hour or an hour, the shower’s going to start. ANNE MARIE: (chuckling in annoyance) Okay, where am I going to sit? See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. What am I going to going to drink my wine out of?

ANNE MARIE: Do you want a drink? GEORGE: Yeah, thanks hon. Could you just get me a beer? Oh, and the corkscrew. ANNE MARIE: No problem. Anne Marie goes inside. George looks at the back door, then pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pants. He takes one out and quickly lights it, inhaling deeply and with obvious enjoyment. Then he picks up a notebook that was lying on the lawnchair and opens it, holding it close to the telescope, he puts on his reading glasses and looks back and forth between the two. GEORGE:

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(softly) Twenty-two, west, northwest. Ten, three forty, eight. North. (He closes the notebook and stands up straight.) Alright. (He throws the notebook back on the chair, obviously very happy, and looks straight up at the night sky.) Alright, alright. Oh, what are the chances? No clouds. No moon. Fucking perfect. (He slaps one hand oﬀ the other in excitement, then takes another drag from his cigarette. The back door opens and he quickly drops his cigarette and stubs it out, waving the air around his head.) It’s perfect hon. FreightTrain

George looks at his set up and realizes what she’s talking about. GEORGE:

Oh, honey I’m sorry. I just forgot, these guys (gesturing to fence) you know? I was going to get you a chair and a glass, I just got preoccupied with the noise, that’s all. ANNE MARIE: Why wouldn’t you just bring the second wine glass along with the ﬁrst one? GEORGE: (pause) You don’t drink red wine. ANNE MARIE: I might tonight. It’s a special night. GEORGE: Well, okay, how am I supposed to know that? ANNE MARIE: If you want to watch this by yourself you can just tell me. I’ll go back to bed. GEORGE: No. No, I want you out here. I’m sorry. I’ll get it now. FreightTrain

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ANNE MARIE: I’m glad. A Cheer comes up from the other side of the Fence. GEORGE:

(shaking his head) Almost perfect.

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George looks at his set up and realizes what she’s talking about. GEORGE:

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ANNE MARIE: You don’t have to. GEORGE: I’ll get it now. George goes oﬀstage and comes back with another lawnchair. He sets it on the other side of the telescope. He starts to go inside to get the wineglass, but stops on the steps. GEORGE:

What did you mean when you said this was exactly what you were talking about? ANNE MARIE: What? GEORGE: You said, this is exactly what I’m talking about, but you hadn’t been talking about anything. ANNE MARIE: (pause) I just meant, I meant that this, this kind of thing, is what we usually, what I’m usually telling you about. George stares at her. GEORGE:

(pause) Okay.

George goes inside. Anne Marie exhales and quickly pulls a bunch of folded up loose-leaf paper from her pocket. She flips through the pages. ANNE MARIE: (softly) It’s final. Your choice. Okay. Um, dadada, there’s a point where…okay, okay. I love you. Mark and Julie did it and they’re…okay. She quickly refolds the paper and stuffs it in her pocket. The back door opens and George comes out.

GEORGE: What? ANNE MARIE: (in an angry whisper) Those people? GEORGE: Not “Those People.” Those People (gesturing to Fence.) The Santiagos. ANNE MARIE: I just don’t think it’s a good thing to say. It could be misunderstood. GEORGE: (looking down the Fence, downstage, oﬀ to the street) Wait. ANNE MARIE: What? GEORGE: Wait. ANNE MARIE: Wait for what? I’m not doing anything. GEORGE: (turning to her; in a whisper) The cops are here. ANNE MARIE: Okay good. So then it’s taken care of and you can sit down and relax. GEORGE: Only one of them is coming up the drive. The other one’s staying in the car. ANNE MARIE: Is that a problem? GEORGE: No, I don’t think so. It probably only takes one to break it up. Maybe the other one is checking them out. ANNE MARIE: Checking them out? The volume of the music dips slightly. George puts his eye up to the fence and watches between to slats. ANNE MARIE: George. GEORGE: Ssh. ANNE MARIE: Do not shush me! We have had this conversation. George turns around quickly and gestures for her to keep it down.

GEORGE:

I know you don’t like red, but this is an excellent wine. It’s a Napa, ’97, part Cabernet, part Shiraz. ANNE MARIE: That sounds nice. GEORGE: It’s an event. The shower, that wine, it’s…rare. ANNE MARIE: I’m glad you’re happy. GEORGE: Going to be happy. ANNE MARIE: Whatever.

GEORGE:

Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I just want to hear what’s going on.

George turns back to the Fence.

Another cheer sounds from the other side of the Fence.

ANNE MARIE: Well I don’t think you should. I think you should just let the police do their job and not be one of those horrible neighbors.

GEORGE: You are fucking kidding me. ANNE MARIE: George. GEORGE: (getting up) Sorry. (He walks over to the Fence.) Those people party more than anyone I’ve ever seen. ANNE MARIE: George!

ANNE MARIE: (Long Pause) If you’re going to do that then at least tell me what’s going on. GEORGE: (still looking through the fence) The family just found Bartolo. He’s, the cop and him are talking. Bartolo’s pointing at a sign in Spanish and- the cop’s laughing.

FreightTrain

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FreightTrain

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(pause) Okay.

GEORGE:

Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I just want to hear what’s going on.

George turns back to the Fence.

Another cheer sounds from the other side of the Fence.

ANNE MARIE: Well I don’t think you should. I think you should just let the police do their job and not be one of those horrible neighbors.

GEORGE: You are fucking kidding me. ANNE MARIE: George. GEORGE: (getting up) Sorry. (He walks over to the Fence.) Those people party more than anyone I’ve ever seen. ANNE MARIE: George!

FreightTrain

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FreightTrain

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ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE:

(Turning to Anne Marie) The cop’s laughing. (Turning back) They’re both laughing. (George stands up and turns to Anne Marie) He just, Bartolo, he just said something in Spanish and pointed his thumb over here. George. He’s Mexican too. The cop is a Mexican. George! They’re over there laughing. I’m sure it doesn’t matter. He’s not gonna do anything about the music. It’s turned down. It should be off. Off! It’s one something in the morning and that music should be off! Could you just try to block it out?

The music returns to its original volume. George turns quickly and looks back through the Fence. GEORGE:

I don’t see him. They’re dancing. They’re dancing and I don’t see him.

ANNE MARIE: OFFICER: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: OFFICER: GEORGE:

George, you need to relax and calm down. (oﬀstage) Sir. This is bullshit. George. (oﬀstage) Sir. Are they even still here?

OFFICER: GEORGE:

Is there something you’re looking for Sir? I was just looking to see if you guys were still around. They turned it back up. OFFICER: Hm. Can I assume that you were the gentleman that called in the complaint? GEORGE: Yes I was. It’s been like this all night. OFFICER: It doesn’t seem to be above ordinance Sir. GEORGE: What ordinance? My understanding is that if it’s a nuisance to the neighbors- the neighborhood- then it’s against ordinance. Well I’m complaining. I’m saying that it’s a nuisance. OFFICER: Sir, seeing as how you are the only one who has complained, and it is a special occasion, we’re going to allow it for a little while longer. GEORGE: Special occasion? OFFICER: It’s a Confirmation party; Mister? GEORGE: Bellows. Mister Bellows. OFFICER: Mister Bellows, it doesn’t seem that you’d be able to hear it in your house. GEORGE: So you’re saying that you’re not gonna do anything? OFFICER: As I said Mister Bellows, we’re allowing them to continue for a while, and if it bothers you perhaps you should go inside. GEORGE: I don’t want to be inside! I don’t have to go inside. This is my property. I can be out here if I want, and I should be able to in peace and quite and not have other people invade my space. OFFICER: Sir, nobody’s invading anything. GEORGE: Oh, and now it’s condescension time. I get condescension, while he (gesturing to the Fence) got nothing but help. I wonder why that is Officer… (Leaning in to read his name) Hernandez. ANNE MARIE: George! George turns around and walks over towards the other side of the patio. Anne Marie is up and out of her lawn chair, heading over to Officer Hernandez, who is starting after George.

George looks to the street and stops. GEORGE:

Oh.

The OFFICER walks in from around the Fence. He’s a physically imposing Hispanic man. Anne Marie sips her drink while George and the Oﬃcer talk. 24

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FreightTrain

OFFICER: Sir, is there something you’d like to say to me? ANNE MARIE: Oﬃcer, he’s just upset, that’s all. OFFICER: Because if you’re implying what I think you are I’d really like to hear you say it. George turns and looks at him, then turns back upstage. FreightTrain

summer 

ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE:

The music returns to its original volume. George turns quickly and looks back through the Fence. GEORGE:

I don’t see him. They’re dancing. They’re dancing and I don’t see him.

ANNE MARIE: OFFICER: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: OFFICER: GEORGE:

George, you need to relax and calm down. (oﬀstage) Sir. This is bullshit. George. (oﬀstage) Sir. Are they even still here?

OFFICER: GEORGE:

George looks to the street and stops. GEORGE:

Oh.

The OFFICER walks in from around the Fence. He’s a physically imposing Hispanic man. Anne Marie sips her drink while George and the Oﬃcer talk. 24

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FreightTrain

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ANNE MARIE: Oﬃcer Hernandez, was it? He’s just, you have to understand he’s been waiting for tonight for a long time. It’s a special occasion here too, I guess. OFFICER: Ma’am? ANNE MARIE: It’s the Lenid Meteor shower. GEORGE: Leonid. ANNE MARIE: Leonid. It’s the Leonid Meteor shower. It’s the biggest one in thirty years, and it’s supposed to be the biggest for the next seventy. So, you see, it’s just this thing he’s been waiting for and planning. OFFICER: That what the telescope is for? ANNE MARIE: Yes. Yes sir. OFFICER: (to George) You’re not using that thing for anything else, are you buddy? GEORGE: Oh Jesus Christ. George begins to walk up the back steps. OFFICER:

If you could just stay here until we’re done Sir.

George stops and stares at the Oﬃcer. OFFICER:

I’ll ask you again, is there something you want to say to me? ANNE MARIE: Officer. OFFICER: One moment ma’am. (To George) Is there anything else? GEORGE: (pause) No. OFFICER: (to Anne Marie) Now I’m sorry if the party disturbs you folks, but we feel that it’s within ordinance. If it really bothers you, and you don’t want to go inside, perhaps you’d be happier watching it from the front yard. Now, will there be anything else? ANNE MARIE: No. No, thank you Officer. Sorry about…have a nice night. OFFICER: Good night. Officer Hernandez exits. Anne Marie watches him go for a second and George stomps off inside. She turns and walks over to her chair and sits down. A moment or so later George comes out. GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: 26

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I can’t believe you apologized to that cop. George. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe what you said to him! I can’t believe the FreightTrain

GEORGE:

way you’ve been lately. It happens so slow you barely notice it, but now… What happens so slow? (pause) What happens so slow?

Anne Marie stands up and pulls the loose-leaf papers from her robe pocket. ANNE MARIE: I was going to wait to do this. I was going to wait until you had seen the shower and talk to you about this afterwards. GEORGE: What is that? ANNE MARIE: George, come down here. GEORGE: No. ANNE MARIE: What? GEORGE: No. If there’s something you want to say you can just say it. ANNE MARIE: George, I will not have you standing up there while I tell you this. Your height is an obvious psychological advantage. GEORGE: What? ANNE MARIE: Come down here! George stares at her as if making up his mind. Then, slowly, he descends the steps and walks over to her. ANNE MARIE: Okay…(looking down at her sheets) George, I need to talk to you. This isn’t working. You’ve changed. Maybe I’ve changed too. You’ve changed though. You’re mean and selﬁsh, and your cynicism hurts me. I can feel your cynicism everywhere in this house. It’s sort of like you’ve given up, and now you blame and hate everything, and it makes everything around you so…heavy. GEORGE: Marie. ANNE MARIE: Wait George. Let me just say everything and then you can talk, okay? (George nods) I still want to enjoy life though. I don’t want to live the rest of my life with you as the dark cloud. I want to be with you, but I need a full life. That’s why I’ve made a decision, and I know you hate ultimatums, but I have one. (pause) Either we go to counseling- marriage counseling- or I’m leaving you. (pause) We can talk. We can talk about whatever you want. I’m not giving an ultimatum and running away. I’m prepared to talk, but one of those things is going to happen. It’s your choice. FreightTrain

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If you could just stay here until we’re done Sir.

George stops and stares at the Oﬃcer. OFFICER:

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I can’t believe you apologized to that cop. George. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe what you said to him! I can’t believe the FreightTrain

GEORGE:

way you’ve been lately. It happens so slow you barely notice it, but now… What happens so slow? (pause) What happens so slow?

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Okay? It’s totally up to you. George sits down on his lawnchair, looking up at Anne Marie. Another cheer sounds from the other side of the Fence and he looks over. He looks back at Anne Marie, then straight up at the night sky. Anne Marie silently sits in the lawnchair next to him, watching him as he looks up. ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE:

George? Why would you tell me this tonight? I was going to wait until after the shower. I understand that, but why tonight? Because I thought you’d be happy. (Looking at her) You thought I’d be happy. I thought you’d be happy. Why would you tell me something like that when I’m happy? ANNE MARIE: Because then it evens out. You tell someone something like this when they’re in a positive place and the news sort of brings them back to normal. Whereas, if you told them when they’re already normal it would bring them below normal. Then they’re negative and cynical and you can’t discuss anything with them. (pause) It’s a Buddhist thing, I think. It’s about balance. GEORGE: (Looking again to the night sky) I deserve this. ANNE MARIE: It’s not that bad. GEORGE: Not that. This. (Gesturing to the sky) I deserve this. I…everything is a compromise. Everything. Everything I do is part what I want- no, most things- the rest is stuﬀ I don’t want at all. It’s total defeat or compromise. ANNE MARIE: That’s just pity. GEORGE: Fuck it’s just pity! Everything! (Here George stands up, pacing, delivering this speech up and out) Tonight. For instance, tonight. Why is it necessary for me to hurt you? Why do I have to hurt you to have something for me? Why can’t you just understand that this is for me? Me! You want to be part of it. Why? You don’t care. You want to be part of it and all because you planned on ruining it! (Anne Marie is upset, trying to interject) No! Why can’t you just understand that it’s for me? Something beautiful and perfect for me. That’s, that’s…if it’s not you- and I love you, I do love you, but that’s not what this is about- if it’s not you it’s work. It my bosses- Fuck bosses!- it’s work! 28

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FreightTrain

ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE:

ANNE MARIE: GEORGE:

ANNE MARIE:

It’s waking up, sitting in that goddamned office. It’s bad coffee! Bad coffee! I deny bad coffee from now on. It’s stupid work, work, work! It’s selling shit to people who don’t want it, begging for my life, singing for my fucking soup! (pause) I feel dead. I feel beat down and, and, fucking defeated. I’m so fucking small Marie! I want something beautiful and perfect, something that’s beyond and…beyond, do you get it? Beyond all this shit! (Kicks over the lawnchair) Muck! (Grabs the bottle and the corkscrew) Something beyond paper and trips to the Home Depot and dirt and sod and…Fuck! (George fits the corkscrew into the bottle and begins opening it.) The pieces of our lives are not muck! Those are not the pieces of our lives. Yes they are. You’re describing your life- Our life!and you’re saying that it’s shit. How is that supposed to make me feel? (Exploding) I don’t care how it makes you feel! That can’t be the only thing we think about! We worry about hurting each others’ feelings and respect and pleasing people, losing our fucking jobs and we just walk so damn soft! I can’t anymore. Nobody will give me what I want. This is…listen, I know you have to feel the same way. Everything is a wall, an obstacle, and we’re trapped. We got nothing so we turn on each other. (He flings the cork and corkscrew aside.) Pity. Honesty God damnit! I’m a small, weak man. Capitulation! That’s gonna be my eulogy. But tonight, I deserve tonight. I need tonight. I need for something to be wonderful. Are you saying that you won’t go to marriage counseling?

A long, long pause. Finally, George tips the bottle over and drinks deeply, wine running down his chin. ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: FreightTrain

You’re not going to go? I don’t care tonight. You have to care tonight. Why? Because I decided that we were going to deal with this tonight. You don’t get to decide that! That’s not what tonight summer 

summer 

FreightTrain

ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE:

ANNE MARIE: GEORGE:

ANNE MARIE:

A long, long pause. Finally, George tips the bottle over and drinks deeply, wine running down his chin. ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: ANNE MARIE: GEORGE: FreightTrain

is going to be. If you want to stay and watch you are more than welcomed to, but that’s it. If you want to talk about us we can do it tomorrow, but not tonight. ANNE MARIE: Everything isn’t up to you. GEORGE: (pause) Are you kidding? (pause) Nothing is up to me. Ever. I’m trying to take one thing. One single thing I’m trying to wrangle free and the neighbors and the cops are dancing, and you want to go on Oprah or get a divorce, the clouds have been teasing all night, work kicks me out, I don’t get it. ANNE MARIE: Work? GEORGE: I don’t get it. What’s the big deal? Why can’t I have one night? I’ve shown them my belly so many times why can’t I just…one night. ANNE MARIE: George. What about work? He looks at her and drinks deeply from his wine again. He picks up the lawnchair and sits back in it.

GEORGE:

Because I didn’t want to be thinking about how much sleep I’d get while I was out here. I wanted to be clear. You know what, more than that, I think I said no because they were trying to horn in on tonight. They have no right. ANNE MARIE: Damnit George. GEORGE: I guess I’m not getting that Director position. ANNE MARIE: Damnit George, it’s just a meteor shower. What is this? It’s just a meteor shower, they happen all the time. And now you’re suspended and being like you are to me, it’s, it’s not worth any of it. George drinks from his wine again, looking up at the sky, the volume swelling over the Fence. He just sits and looks up for a few moments. GEORGE: Have you ever seen one before? ANNE MARIE: Yes, I think so. GEORGE: I remember watching one when I was a kid. We were out at my uncle’s place, small farm in Missouri, and the sky was so dark, and you could see each one perfect as it burned up in the atmosphere and disintegrated. I remember very well what I was thinking. It was like the idea ﬁlled up my entire head and didn’t leave room for anything else. It was the sheer enormity of the sight, the idea, that I couldn’t shake. These were things from another world- and I don’t mean another world like another planet, but Another World besides mine, besides regular life and money problems and mom and dad and all that- and they were pushing into our world. Just slamming into the sky and burning up, holding out just long enough for us to see it, just long enough for us to see proof of…otherness. ANNE MARIE: (pause) GeorgeGEORGE: What time is it? ANNE MARIE: About one thirty. GEORGE: Should be starting any time now.

GEORGE: Ten-day suspension. ANNE MARIE: George! GEORGE: I told them almost three months ago that I needed tomorrow oﬀ. ANNE MARIE: What happened? GEORGE: Then, yesterday, Mitchell comes in and tells me they absolutely need me tomorrow. I tell him I can’t and he tells me that they’re not asking. ANNE MARIE: They can’t suspend you for that. As much as they insinuate, if you put in the request three months ago then they can’t suspend you. GEORGE: They can do whatever they like, as long as you don’t sue. ANNE MARIE: But they can’t. GEORGE: Well, also, I called Mitchell a Fascist corpse. ANNE MARIE: What? GEORGE: A Fascist corpse. Some college kid called me that about a year ago and I always kind of liked it. Knew exactly what he meant too. I remember thinking that he had no idea. Just wait until he is a Fascist corpse, then he’ll really hate them. then he’d get it. ANNE MARIE: This is so stupid. GEORGE: I know. ANNE MARIE: No, why didn’t you just work? You’ve worked on less sleep than that.

ANNE MARIE: Maybe you could go in tomorrow. GEORGE: (Not taking his eye from the lens) What? ANNE MARIE: Maybe they’d left the suspension if you went in tomorrow morning. GEORGE: (Looking at her) Go inside. ANNE MARIE: What?

FreightTrain

summer 

FreightTrain

George leans over and looks through the telescope.

summer 

GEORGE:

FreightTrain

summer 

FreightTrain

George leans over and looks through the telescope.

summer 

GEORGE:

Just go. Go back to bed or read, watch TV, I don’t care. Just go.

George takes out a cigarette and lights it. Then goes back to looking through the telescope. Anne Marie is in shock. ANNE MARIE: Now you’re smoking? (She stands up and kicks over her chair) Asshole. GEORGE: I’m sorry Anne Marie. ANNE MARIE: Screw you George. Anne Marie turns and stomps off, up the stairs and inside, slamming the door behind her. Clapping and cheering is heard on the other side of the Fence, then the music is turned up so that it is very loud. George looks over. He takes another drink from his bottle of wine, then stares at it. He sets it down and gets up. He walks to the back door, stepping out his cigarette before he goes in. The stage is bare, and the only thing that can be heard is the party over the Fence. It stays this way for about thirty to forty-five seconds. George comes out of the backdoor and, as he comes down the stairs, it’s visible that he has a bottle of wine in one hand and a revolver in the other. He goes to the yard and finds the corkscrew, working it free of the other cork. He takes it to the lawnchair, where he sets down the revolver. He looks at the bottle of wine with reverence, handling it gently and blowing some dust from its label. GEORGE:

Not saving you anymore.

He works the corkscrew in and opens the wine, before putting it up to his nose and inhaling deeply. His face is a mask of bliss. George brings the bottle to his mouth and sips from it. GEORGE:

Thank you.

With the bottle in his hand he picks up the revolver and walks upstage to the back of the Fence. More clapping and cheers are heard from the other side of the Fence. George brings up the revolver, aiming up towards the sky, and Fires. With the ﬁrst gunshot there are sounds of alarm from the other side of the Fence. George closes one eye, aiming carefully, and Fires again. This time he hits his mark, and a hail of sparks fall from above just as the music goes silent and all of the lights go out. He has shot the transformer and now the commotion on the other side of the Fence is even more audible, but dimming quickly as were hear people retreating inside, doors slamming behind them. 32

summer 

FreightTrain

Within a few moments, the entire stage is calm and silent, and nearly dark, with George only slightly illuminated by the few remaining falling sparks. BLACK OUT

GEORGE:

Just go. Go back to bed or read, watch TV, I don’t care. Just go.

Not saving you anymore.

He works the corkscrew in and opens the wine, before putting it up to his nose and inhaling deeply. His face is a mask of bliss. George brings the bottle to his mouth and sips from it. GEORGE:

Thank you.

summer 

FreightTrain

Within a few moments, the entire stage is calm and silent, and nearly dark, with George only slightly illuminated by the few remaining falling sparks. BLACK OUT

Stalked by the Deadly Mountain Lion

Crazy Walk by

Sam Bahena

Felipe Briceno

Good Fences a play by

Jesse Jordan

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