Table of Contents
1
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
The Call of the Dance by Georgianna Groen
... ... ...
... ... ...
p3
Lucero and the Flower by Wesley Norman
... ... ...
... ... ...
p 23
Crippled Fear by Kirsten Laulainen
... ... ...
... ... ...
p 33
FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
2
Table of Contents
1
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
The Call of the Dance by Georgianna Groen
... ... ...
... ... ...
p3
Lucero and the Flower by Wesley Norman
... ... ...
... ... ...
p 23
Crippled Fear by Kirsten Laulainen
... ... ...
... ... ...
p 33
FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
2
T h e Ca l l o f t h e D a n c e short fiction by Georgianna Groen
“Why’d you wear those stupid pants?” Her son’s indignant question shot down the stairs to her. She was perched on a low step between floors one and two. Damien crouched on a step high above her. They were waiting for Damien’s probation officer to come out of his pre-court meeting. It was Juvenile Day at the courthouse. Outside of the probie’s office, long wooden benches were crammed with first-come, first-sit parents and their children. All of the minors present were lawbreaking offenders. She and her son had arrived too late to get anything better for sitting than these narrow slices of stair. It was always like this. The waiting. She was determined to get a whole act read from Shakespeare’s Othello right here. But the step was so hard on her butt! And there were interruptions. “Mom!”
Georgianna Groen is from New York City and now lives in Cape Cod. She's working on an anthology of short stories. Once upon a time, long ago, before she had three kids and two divorces, she majored in English because she knew she was born to write. Since the kids left home, she's been ghostwriting the memoirs of a lady-of-the-night. Currently, she's working on the memoir / how-to of a young, day-trading professional. 3
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
“What.” He repeated his question, a bit louder this time. “Why’d you wear those stupid pants?” She couldn’t say why right away. She never knew just what to say when Damien bugged her for not dressing “cool.” He wanted her to look like the girls at the high school, FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
4
T h e Ca l l o f t h e D a n c e short fiction by Georgianna Groen
“Why’d you wear those stupid pants?” Her son’s indignant question shot down the stairs to her. She was perched on a low step between floors one and two. Damien crouched on a step high above her. They were waiting for Damien’s probation officer to come out of his pre-court meeting. It was Juvenile Day at the courthouse. Outside of the probie’s office, long wooden benches were crammed with first-come, first-sit parents and their children. All of the minors present were lawbreaking offenders. She and her son had arrived too late to get anything better for sitting than these narrow slices of stair. It was always like this. The waiting. She was determined to get a whole act read from Shakespeare’s Othello right here. But the step was so hard on her butt! And there were interruptions. “Mom!”
Georgianna Groen is from New York City and now lives in Cape Cod. She's working on an anthology of short stories. Once upon a time, long ago, before she had three kids and two divorces, she majored in English because she knew she was born to write. Since the kids left home, she's been ghostwriting the memoirs of a lady-of-the-night. Currently, she's working on the memoir / how-to of a young, day-trading professional. 3
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
“What.” He repeated his question, a bit louder this time. “Why’d you wear those stupid pants?” She couldn’t say why right away. She never knew just what to say when Damien bugged her for not dressing “cool.” He wanted her to look like the girls at the high school, FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
4
stone-wash jeans and flammable hair. She knew it was a roundabout compliment, and she didn’t want to discourage the few that she got. Damien would never tell a washed-up old frump to stuff herself into Juniors fashions. But she wasn’t going to turn herself out like a teenager, and sometimes her garb fell so far from the mark that her son got a little annoyed. She steered her mind just far enough from Act Five to retain what she’d just read, and thought of an answer to shut him up. “All of my jeans are dirty.”
cuffs? She thought of the work hours she was missing to be here with her smirker, on this court day for wayward youths. Her mind riffled through the rest of the week, trying to land on a spot of free time when one of her bosses might let her make up for today's monetary loss. Then her thinking shattered into a randomly strewn collage. The fridge (what’s in it?), the supermarket (which one can I hit the fastest?), how much gas is left, how much time before they shut off the phone, is there dog food, did I pay Sears oh my God the laundry. She forced her eyes back to Othello and couldn’t remember a thing. Then a feeling bloomed, a wrenchingly sad one that felt good, and she recalled that Desdemona was about to get killed. Murdered by the man she adored!
“Well, wash them.” She went back to Othello and tried to get completely immersed, though she knew it wouldn't happen. But her will to attempt it had to hold on, or she’d get lost in the pain of being here. It would swallow her up and she’d die. Motion suddenly gathered before her, and she shoved herself over to allow the ascent of a handcuffed kid and his cop. Damien knew the kid; she could hear their hearty exchange. She forsook the dilemmas of Othello to turn around and sneak an upward glance at her son. He was smirking. Smirking! Why didn’t he find such things grim? What could be so goddamn funny about a friend being pushed upstairs in 5
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
Lately the world of great literature had been doggedly tugging on her brain. It was urgent, a pull as consuming as birth. She’d responded by bonding with Shakespeare. His characters were so real, so perfectly flawed. She’d encountered the bard while digging in a closet for a half-crushed box of old clothes. The clothing would do for her youngest son now, the one still too small to be obsessed with the latest of what his peers would let him wear. She’d spotted the dilapidated carton full of castoffs, her savior from a plummet into Walmart’s greedy maw, and then noticed, or perhaps she remembered, that directly behind it stood a container sturdier than the beat-up boxed hoardings of distressed single moms. It was an ancient box loaded with textbooks from her long-gone college days. FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
6
stone-wash jeans and flammable hair. She knew it was a roundabout compliment, and she didn’t want to discourage the few that she got. Damien would never tell a washed-up old frump to stuff herself into Juniors fashions. But she wasn’t going to turn herself out like a teenager, and sometimes her garb fell so far from the mark that her son got a little annoyed. She steered her mind just far enough from Act Five to retain what she’d just read, and thought of an answer to shut him up. “All of my jeans are dirty.”
cuffs? She thought of the work hours she was missing to be here with her smirker, on this court day for wayward youths. Her mind riffled through the rest of the week, trying to land on a spot of free time when one of her bosses might let her make up for today's monetary loss. Then her thinking shattered into a randomly strewn collage. The fridge (what’s in it?), the supermarket (which one can I hit the fastest?), how much gas is left, how much time before they shut off the phone, is there dog food, did I pay Sears oh my God the laundry. She forced her eyes back to Othello and couldn’t remember a thing. Then a feeling bloomed, a wrenchingly sad one that felt good, and she recalled that Desdemona was about to get killed. Murdered by the man she adored!
“Well, wash them.” She went back to Othello and tried to get completely immersed, though she knew it wouldn't happen. But her will to attempt it had to hold on, or she’d get lost in the pain of being here. It would swallow her up and she’d die. Motion suddenly gathered before her, and she shoved herself over to allow the ascent of a handcuffed kid and his cop. Damien knew the kid; she could hear their hearty exchange. She forsook the dilemmas of Othello to turn around and sneak an upward glance at her son. He was smirking. Smirking! Why didn’t he find such things grim? What could be so goddamn funny about a friend being pushed upstairs in 5
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
Lately the world of great literature had been doggedly tugging on her brain. It was urgent, a pull as consuming as birth. She’d responded by bonding with Shakespeare. His characters were so real, so perfectly flawed. She’d encountered the bard while digging in a closet for a half-crushed box of old clothes. The clothing would do for her youngest son now, the one still too small to be obsessed with the latest of what his peers would let him wear. She’d spotted the dilapidated carton full of castoffs, her savior from a plummet into Walmart’s greedy maw, and then noticed, or perhaps she remembered, that directly behind it stood a container sturdier than the beat-up boxed hoardings of distressed single moms. It was an ancient box loaded with textbooks from her long-gone college days. FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
6
What a find!
job”? Working for tips felt like scavenging.
And now she was caught up in rereading those treasures. They were proving to be precious old friends. How much more she could glean, at this bleak and dire time, from their abundance of strife, pain, and wisdom.
She had lived for the ideals of teaching. Once upon a time, before she’d actually done it, she’d felt that teaching could be like the lifting of a heavy, priceless urn, and then trying to pour its gleaming contents into thousands of empty cups. But then she’d found out that teaching ended up as mostly only heavy and trying. Just like being a parent.
Her plan, in bygone years, had been to spend her working life as a high school English teacher. For a while she had somewhat enjoyed that endeavor. But later, her troubles as a solitary parent made her need to lose the workplace full of what she faced at home, which was an acting-out teen with big issues. And besides, she thought, when you counted up the nights full of lesson preps, those papers corrected after hours, and the time you were expected to sacrifice for extracurricular clubs—it was clear that teaching kids shared way too much with the snags of parenthood. It was noble and enriching, it was all those things, yes—but it was a job with no monetary gains. So now she worked as a waitress; and she companioned the old and the sick; and she advised the members at a health club on how to melt off their fat. Her best income came from the waitressing, but she’d been doing that way too long. Though her restaurant skills had honed over time into a grace that was almost athletic, she always felt a little like a jerk out there, serving diners and drinkers for the hope of good leavings, for smidges of cash left along with the crumbs. Waiting on tables felt like some sort of desperation. How many times had her coworkers said that they’d do this till they found a “real 7
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
So now she enjoyed teaching herself. In her old college literature books lay the beauty of constructive escape. In her readings, she self-connected. She got to explore every facet of herself that wasn’t just a waitress and a young lawbreaker’s mother. Right here in the courthouse she digested one beautiful page. She carefully, lovingly savored each Elizabethan phrase. Then the door to the office swung open, and out strode the juvenile probation officer. It was time to follow his lead. She and Damien rose from their perches and trudged behind him to the second floor. All of the other families followed. They scored themselves a length of bench that was clamped to the wall before the big courtroom doors, which were cryptically closed. Damien’s turn in there loomed before them like a dark, inscrutable cavern. “This better not take too long,” he warned. “I’ll be so fucking pissed if it does.” FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
8
What a find!
job”? Working for tips felt like scavenging.
And now she was caught up in rereading those treasures. They were proving to be precious old friends. How much more she could glean, at this bleak and dire time, from their abundance of strife, pain, and wisdom.
She had lived for the ideals of teaching. Once upon a time, before she’d actually done it, she’d felt that teaching could be like the lifting of a heavy, priceless urn, and then trying to pour its gleaming contents into thousands of empty cups. But then she’d found out that teaching ended up as mostly only heavy and trying. Just like being a parent.
Her plan, in bygone years, had been to spend her working life as a high school English teacher. For a while she had somewhat enjoyed that endeavor. But later, her troubles as a solitary parent made her need to lose the workplace full of what she faced at home, which was an acting-out teen with big issues. And besides, she thought, when you counted up the nights full of lesson preps, those papers corrected after hours, and the time you were expected to sacrifice for extracurricular clubs—it was clear that teaching kids shared way too much with the snags of parenthood. It was noble and enriching, it was all those things, yes—but it was a job with no monetary gains. So now she worked as a waitress; and she companioned the old and the sick; and she advised the members at a health club on how to melt off their fat. Her best income came from the waitressing, but she’d been doing that way too long. Though her restaurant skills had honed over time into a grace that was almost athletic, she always felt a little like a jerk out there, serving diners and drinkers for the hope of good leavings, for smidges of cash left along with the crumbs. Waiting on tables felt like some sort of desperation. How many times had her coworkers said that they’d do this till they found a “real 7
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
So now she enjoyed teaching herself. In her old college literature books lay the beauty of constructive escape. In her readings, she self-connected. She got to explore every facet of herself that wasn’t just a waitress and a young lawbreaker’s mother. Right here in the courthouse she digested one beautiful page. She carefully, lovingly savored each Elizabethan phrase. Then the door to the office swung open, and out strode the juvenile probation officer. It was time to follow his lead. She and Damien rose from their perches and trudged behind him to the second floor. All of the other families followed. They scored themselves a length of bench that was clamped to the wall before the big courtroom doors, which were cryptically closed. Damien’s turn in there loomed before them like a dark, inscrutable cavern. “This better not take too long,” he warned. “I’ll be so fucking pissed if it does.” FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
8
“Damien! Don’t swear.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Othello was stashed deep away now, down in her purse where it might have to stay until she found herself waiting again (like at the end of a shopping-cart line). She focused completely on her son, who was slouched up against the back of the bench with his long legs splayed far apart, big shoes pointed straight up. He drummed some big fingers on his slim thighs, staring straight ahead at nothing. His eyes were hers, but not his expression. “Damien,” she began. “You’re about to face the judge. Don’t lay around here like you’re at home! Sit up straight! Be respectful.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He pulled himself up, just a little. It always got her, how after all these years of trying to teach him the right way to behave, Damien could be such a blueprint of his father. How could that be? Damien hardly knew the guy. The guy didn’t even have a clue that his eldest son was in trouble. He wasn’t worth telling. This was Damien’s first criminal offense. She had yet to see him in handcuffs, and her mind wouldn’t focus that picture. They’d wound up in here on other Juvenile Days, but always just for truancy or craziness at home. She’d had him 9
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
before the judge for skipping school, beating on his ’tween brother Bryan, and violently attacking her apartment. According to this state’s juvenile laws, none of that was quite bad enough for cuffs or incarceration. But ever since the judge got involved, things had improved a bit. Damien seemed to be learning, at least in front of Mom, to tune out his irksome brother. And it had also been a while since he’d punched a wall or a door. Of course, the kitchen table would never again be the same. Any time an elbow leaned, its round top flipped like a coin. Damien couldn’t fix all the things he broke, and neither could she. And she was still paying Visa for that table. But lately he hadn’t damaged anything new. Maybe Damien was learning to live with his rage. Maybe he was learning to live without the love of a man. Maybe the judge’s stern face had achieved that. But now he’d gone and done this stupid breaking and entering thing with his friends. They’d gotten into someone’s house when no one was home, and they’d taken all the beer, food, and cash they could find. Someone had called the police, and Damien got caught on the crapper with a beer. All of the other guys had already scampered off, and he wouldn’t give the cops their names. And now he was paying. One at a time, other kids were called in. Damien got up and stalked off for a smoke. She searched the lobby for a FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
10
“Damien! Don’t swear.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Othello was stashed deep away now, down in her purse where it might have to stay until she found herself waiting again (like at the end of a shopping-cart line). She focused completely on her son, who was slouched up against the back of the bench with his long legs splayed far apart, big shoes pointed straight up. He drummed some big fingers on his slim thighs, staring straight ahead at nothing. His eyes were hers, but not his expression. “Damien,” she began. “You’re about to face the judge. Don’t lay around here like you’re at home! Sit up straight! Be respectful.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He pulled himself up, just a little. It always got her, how after all these years of trying to teach him the right way to behave, Damien could be such a blueprint of his father. How could that be? Damien hardly knew the guy. The guy didn’t even have a clue that his eldest son was in trouble. He wasn’t worth telling. This was Damien’s first criminal offense. She had yet to see him in handcuffs, and her mind wouldn’t focus that picture. They’d wound up in here on other Juvenile Days, but always just for truancy or craziness at home. She’d had him 9
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
before the judge for skipping school, beating on his ’tween brother Bryan, and violently attacking her apartment. According to this state’s juvenile laws, none of that was quite bad enough for cuffs or incarceration. But ever since the judge got involved, things had improved a bit. Damien seemed to be learning, at least in front of Mom, to tune out his irksome brother. And it had also been a while since he’d punched a wall or a door. Of course, the kitchen table would never again be the same. Any time an elbow leaned, its round top flipped like a coin. Damien couldn’t fix all the things he broke, and neither could she. And she was still paying Visa for that table. But lately he hadn’t damaged anything new. Maybe Damien was learning to live with his rage. Maybe he was learning to live without the love of a man. Maybe the judge’s stern face had achieved that. But now he’d gone and done this stupid breaking and entering thing with his friends. They’d gotten into someone’s house when no one was home, and they’d taken all the beer, food, and cash they could find. Someone had called the police, and Damien got caught on the crapper with a beer. All of the other guys had already scampered off, and he wouldn’t give the cops their names. And now he was paying. One at a time, other kids were called in. Damien got up and stalked off for a smoke. She searched the lobby for a FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
10
watch. These were the days, the late eighties, before cell phones and other things that always double as clocks. Her own watch was home, down with a dead battery she’d forgotten to replace. She located a wrist with the time mooning from it, and winced. The day was getting away. The judge had to see Damien soon, because Jonathan, her youngest (only eight), shouldn’t be left alone for long after getting home from school, and Bryan, her busy twelveyear-old, would be needing a ride to practice. Her mind once again began to riot with images: shopping supper homework, dirty dishes, dirty carpet, the bathroom. And there was the bank, and her aching tooth, and don't forget that noise in the engine. And there was the most anxious question: Would Jonathan’s grandparents take him while she worked tomorrow night? Or would she have to leave him at home, on a crazy Friday night, in the care of his crazy big brother? But wait. Tonight she wouldn’t have to deal with such worries. Tonight she had off. A sweet thought in the midst of the jitters. She knew she should find out whether someone called in sick, so she could go in and earn tips; but screw it. Not tonight. Something about court with her kid made her tired. She impulsively reached for her purse, and fished Othello back out. Shakespeare had keen competition. Parents and their adolescents were waiting all around her, and courtappointed lawyers were scurrying amongst them. She glanced at them all and noticed, as always, that most of 11
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
the parents were mothers, and most of the offenders were boys. The mothers had that exhausted, single-parent look. They were dressed as though they’d been uprooted from their jobs, and their eyes seemed eternally tired. But they all sat straight-backed, manlessly tough. The tenderness of early motherhood was gone from every worn face. Every pair of eyes looked wary, and maybe a little bit grumpy, but way beyond any tears. Their sons wore a different expression. They all seemed content, quite at home in this place. She thought of Damien’s smirk and found glimmers of it on every young face. Her own son returned, all smelly from his butt break. His lawyer approached. The two of them sat down on either side of her, and they all discussed his case. Then the courtroom doors swung open, and someone stood there calling Damien’s name. As they stepped over the threshold and into the hall of justice, the heavy doors whooshed shut behind them. The buzzing from the throng in the lobby was instantly cut off. A blaring silence hit them. Damien was a minor, so his case was being heard privately. But this hall was too big, much too spacious for the few people gathered. She suddenly felt very small. She felt extremely diminished by the terribly long expanse between herself and the man way up front, decked out in his drapes of grim black. He was motionless, bored-anddisgusted-looking, yet somehow powerfully monstrous, like FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
12
watch. These were the days, the late eighties, before cell phones and other things that always double as clocks. Her own watch was home, down with a dead battery she’d forgotten to replace. She located a wrist with the time mooning from it, and winced. The day was getting away. The judge had to see Damien soon, because Jonathan, her youngest (only eight), shouldn’t be left alone for long after getting home from school, and Bryan, her busy twelveyear-old, would be needing a ride to practice. Her mind once again began to riot with images: shopping supper homework, dirty dishes, dirty carpet, the bathroom. And there was the bank, and her aching tooth, and don't forget that noise in the engine. And there was the most anxious question: Would Jonathan’s grandparents take him while she worked tomorrow night? Or would she have to leave him at home, on a crazy Friday night, in the care of his crazy big brother? But wait. Tonight she wouldn’t have to deal with such worries. Tonight she had off. A sweet thought in the midst of the jitters. She knew she should find out whether someone called in sick, so she could go in and earn tips; but screw it. Not tonight. Something about court with her kid made her tired. She impulsively reached for her purse, and fished Othello back out. Shakespeare had keen competition. Parents and their adolescents were waiting all around her, and courtappointed lawyers were scurrying amongst them. She glanced at them all and noticed, as always, that most of 11
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
the parents were mothers, and most of the offenders were boys. The mothers had that exhausted, single-parent look. They were dressed as though they’d been uprooted from their jobs, and their eyes seemed eternally tired. But they all sat straight-backed, manlessly tough. The tenderness of early motherhood was gone from every worn face. Every pair of eyes looked wary, and maybe a little bit grumpy, but way beyond any tears. Their sons wore a different expression. They all seemed content, quite at home in this place. She thought of Damien’s smirk and found glimmers of it on every young face. Her own son returned, all smelly from his butt break. His lawyer approached. The two of them sat down on either side of her, and they all discussed his case. Then the courtroom doors swung open, and someone stood there calling Damien’s name. As they stepped over the threshold and into the hall of justice, the heavy doors whooshed shut behind them. The buzzing from the throng in the lobby was instantly cut off. A blaring silence hit them. Damien was a minor, so his case was being heard privately. But this hall was too big, much too spacious for the few people gathered. She suddenly felt very small. She felt extremely diminished by the terribly long expanse between herself and the man way up front, decked out in his drapes of grim black. He was motionless, bored-anddisgusted-looking, yet somehow powerfully monstrous, like FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
12
an eons-old towering boulder. He reigned from an elevated fortress of podium, tables, and gates; he could certainly make anything happen. He could certainly crush her boy. Somebody told them to sit down. Suddenly Damien’s crime seemed tremendous. They took their seats, and her son didn’t slouch. He sat there as straight as she’d taught him, with his hands and his elbows secured to the chair arms. Above his upper lip, she saw tiny beads of sweat sprout. After five minutes, it was over. Damien wouldn’t be cuffed and removed; this was only his first real offense. But he was on formal probation now, which meant having to obey some important new rules. And restitution would have to be made. And the next time he got himself in here, the judge warned—the next time he got himself in here for any reason at all—he wouldn’t be going home. They walked outside, to a sun-struck winter afternoon. The cold and the brightness slapped her, but Damien wasn’t affected. Joy in freedom propelled him, and he strode fast but completely controlled; there were brakes in his exquisite elation; there was loyalty to his macho boy code. Yet she could clearly hear his inner cries of relief, and she openly smiled for them both. They got into the car. He announced that he was starving. Damien was an eating machine. She knew that breakfast must feel like yesterday. The vended snacks in the 13
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
courthouse were nothing more than appetizers. “Let’s go for a sub,” he said. She thought of a small loaded pizza, and her stomach rippled with need. Then the images started to tumble. The worst of them was Jonathan, home from school by now, and very much alone. She always saw his shirtsleeve, flaming, as he turned from the stove, screaming. Or his dead blue eyes staring at his bike wheels, with blood trickling onto the street. Her foot put more pressure on the gas pedal. “I’ll drop you off at the sub shop,” she said. “WHAT! Screw that! I’m not walking home!” “I didn’t say you have to walk home!” Now a bad headache attacked her. Spears of pain started with a merciless jab at her already down-and-out tooth, and darted like a splinter through her eyes that saw too much, and slammed into her temples like the grip of a tightening wire. It happened in a treacherous flash. Suddenly her hunger turned queasy. The mind-scape of everything she had to do started spinning like a camera on a broken tripod. Panic crouched low, getting ready for the kill, and she ended her response to his rudeness with a meek sighing string of phrases. “I’ll ... pick you up ... after I get Jonathan.”
FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
14
an eons-old towering boulder. He reigned from an elevated fortress of podium, tables, and gates; he could certainly make anything happen. He could certainly crush her boy. Somebody told them to sit down. Suddenly Damien’s crime seemed tremendous. They took their seats, and her son didn’t slouch. He sat there as straight as she’d taught him, with his hands and his elbows secured to the chair arms. Above his upper lip, she saw tiny beads of sweat sprout. After five minutes, it was over. Damien wouldn’t be cuffed and removed; this was only his first real offense. But he was on formal probation now, which meant having to obey some important new rules. And restitution would have to be made. And the next time he got himself in here, the judge warned—the next time he got himself in here for any reason at all—he wouldn’t be going home. They walked outside, to a sun-struck winter afternoon. The cold and the brightness slapped her, but Damien wasn’t affected. Joy in freedom propelled him, and he strode fast but completely controlled; there were brakes in his exquisite elation; there was loyalty to his macho boy code. Yet she could clearly hear his inner cries of relief, and she openly smiled for them both. They got into the car. He announced that he was starving. Damien was an eating machine. She knew that breakfast must feel like yesterday. The vended snacks in the 13
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
courthouse were nothing more than appetizers. “Let’s go for a sub,” he said. She thought of a small loaded pizza, and her stomach rippled with need. Then the images started to tumble. The worst of them was Jonathan, home from school by now, and very much alone. She always saw his shirtsleeve, flaming, as he turned from the stove, screaming. Or his dead blue eyes staring at his bike wheels, with blood trickling onto the street. Her foot put more pressure on the gas pedal. “I’ll drop you off at the sub shop,” she said. “WHAT! Screw that! I’m not walking home!” “I didn’t say you have to walk home!” Now a bad headache attacked her. Spears of pain started with a merciless jab at her already down-and-out tooth, and darted like a splinter through her eyes that saw too much, and slammed into her temples like the grip of a tightening wire. It happened in a treacherous flash. Suddenly her hunger turned queasy. The mind-scape of everything she had to do started spinning like a camera on a broken tripod. Panic crouched low, getting ready for the kill, and she ended her response to his rudeness with a meek sighing string of phrases. “I’ll ... pick you up ... after I get Jonathan.”
FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
14
slumped like a very old woman’s, and her chest deeply heaved with a sigh. “Bryan, I’ve got so much to do. I don’t see how I can. But I promise I’ll get to your big game on Sunday. Even if it kills me, I’ll be there.”
“Mom! You're going the wrong way!” It was true. She’d made a wrong turn. “You are the stupidest driver I've ever seen.” Damien roared. “You always do this. No sens of direction!” “I know where I'm going,” she snapped through the pain. She reversed the car in a driveway. “It’s just that I have so much on my mind, I forget to make the right turn.” “You’re so stupid.”
Somehow she remembered to ask Jonathan whether he’d already let the dog out to do his stuff; he had. Now they shut in the dog, left the apartment building, and all piled into the car. She informed her younger sons of their big brother’s new probation. She dropped Bryan off at his practice field. Then she circled back to get Damien with his smallest sibling strapped in. She threw her mind into eightyear-old gear to hear about his day at school.
“Shut up.” They finally got there. In her purse, she reached past Othello for her wallet. Cash meant for laundry detergent and gas went into Damien’s hand. “Get me a small pizza with everything.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Moments later, she got to their apartment. Jonathan was fooling around with his dog. No burns, no blood, just a happy third-grader cavorting with his pet. But dogs play so rough. The animal could have gouged out one of his perfect blue eyes. One never knew. Bryan trotted up in his uniform. “There’s a practice game today,” he announced. “Can you go?” Guilt put the squeeze on her headache. Her shoulders 15
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Damien was waiting outside of the sub shop, looking almost full. He held what she hoped was her pizza. It was. She dropped Damien off at the house, knowing he was eager to call all his friends and announce that yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m still here. Then she began the afternoon’s errands, eating as she drove, sharing the food with Jonathan, and almost making two more wrong turns. She kept her little guy with her, safe from her horrible fears. Later on, at home, as she cooked her hungry sons’ supper, she planned for a spot in the night—this rare and restful night off—for her enjoyment of the end of Othello. It would be after the inspection of homework; after everyone’s brushed teeth. And then, after finishing Shakespeare, she would finally get some sleep. And yet ... FREIGHTTRAIN
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slumped like a very old woman’s, and her chest deeply heaved with a sigh. “Bryan, I’ve got so much to do. I don’t see how I can. But I promise I’ll get to your big game on Sunday. Even if it kills me, I’ll be there.”
“Mom! You're going the wrong way!” It was true. She’d made a wrong turn. “You are the stupidest driver I've ever seen.” Damien roared. “You always do this. No sens of direction!” “I know where I'm going,” she snapped through the pain. She reversed the car in a driveway. “It’s just that I have so much on my mind, I forget to make the right turn.” “You’re so stupid.”
Somehow she remembered to ask Jonathan whether he’d already let the dog out to do his stuff; he had. Now they shut in the dog, left the apartment building, and all piled into the car. She informed her younger sons of their big brother’s new probation. She dropped Bryan off at his practice field. Then she circled back to get Damien with his smallest sibling strapped in. She threw her mind into eightyear-old gear to hear about his day at school.
“Shut up.” They finally got there. In her purse, she reached past Othello for her wallet. Cash meant for laundry detergent and gas went into Damien’s hand. “Get me a small pizza with everything.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Moments later, she got to their apartment. Jonathan was fooling around with his dog. No burns, no blood, just a happy third-grader cavorting with his pet. But dogs play so rough. The animal could have gouged out one of his perfect blue eyes. One never knew. Bryan trotted up in his uniform. “There’s a practice game today,” he announced. “Can you go?” Guilt put the squeeze on her headache. Her shoulders 15
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Damien was waiting outside of the sub shop, looking almost full. He held what she hoped was her pizza. It was. She dropped Damien off at the house, knowing he was eager to call all his friends and announce that yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m still here. Then she began the afternoon’s errands, eating as she drove, sharing the food with Jonathan, and almost making two more wrong turns. She kept her little guy with her, safe from her horrible fears. Later on, at home, as she cooked her hungry sons’ supper, she planned for a spot in the night—this rare and restful night off—for her enjoyment of the end of Othello. It would be after the inspection of homework; after everyone’s brushed teeth. And then, after finishing Shakespeare, she would finally get some sleep. And yet ... FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
16
sleep just didn’t feel like it would be enough for her that night. Sometimes, even as fatigued as she was, she needed an escape a little merrier than rest. A guy she’d been seeing sprang into her mind, and right away she snuffed out his image. Lately he’d become stabbingly honest about his feelings regarding her “baggage.” He wasn’t the first guy to make that confession, and she knew it was time to forget him. Then she thought of someone else, and she busted out gleefully smiling. Of course, she’d call her new girlfriend, Andrea. Andrea was a twenty-three-year-old fitness director. They’d met at one of her jobs, a health club. “What’s so funny, Mom?” one of her boys inquired. She was stirring at the stove with a grin that wouldn’t quit. They rarely saw her smiling. “Oh, nothing.” On the infrequent evenings when she could get free, she and Andrea had been haunting the bars providing DJ music. Weekend rendezvous were out of the question, because that was when she worked as a waitress and Andrea dated. But that was okay; that was actually better. On weeknights, the bar business was slower, so they tended to have the dance floors almost entirely to themselves. Young, fit, naturally high Andrea thoroughly understood 17
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dancing. And so, for now and for always, did she. They strutted together into those places, always heading straight for the dance floor. They didn’t need a table or a drink. Just the floor. They dropped their purses right at their feet, and peeled off their jackets and flung them down too. Their bodies and souls instantly began to make beautiful love to the music. They danced apart yet always attuned, each in their own state of rapture. Every now and then their eyes would to meet, and they’d laugh to each other and holler and hoot—two pretty witches empowered by music, the happiest girls in the world. The men at the bar stared with their drinks all suspended at their breastbones. She was almost old enough to be Andrea’s mother, but the two of them hardly ever thought about that. They’d never once talked about that. Andrea was a friend from work, a person from her work life. Andrea had never seen her other life, her sad, chaotic, angry-teen household, her damaged, latchkey kids. Andrea knew nothing of her pain and shame, her poor-single-mother dilemma. And she FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
18
sleep just didn’t feel like it would be enough for her that night. Sometimes, even as fatigued as she was, she needed an escape a little merrier than rest. A guy she’d been seeing sprang into her mind, and right away she snuffed out his image. Lately he’d become stabbingly honest about his feelings regarding her “baggage.” He wasn’t the first guy to make that confession, and she knew it was time to forget him. Then she thought of someone else, and she busted out gleefully smiling. Of course, she’d call her new girlfriend, Andrea. Andrea was a twenty-three-year-old fitness director. They’d met at one of her jobs, a health club. “What’s so funny, Mom?” one of her boys inquired. She was stirring at the stove with a grin that wouldn’t quit. They rarely saw her smiling. “Oh, nothing.” On the infrequent evenings when she could get free, she and Andrea had been haunting the bars providing DJ music. Weekend rendezvous were out of the question, because that was when she worked as a waitress and Andrea dated. But that was okay; that was actually better. On weeknights, the bar business was slower, so they tended to have the dance floors almost entirely to themselves. Young, fit, naturally high Andrea thoroughly understood 17
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dancing. And so, for now and for always, did she. They strutted together into those places, always heading straight for the dance floor. They didn’t need a table or a drink. Just the floor. They dropped their purses right at their feet, and peeled off their jackets and flung them down too. Their bodies and souls instantly began to make beautiful love to the music. They danced apart yet always attuned, each in their own state of rapture. Every now and then their eyes would to meet, and they’d laugh to each other and holler and hoot—two pretty witches empowered by music, the happiest girls in the world. The men at the bar stared with their drinks all suspended at their breastbones. She was almost old enough to be Andrea’s mother, but the two of them hardly ever thought about that. They’d never once talked about that. Andrea was a friend from work, a person from her work life. Andrea had never seen her other life, her sad, chaotic, angry-teen household, her damaged, latchkey kids. Andrea knew nothing of her pain and shame, her poor-single-mother dilemma. And she FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
18
would never show her.
advertised gunk that might give her tresses a little more body.
At about nine-thirty, when she should have been bedding down for the night with that incredible man named Shakespeare, she peered for a moment at her sleeping younger sons, and she informed a groggy-eyed Damien that a buddy of hers would be staying with them while she went out for a bit. A luscious hot bubble bath awaited her. Othello was laid by, just past the danger of getting wet. She soaked and read and soaked and read until her body felt stress-free and her mind felt the wholeness of a masterpiece fully revisited. There were tears on her face for Desdemona and Othello, and for everyone else in this whole wide world who’s ever been viciously deceived and betrayed, and lost their good sense in the process. She cast the concluded Othello at the door, and then she gave the master his due. One can’t finish one of his tragedies and just get up and go. She lowered herself further in the bubbles and hot water, and let all the sorrow seep in. Then she sighed, very heavily, very reverently, and she slowly began to wash. Ah, the glory of taking control, with the simple but powerful little routines. She scrubbed away germs and dead skin from her body. She razored her armpits smooth. She shaved her long legs until her flesh felt silky. Then she turned on the faucet and turned herself around and dunked her head under the cascade. She washed her hair and massaged her scalp, and then she used handfuls of 19
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She rose dripping, steaming, and pink from the water. Bubbles slid down and fell in suds from her breasts. She stepped out of the tub and reached past the rack full of son-rumpled towels for the last folded fresh one. She opened it, draped it around herself, and tenderly blotted her skin. Then she grabbed for her tattered old robe from the hook on the back of the door. She savored every moment of this alone-time in the bathroom, with her kids quiet—even Damien. Sounds of TV were barely audible through the door. This space was too humid from her bath, but she didn’t care. It was hers. She toweled off her hair and blow-dried it. She moisturized her skin, and then touched-up her eyes and lips. She left the bathroom, went to her dingy closet, and threw on an outfit that Damien would approve of. On the dented coffee table that graced her main room, which was not much more than an entrance, she set out some popcorn for her buddy. She placed the remote in plain view. She tried to shoo Damien off the couch, but he stubbornly stayed put. He preferred this cool spot to the room with kid brothers, proud in his role as the couch alpha wolf. She went to call her buddy, but there was no need; he was already walking to her door. FREIGHTTRAIN
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20
would never show her.
advertised gunk that might give her tresses a little more body.
At about nine-thirty, when she should have been bedding down for the night with that incredible man named Shakespeare, she peered for a moment at her sleeping younger sons, and she informed a groggy-eyed Damien that a buddy of hers would be staying with them while she went out for a bit. A luscious hot bubble bath awaited her. Othello was laid by, just past the danger of getting wet. She soaked and read and soaked and read until her body felt stress-free and her mind felt the wholeness of a masterpiece fully revisited. There were tears on her face for Desdemona and Othello, and for everyone else in this whole wide world who’s ever been viciously deceived and betrayed, and lost their good sense in the process. She cast the concluded Othello at the door, and then she gave the master his due. One can’t finish one of his tragedies and just get up and go. She lowered herself further in the bubbles and hot water, and let all the sorrow seep in. Then she sighed, very heavily, very reverently, and she slowly began to wash. Ah, the glory of taking control, with the simple but powerful little routines. She scrubbed away germs and dead skin from her body. She razored her armpits smooth. She shaved her long legs until her flesh felt silky. Then she turned on the faucet and turned herself around and dunked her head under the cascade. She washed her hair and massaged her scalp, and then she used handfuls of 19
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
She rose dripping, steaming, and pink from the water. Bubbles slid down and fell in suds from her breasts. She stepped out of the tub and reached past the rack full of son-rumpled towels for the last folded fresh one. She opened it, draped it around herself, and tenderly blotted her skin. Then she grabbed for her tattered old robe from the hook on the back of the door. She savored every moment of this alone-time in the bathroom, with her kids quiet—even Damien. Sounds of TV were barely audible through the door. This space was too humid from her bath, but she didn’t care. It was hers. She toweled off her hair and blow-dried it. She moisturized her skin, and then touched-up her eyes and lips. She left the bathroom, went to her dingy closet, and threw on an outfit that Damien would approve of. On the dented coffee table that graced her main room, which was not much more than an entrance, she set out some popcorn for her buddy. She placed the remote in plain view. She tried to shoo Damien off the couch, but he stubbornly stayed put. He preferred this cool spot to the room with kid brothers, proud in his role as the couch alpha wolf. She went to call her buddy, but there was no need; he was already walking to her door. FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
20
This was a guy who came over a lot, for no apparent reason. He seemed to be attracted to her turmoil. Or maybe he was hoping to rekindle their long-gone, foolish romance. Whatever, he was cheerfully handy. She could never get him here on the weekend, when she worked and needed him the most; at those times, he was busy. But on weeknights like this one, no problem. He’d come over and munch on her popcorn, and kick back and watch cable TV; he was there for the kids while they slept. As he made himself room on the couch next to Damien, she threw him a grateful smile. It was one thing to leave the kids alone while she worked; it was quite something different to leave them for a bar. This friend was the buffer for the worst of her guilt. He didn’t ask her where she was off to. The gleam in her eyes said it all. It was going to be an Andrea evening. She and her girlfriend would dance for a while, and then, after working up a bit of a sweat, they would stroll to the bar for refreshments. They’d immediately find themselves warmly surrounded by a group of admiring men. They’d end up not paying for their drinks. Her eyes would be shining and her face flushed from dance, and the guys would unanimously guess her age at somewhere in the twenties. She’d respond with a subtle but extremely pleased smile, and Andrea would knowingly giggle, and then she’d admit to having a son who was almost sixteen years old. The men’s jaws would drop then, and her friend and she would howl, and life would feel exquisite for a moment. 21
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FREIGHTTRAIN
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22
This was a guy who came over a lot, for no apparent reason. He seemed to be attracted to her turmoil. Or maybe he was hoping to rekindle their long-gone, foolish romance. Whatever, he was cheerfully handy. She could never get him here on the weekend, when she worked and needed him the most; at those times, he was busy. But on weeknights like this one, no problem. He’d come over and munch on her popcorn, and kick back and watch cable TV; he was there for the kids while they slept. As he made himself room on the couch next to Damien, she threw him a grateful smile. It was one thing to leave the kids alone while she worked; it was quite something different to leave them for a bar. This friend was the buffer for the worst of her guilt. He didn’t ask her where she was off to. The gleam in her eyes said it all. It was going to be an Andrea evening. She and her girlfriend would dance for a while, and then, after working up a bit of a sweat, they would stroll to the bar for refreshments. They’d immediately find themselves warmly surrounded by a group of admiring men. They’d end up not paying for their drinks. Her eyes would be shining and her face flushed from dance, and the guys would unanimously guess her age at somewhere in the twenties. She’d respond with a subtle but extremely pleased smile, and Andrea would knowingly giggle, and then she’d admit to having a son who was almost sixteen years old. The men’s jaws would drop then, and her friend and she would howl, and life would feel exquisite for a moment. 21
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FREIGHTTRAIN
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22
Lu c e r o a n d t h e Flo w e r short fiction by Wesley Norman
Wesley Norman lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. He is just 22. His website, www.tracingtheseams.com, showcases his poetry and images collages. He wishes to help people find better lives through his fiction. 23
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There once was a small, harmless creature, unassuming yet full of care for the world around him. He lived in a meadow at the base of a large hill, and his name was Lucero. Others, like him, also lived in the valley, but they kept their distance from the hill because of the old rumors warning of its danger. Legend had it that if you crept too near the base of the hill you would cause giant boulders to tumble down injuring or sometimes even crushing you completely. But Lucero was young, bright, and full of naive hope. He loved playing at the base of the hill because there were beautiful flowers that grew only in that area, and their sweet scents would lull him into a peaceful daze accentuated by the warmth of the sun's bright rays. One day, as Lucero basked in the beauty of the valley's edge, he decided to start a search for the prettiest and sweetest smelling flower in the meadow. He would then bring it back to show his friends and convince them that the base of the hill was a place of magical bliss, which was to be enjoyed rather than feared. It took a while, but Lucero finally found the perfect flower. He analyzed it from stem to blossom and found not a single blemish, and it smelled sweeter to him than any other flower he had come across. Lucero so deeply admired this flower that he even hesitated to pick it out from the ground. But, after much deliberation, he decided it needed to be picked and shared with the rest of his kind as a way of reassuring them of the hill's beauty and goodness. As Lucero took the flower into the middle of the valley, where his kinsmen dwelled, he noticed their immediate reactions. Everyone who saw it was stunned—their mouths FREIGHTTRAIN
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24
Lu c e r o a n d t h e Flo w e r short fiction by Wesley Norman
Wesley Norman lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. He is just 22. His website, www.tracingtheseams.com, showcases his poetry and images collages. He wishes to help people find better lives through his fiction. 23
SUMMER 2008
FREIGHTTRAIN
There once was a small, harmless creature, unassuming yet full of care for the world around him. He lived in a meadow at the base of a large hill, and his name was Lucero. Others, like him, also lived in the valley, but they kept their distance from the hill because of the old rumors warning of its danger. Legend had it that if you crept too near the base of the hill you would cause giant boulders to tumble down injuring or sometimes even crushing you completely. But Lucero was young, bright, and full of naive hope. He loved playing at the base of the hill because there were beautiful flowers that grew only in that area, and their sweet scents would lull him into a peaceful daze accentuated by the warmth of the sun's bright rays. One day, as Lucero basked in the beauty of the valley's edge, he decided to start a search for the prettiest and sweetest smelling flower in the meadow. He would then bring it back to show his friends and convince them that the base of the hill was a place of magical bliss, which was to be enjoyed rather than feared. It took a while, but Lucero finally found the perfect flower. He analyzed it from stem to blossom and found not a single blemish, and it smelled sweeter to him than any other flower he had come across. Lucero so deeply admired this flower that he even hesitated to pick it out from the ground. But, after much deliberation, he decided it needed to be picked and shared with the rest of his kind as a way of reassuring them of the hill's beauty and goodness. As Lucero took the flower into the middle of the valley, where his kinsmen dwelled, he noticed their immediate reactions. Everyone who saw it was stunned—their mouths FREIGHTTRAIN
SUMMER 2008
24
agape and faces elated. The scent of the flower carried throughout their whole inhabitance, luring each and every set of nostrils and eyes to the flower in Lucero's hands. At first, Lucero was pleased with their fixation. Clearly, his plan had worked. But as time went on, he noticed that some of his kinsmen started asking if they could hold his perfect flower. Some of them even stuck their entire faces into the flower and inhaled so deeply that it made Lucero cringe, and he would quickly yet carefully take it back and examine it to make sure it had endured no harm. One night, as Lucero lay asleep on the soft grass of the meadow, he was awakened by a loud rustling noise, which was accompanied by harsh whispers. As he opened his eyes, he realized that his perfect flower was no longer lying next to him, and its aroma was rapidly diminishing from the air. So, he quickly turned his head in every direction until he spotted a dark silhouette against the moonlit horizon running away. Lucero began pursuing him with a speed and determination previously unknown to him. It took him a while to catch up, but he never stopped and never slowed down until he had his perfect flower back in his hands. He didn't remember how he had managed to secure it again, but that was not important to him now. He had it back, and he was running again. This time back to a place where he knew he and his perfect flower would be safe—back to where they'd first met. When Lucero reached the base of the hill, he dropped to his knees and held his perfect flower delicately across his lap. As the sun began climbing over the horizon, his inspection began. He noticed immediately that its stem was 25
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weaker and more flimsy than when he'd first picked it. He noticed also that one of its petals was torn, and its scent was not the same as when he'd kissed it lovingly goodnight. Seeing his perfect flower like this, troubled Lucero deeply, and he wanted to fix it. So, he found the place from which he'd taken the flower and began trying to replant it; but despite his efforts, the flower could barely stand up. So, Lucero began forming a ring of soil around its stem to support it. Once finished, he rushed to the stream in the middle of the valley to fetch it some water. He had nothing but his hands to carry the water in, and they were small, so he made several trips. Back and forth Lucero rushed. And with each handful of water, Lucero would also give his perfect flower a kiss and tell it of his love and admiration for it, saying always that everything would be okay and that he'd never leave it or let it die. He did this until evening. By dusk, he was exhausted and laid down next to his perfect flower and brushed it tenderly with his tiny hand while reminding it of how precious it was to him. The next morning, Lucero woke up to find that his perfect flower had fallen over in the night and all the vibrant colors that had once dazzled his eyes had faded into dull tones like those of stones. Even the lavish joys of its scent had dried up, and the blossom hung limp like a head dangling from a dead neck. Lucero, in a panic, replaced it in the ground and built a higher ring of soil around it, so that it could stand. Then he rushed back and forth again to the stream. And after returning from one of his trips he found his once perfect flower lying flattened into the earth as if trampled by a large beast. Lucero's heart broke. He FREIGHTTRAIN
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agape and faces elated. The scent of the flower carried throughout their whole inhabitance, luring each and every set of nostrils and eyes to the flower in Lucero's hands. At first, Lucero was pleased with their fixation. Clearly, his plan had worked. But as time went on, he noticed that some of his kinsmen started asking if they could hold his perfect flower. Some of them even stuck their entire faces into the flower and inhaled so deeply that it made Lucero cringe, and he would quickly yet carefully take it back and examine it to make sure it had endured no harm. One night, as Lucero lay asleep on the soft grass of the meadow, he was awakened by a loud rustling noise, which was accompanied by harsh whispers. As he opened his eyes, he realized that his perfect flower was no longer lying next to him, and its aroma was rapidly diminishing from the air. So, he quickly turned his head in every direction until he spotted a dark silhouette against the moonlit horizon running away. Lucero began pursuing him with a speed and determination previously unknown to him. It took him a while to catch up, but he never stopped and never slowed down until he had his perfect flower back in his hands. He didn't remember how he had managed to secure it again, but that was not important to him now. He had it back, and he was running again. This time back to a place where he knew he and his perfect flower would be safe—back to where they'd first met. When Lucero reached the base of the hill, he dropped to his knees and held his perfect flower delicately across his lap. As the sun began climbing over the horizon, his inspection began. He noticed immediately that its stem was 25
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weaker and more flimsy than when he'd first picked it. He noticed also that one of its petals was torn, and its scent was not the same as when he'd kissed it lovingly goodnight. Seeing his perfect flower like this, troubled Lucero deeply, and he wanted to fix it. So, he found the place from which he'd taken the flower and began trying to replant it; but despite his efforts, the flower could barely stand up. So, Lucero began forming a ring of soil around its stem to support it. Once finished, he rushed to the stream in the middle of the valley to fetch it some water. He had nothing but his hands to carry the water in, and they were small, so he made several trips. Back and forth Lucero rushed. And with each handful of water, Lucero would also give his perfect flower a kiss and tell it of his love and admiration for it, saying always that everything would be okay and that he'd never leave it or let it die. He did this until evening. By dusk, he was exhausted and laid down next to his perfect flower and brushed it tenderly with his tiny hand while reminding it of how precious it was to him. The next morning, Lucero woke up to find that his perfect flower had fallen over in the night and all the vibrant colors that had once dazzled his eyes had faded into dull tones like those of stones. Even the lavish joys of its scent had dried up, and the blossom hung limp like a head dangling from a dead neck. Lucero, in a panic, replaced it in the ground and built a higher ring of soil around it, so that it could stand. Then he rushed back and forth again to the stream. And after returning from one of his trips he found his once perfect flower lying flattened into the earth as if trampled by a large beast. Lucero's heart broke. He FREIGHTTRAIN
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knelt down, and amidst sobs, he tried to retrieve it from the tightly packed earth. But even with the gentlest of fingers, he could not get it back up without it breaking. Lucero's sadness then turned to frustration. Why had his perfect flower not recovered? Why had it refused the life he had tried to give it? But no, Lucero then thought, I should have never brought it to show my kinsmen—should've never picked it from the ground. I could have stayed here with it forever—alone and in peace. Lucero now lay flat against the earth, next to the remains of his once perfect flower. And as he thought all these thoughts and felt all these feelings, he was suddenly struck by a large, heavy object. All went black. Lucero knew instantly upon awaking that he was bleeding, but his head was still spinning from the collision and he couldn't see clearly enough to tell what was damaged or what had caused it. Several minutes later, Lucero became aware of his wounds and their severity. And within a few seconds, his level of pain struck an all-new high, almost as if the perception of his injuries had made them more real. He was still unsure of what had hit him, but he began thinking that the legends of the boulders might be true. Such a conclusion would also explain the trampled form of his once perfect flower. With this on his mind and with the pain mounting, he quickly scanned the area around him to make sure no other threats were near.
The very next day, Lucero, still wounded and weeping, set out to make sure that nothing would ever hurt him like that again. No flower or boulder would get the best of him. So he began building a wall. His hands, being so small, could only lift rocks as big as his head, but that would be enough for now. In time, he would make a wall high enough and thick enough to prevent any future attacks he might encounter. So, just as Lucero had urgently fetched water for his once perfect flower, he now urgently gathered rocks and stacked them all around him. On the one side, he would block out the boulders, and on the other, he would block out the flowers. Occasionally, some of Lucero's kinsmen would venture near the hill's base and catch him building his walls. They looked upon him with pity and tried to tell him that his wall would never be strong enough to keep the boulders from breaking it down. So Lucero would triple the thickness of his walls with every remark that questioned his strength. Eventually, others came along and predicted that the flowers would simply grow beneath the wall and seduce him while boulders came to collapse the walls on top of his head. And so Lucero removed every ounce of grass from within his walls until nothing but earth remained. For even further protection, he covered the earth with rocks for a floor, insuring that no vibrant flower would sprout up and seduce him ever again. And so it was that Lucero built his walls until he could no longer see over them, and he was completely surrounded by the dull color of rock. One afternoon, however, as Lucero was stacking his rocks,
27
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knelt down, and amidst sobs, he tried to retrieve it from the tightly packed earth. But even with the gentlest of fingers, he could not get it back up without it breaking. Lucero's sadness then turned to frustration. Why had his perfect flower not recovered? Why had it refused the life he had tried to give it? But no, Lucero then thought, I should have never brought it to show my kinsmen—should've never picked it from the ground. I could have stayed here with it forever—alone and in peace. Lucero now lay flat against the earth, next to the remains of his once perfect flower. And as he thought all these thoughts and felt all these feelings, he was suddenly struck by a large, heavy object. All went black. Lucero knew instantly upon awaking that he was bleeding, but his head was still spinning from the collision and he couldn't see clearly enough to tell what was damaged or what had caused it. Several minutes later, Lucero became aware of his wounds and their severity. And within a few seconds, his level of pain struck an all-new high, almost as if the perception of his injuries had made them more real. He was still unsure of what had hit him, but he began thinking that the legends of the boulders might be true. Such a conclusion would also explain the trampled form of his once perfect flower. With this on his mind and with the pain mounting, he quickly scanned the area around him to make sure no other threats were near.
The very next day, Lucero, still wounded and weeping, set out to make sure that nothing would ever hurt him like that again. No flower or boulder would get the best of him. So he began building a wall. His hands, being so small, could only lift rocks as big as his head, but that would be enough for now. In time, he would make a wall high enough and thick enough to prevent any future attacks he might encounter. So, just as Lucero had urgently fetched water for his once perfect flower, he now urgently gathered rocks and stacked them all around him. On the one side, he would block out the boulders, and on the other, he would block out the flowers. Occasionally, some of Lucero's kinsmen would venture near the hill's base and catch him building his walls. They looked upon him with pity and tried to tell him that his wall would never be strong enough to keep the boulders from breaking it down. So Lucero would triple the thickness of his walls with every remark that questioned his strength. Eventually, others came along and predicted that the flowers would simply grow beneath the wall and seduce him while boulders came to collapse the walls on top of his head. And so Lucero removed every ounce of grass from within his walls until nothing but earth remained. For even further protection, he covered the earth with rocks for a floor, insuring that no vibrant flower would sprout up and seduce him ever again. And so it was that Lucero built his walls until he could no longer see over them, and he was completely surrounded by the dull color of rock. One afternoon, however, as Lucero was stacking his rocks,
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he noticed a small, pastel-shaded flower beginning to blossom in the corner he'd first finished. His initial reaction was of fear and resistance. He picked up a rock to throw at it, but then he realized that it was far too small to do him any great harm. Besides, it wasn't nearly as beautiful as his once perfect flower, and its scent was quite subtle, though still pleasant enough. After further analysis, he found it to be innocuous. But still, he kept his distance and was wary of its slightest growth. As the days of wall-building continued, Lucero found that he appreciated the small comfort that this new flower brought him. Each day, he found the courage to venture a bit closer to its place in the corner. But he always did so with a rock in hand. Just in case. And yet he began to talk to it—casually and without passion at first. The flower's petite, coiled bud was never imposing and always open (almost in the shape of an ear, as if it desired to hear his words). So, he spoke, and the flower absorbed his words and grew ever so slightly with each one. The two became friends, more or less. And Lucero began to sit and sleep beside it when weary. One night, Lucero fell asleep beside the flower, and when he awoke he found that it had leaned over to lie across his chest, as if listening to the beating of his heart. Lucero was touched by this small yet significant act of trust shown by the flower. So as the sun went down the next day, he decided to kiss it tenderly goodnight, and he gently placed his arm around its stem just before he drifted off. 29
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The next morning, Lucero awoke abruptly to find that the flower had wrapped itself tightly around his outstretched arm and was now closing in on his throat. He began scrambling for a rock with his other hand to free himself, but he found no loose stone within reach. So, he began frantically tugging at the hardened stem of the once harmless flower, yet the more he struggled the more it hurt. And then he noticed that the flower had sprouted thorns during the night, and they were now preventing him from breaking free. In his trust, the thorns had hooked his softened flesh, and with every motion struggling to escape, his skin tore further and further away from the rest of his body. By the time Lucero had completely freed himself, he was missing nearly a third of the flesh from his right arm, and the bone by his elbow was glistening in the sun. The relief of being free soon vanished as Lucero realized that many of the thorns had lodged themselves deep within his arm, having disconnected from the stem. Guilt and shame soon exacerbated the anguish of his flesh. Lucero, you should've have known. Your weakness of desire has made a fool of you again. Another ornamental friend has seduced and betrayed you. And a trembling Lucero embraced it all as his fault, and with each thorn he pried out from the aching tissues, he would remind himself of every flaw in his defenses. Now, all the higher did Lucero build his walls. All the thicker too, and he made sure his floor was at least ten layers thick. No more decorative distractions. No more pain. The only thing that could potentially hurt him now FREIGHTTRAIN
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he noticed a small, pastel-shaded flower beginning to blossom in the corner he'd first finished. His initial reaction was of fear and resistance. He picked up a rock to throw at it, but then he realized that it was far too small to do him any great harm. Besides, it wasn't nearly as beautiful as his once perfect flower, and its scent was quite subtle, though still pleasant enough. After further analysis, he found it to be innocuous. But still, he kept his distance and was wary of its slightest growth. As the days of wall-building continued, Lucero found that he appreciated the small comfort that this new flower brought him. Each day, he found the courage to venture a bit closer to its place in the corner. But he always did so with a rock in hand. Just in case. And yet he began to talk to it—casually and without passion at first. The flower's petite, coiled bud was never imposing and always open (almost in the shape of an ear, as if it desired to hear his words). So, he spoke, and the flower absorbed his words and grew ever so slightly with each one. The two became friends, more or less. And Lucero began to sit and sleep beside it when weary. One night, Lucero fell asleep beside the flower, and when he awoke he found that it had leaned over to lie across his chest, as if listening to the beating of his heart. Lucero was touched by this small yet significant act of trust shown by the flower. So as the sun went down the next day, he decided to kiss it tenderly goodnight, and he gently placed his arm around its stem just before he drifted off. 29
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The next morning, Lucero awoke abruptly to find that the flower had wrapped itself tightly around his outstretched arm and was now closing in on his throat. He began scrambling for a rock with his other hand to free himself, but he found no loose stone within reach. So, he began frantically tugging at the hardened stem of the once harmless flower, yet the more he struggled the more it hurt. And then he noticed that the flower had sprouted thorns during the night, and they were now preventing him from breaking free. In his trust, the thorns had hooked his softened flesh, and with every motion struggling to escape, his skin tore further and further away from the rest of his body. By the time Lucero had completely freed himself, he was missing nearly a third of the flesh from his right arm, and the bone by his elbow was glistening in the sun. The relief of being free soon vanished as Lucero realized that many of the thorns had lodged themselves deep within his arm, having disconnected from the stem. Guilt and shame soon exacerbated the anguish of his flesh. Lucero, you should've have known. Your weakness of desire has made a fool of you again. Another ornamental friend has seduced and betrayed you. And a trembling Lucero embraced it all as his fault, and with each thorn he pried out from the aching tissues, he would remind himself of every flaw in his defenses. Now, all the higher did Lucero build his walls. All the thicker too, and he made sure his floor was at least ten layers thick. No more decorative distractions. No more pain. The only thing that could potentially hurt him now FREIGHTTRAIN
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was a boulder. He knew he could not stop the boulders from coming, but he was determined to keep them from breaking through his walls. And he felt quite confident that his defenses were solid enough to hold. But alas, Lucero knew not the density of the boulders that came down the hillside, and even a million small stones were no match for the speed and size of the stones that could come rushing down the hilltop at any moment. And no more than a day after Lucero had connected all four walls with a roof, (almost as if it had been waiting in patient anticipation to ruin what one poor creature had worked so hard to create) another boulder came rushing down the hillside and destroyed every layer of Lucero's protection. Every stone was displaced, and Lucero lay broken in a heap of rubble. Lucero felt the tears begin again, blending in with the warmth of his blood. But he quickly pushed back his tears and began rebuilding. Every time Lucero built his walls, they were destroyed. And always his kinsmen watched him with pity in their hearts as he tried so desperately to reassemble the strength of his life. Lucero and his tiny hands, with helpless persistence, built and rebuilt his walls until the rubble claimed his life and flowers ate his body in the sharp, bitter glow of the sun.
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was a boulder. He knew he could not stop the boulders from coming, but he was determined to keep them from breaking through his walls. And he felt quite confident that his defenses were solid enough to hold. But alas, Lucero knew not the density of the boulders that came down the hillside, and even a million small stones were no match for the speed and size of the stones that could come rushing down the hilltop at any moment. And no more than a day after Lucero had connected all four walls with a roof, (almost as if it had been waiting in patient anticipation to ruin what one poor creature had worked so hard to create) another boulder came rushing down the hillside and destroyed every layer of Lucero's protection. Every stone was displaced, and Lucero lay broken in a heap of rubble. Lucero felt the tears begin again, blending in with the warmth of his blood. But he quickly pushed back his tears and began rebuilding. Every time Lucero built his walls, they were destroyed. And always his kinsmen watched him with pity in their hearts as he tried so desperately to reassemble the strength of his life. Lucero and his tiny hands, with helpless persistence, built and rebuilt his walls until the rubble claimed his life and flowers ate his body in the sharp, bitter glow of the sun.
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Cr i p p l e d Fe a r short fiction by Kirsten Laulainen
“Mom, I gotta go.” He repositioned his grip on the phone. “I thought I told you.” He glanced at the clock. It was 4:30, and his meeting was at 4:45. “I’m going to talk to the resident director.” He stuffed the ends of his lanyards underneath his leg. “About the fire drill. Yeah.” Stefan moved his electric wheelchair underneath the sink, grabbing his keys from the counter top. “Mom, I don’t need advice.” Underneath his eyes, the skin turned red. “I’ll handle it the way I handle it.” The color grew darker, spreading over his cheeks. “I’ve been handling myself for a whole year, Mom; I think I know how to handle people, okay?” His head wavered towards his lap, as if she were standing in the room. “I’m not going to do anything like that,” he muttered, “I’m just going to tell her that I don’t appreciate what happened.” Strong, pale fingers grabbed at his jeans, picking at creases. “That’s all.” 4:40.
Kirsten Laulainen is a 22-year-old woman with mild cerebral palsy. In June of this year, she graduated from the University of Washington with a bachelor's degree in English. In her free time she is working on her first fantasy series, hoping to have the first book completed by next year. She is also interested in disability rights/advocacy and bringing these issues, along with the disability identity, into the public eye through fiction. Presently, Kirsten lives in Hillsboro, Oregon with her mom and her two parakeets. 33
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“Look, Mom I really gotta go.” Stefan’s right hand came stiffly to the joystick, and he began to drive himself onto the carpet. “My meeting’s in five minutes.” He shifted in the seat, wanting to hang up, but she kept him. His lips hardened underneath upturned eyes. “I told you everything is going to be fine, okay? I know what I’m going to say. I know how I’m going to handle it with her.” His eyes fixed on the fire extinguisher. “You don’t need to tell me all this, Mom—I know.” Fingers tightened around the phone. “I’m eighteen, remember?” He gave a sighing growl. “Okay, Mom. Okay.” Stefan yanked a piece of hair from FREIGHTTRAIN
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Cr i p p l e d Fe a r short fiction by Kirsten Laulainen
“Mom, I gotta go.” He repositioned his grip on the phone. “I thought I told you.” He glanced at the clock. It was 4:30, and his meeting was at 4:45. “I’m going to talk to the resident director.” He stuffed the ends of his lanyards underneath his leg. “About the fire drill. Yeah.” Stefan moved his electric wheelchair underneath the sink, grabbing his keys from the counter top. “Mom, I don’t need advice.” Underneath his eyes, the skin turned red. “I’ll handle it the way I handle it.” The color grew darker, spreading over his cheeks. “I’ve been handling myself for a whole year, Mom; I think I know how to handle people, okay?” His head wavered towards his lap, as if she were standing in the room. “I’m not going to do anything like that,” he muttered, “I’m just going to tell her that I don’t appreciate what happened.” Strong, pale fingers grabbed at his jeans, picking at creases. “That’s all.” 4:40.
Kirsten Laulainen is a 22-year-old woman with mild cerebral palsy. In June of this year, she graduated from the University of Washington with a bachelor's degree in English. In her free time she is working on her first fantasy series, hoping to have the first book completed by next year. She is also interested in disability rights/advocacy and bringing these issues, along with the disability identity, into the public eye through fiction. Presently, Kirsten lives in Hillsboro, Oregon with her mom and her two parakeets. 33
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“Look, Mom I really gotta go.” Stefan’s right hand came stiffly to the joystick, and he began to drive himself onto the carpet. “My meeting’s in five minutes.” He shifted in the seat, wanting to hang up, but she kept him. His lips hardened underneath upturned eyes. “I told you everything is going to be fine, okay? I know what I’m going to say. I know how I’m going to handle it with her.” His eyes fixed on the fire extinguisher. “You don’t need to tell me all this, Mom—I know.” Fingers tightened around the phone. “I’m eighteen, remember?” He gave a sighing growl. “Okay, Mom. Okay.” Stefan yanked a piece of hair from FREIGHTTRAIN
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his eyes. “I gotta go. Bye.” He flipped his phone shut and stuffed it into a pocket. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.” The darkness of the hallway enveloped him. “She acts like I don’t know how to do anything for myself, even though I’ve been here for eight months just like everyone else.” The fire alarm hung silent above him. Twelve hours ago, it had been flashing. “She acts like I’ve never said an intelligent thing in my life.” He heard the alarm’s hot wail, rising and falling over and over, and felt sick. Even as his fingers closed around the door knob, they were trembling. “Well, I know what I’m doing. Things are going to change.” The light of the hallway hit him and became strobe lights. It was hot and in his eyes like iced lighting. He drove and, in the silence, felt the space devour him. Twelve hours ago, this hall, and all of these rooms had been abandoned. Every student that could walk had left. Everyone but him. The elevator rang its arrival, and Stefan hopped on. There were two other people in the elevator. A guy and a girl, but that’s all he knew. His glance lasted a second. He didn’t even know what they looked like. As he sat flanked by them he tried to forget they were staring at him. His back and cheeks burned, and he felt like screaming at them to answer what exactly they found so fascinating about his wheelchair. But the pressure of their eyes was crushing. The scrutiny bore down on him like lead weights, ringing him of strength. He couldn’t say or do anything—certainly not stare back—in response. So those seconds were counted until the elevator doors opened, and 35
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Stefan could escape. When the wall of rising mailboxes and blue carpet surrounded him, he gasped for air. He took another forced breath, feeling the crawl of their eyes all over his skin. He wanted their attention and he didn’t. That was the paradox he lived every day. People took notice of him when he didn’t want the attention. They stared, making him feel like a monster, not another human being. And when he did want to be noticed—when he wanted participate with other students, they wouldn’t look at him. They were afraid to. And now, here he was again, asking for simple acknowledgment—for someone to meet his eyes—though he shouldn’t have had to ask for it. He shouldn’t have to ask to be remembered in case of a fire. Stefan headed straight for the office, staring into the large windows. He was hunting for Linda’s face. The conversation was going to begin the minute he saw her; perhaps then, she would realize he had not come down for a simple chat. He rolled into the office, the frame of his wheelchair barely negotiating the door. “I’m here to see Linda about—” even before he could finish his sentence, Linda was shouting at him from her office. “Hi there, Stefan,” she said, “come on in.” Already, he disliked the lightness in her demeanor. She was far from taking this seriously. He smiled despite wanting to remind her he was here on business. He concentrated on turning the final corners on the way to her office. As Linda rose to shut the door, she asked him, “How are you?” FREIGHTTRAIN
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his eyes. “I gotta go. Bye.” He flipped his phone shut and stuffed it into a pocket. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.” The darkness of the hallway enveloped him. “She acts like I don’t know how to do anything for myself, even though I’ve been here for eight months just like everyone else.” The fire alarm hung silent above him. Twelve hours ago, it had been flashing. “She acts like I’ve never said an intelligent thing in my life.” He heard the alarm’s hot wail, rising and falling over and over, and felt sick. Even as his fingers closed around the door knob, they were trembling. “Well, I know what I’m doing. Things are going to change.” The light of the hallway hit him and became strobe lights. It was hot and in his eyes like iced lighting. He drove and, in the silence, felt the space devour him. Twelve hours ago, this hall, and all of these rooms had been abandoned. Every student that could walk had left. Everyone but him. The elevator rang its arrival, and Stefan hopped on. There were two other people in the elevator. A guy and a girl, but that’s all he knew. His glance lasted a second. He didn’t even know what they looked like. As he sat flanked by them he tried to forget they were staring at him. His back and cheeks burned, and he felt like screaming at them to answer what exactly they found so fascinating about his wheelchair. But the pressure of their eyes was crushing. The scrutiny bore down on him like lead weights, ringing him of strength. He couldn’t say or do anything—certainly not stare back—in response. So those seconds were counted until the elevator doors opened, and 35
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Stefan could escape. When the wall of rising mailboxes and blue carpet surrounded him, he gasped for air. He took another forced breath, feeling the crawl of their eyes all over his skin. He wanted their attention and he didn’t. That was the paradox he lived every day. People took notice of him when he didn’t want the attention. They stared, making him feel like a monster, not another human being. And when he did want to be noticed—when he wanted participate with other students, they wouldn’t look at him. They were afraid to. And now, here he was again, asking for simple acknowledgment—for someone to meet his eyes—though he shouldn’t have had to ask for it. He shouldn’t have to ask to be remembered in case of a fire. Stefan headed straight for the office, staring into the large windows. He was hunting for Linda’s face. The conversation was going to begin the minute he saw her; perhaps then, she would realize he had not come down for a simple chat. He rolled into the office, the frame of his wheelchair barely negotiating the door. “I’m here to see Linda about—” even before he could finish his sentence, Linda was shouting at him from her office. “Hi there, Stefan,” she said, “come on in.” Already, he disliked the lightness in her demeanor. She was far from taking this seriously. He smiled despite wanting to remind her he was here on business. He concentrated on turning the final corners on the way to her office. As Linda rose to shut the door, she asked him, “How are you?” FREIGHTTRAIN
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“Fine,” he said. “How are classes going?”
I came to talk to your face, not your thighs. “Does that mean I should be okay with being ignored during a fire drill?”
“Fine.” Stefan turned his powerchair off. “But I didn’t really come here to discuss that.” Linda gave a small jolt. “I came to discuss—”
“No, of course not,” said Linda, sitting in her computer chair. “That kind of forgetfulness should not have happened.” She swiveled, facing him.
“The fire drill, right?”
“Well, it did happen.” Stefan twisted the cap of his joystick. “And I want to make sure it never happens again.” His fingers rested on the tip. “It was unacceptable.”
What else what I have come down here for, he wanted to say, but nodded instead. “So it was a drill?” Stefan looked to Linda, and found her fiddling with pens and pencils on her desk. “You know,” he raised his voice, watching for her to respond, “I had no way of knowing it was it drill.” Linda went on cupping her pencils. Stefan crushed his teeth together. “I was under the impression someone was going to tell me something.” Is it so hard for you to look at me when I’m talking to you? Or do you just not care? He had gone silent, and she still made no eye contact. “Nobody came to check on me after the alarm went off. What do you think of that?” Finally, Linda responded, making soft eye contact. “It was irresponsible,” she said. She was standing, and Stefan felt helpless. She was not his equal, and he was not hers. “But I had a talk with the RAs on duty, and they said not to worry.” Her body, covered in jeans and a sweat shirt, moved restlessly. “Somebody dropped the ball, but that won’t happen again.” “What do they mean, ‘don’t worry’?” Would you sit down? 37
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Linda leaned forward, her face contorted in gentle sweetness. “I agree, Stefan, it was unacceptable, to be sure.” She reached out to touch his knee, and Stefan wouldn’t allow it. “It won’t happen again, I promise.” Her soothing tone was beginning to get on his nerves. “I don’t need to be told that it will never happen again, I need to be shown.” He turned on his chair and moved backward. The power went off again with a click of the switch. “Last night, you guys proved to me that words are useless.” His blue eyes stayed on her. She was picking at something on her sweater. “So telling me something you think I want to hear is not going to cut it any more.” Linda glanced up from her shirt. “Look, Stefan, I’m sorry; the only thing I can do is give you our word that it will be different next time.” “How sorry are you?” Linda sat straight in the chair. So she was done messing around, and ready to take this seriously. FREIGHTTRAIN
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“Fine,” he said. “How are classes going?”
I came to talk to your face, not your thighs. “Does that mean I should be okay with being ignored during a fire drill?”
“Fine.” Stefan turned his powerchair off. “But I didn’t really come here to discuss that.” Linda gave a small jolt. “I came to discuss—”
“No, of course not,” said Linda, sitting in her computer chair. “That kind of forgetfulness should not have happened.” She swiveled, facing him.
“The fire drill, right?”
“Well, it did happen.” Stefan twisted the cap of his joystick. “And I want to make sure it never happens again.” His fingers rested on the tip. “It was unacceptable.”
What else what I have come down here for, he wanted to say, but nodded instead. “So it was a drill?” Stefan looked to Linda, and found her fiddling with pens and pencils on her desk. “You know,” he raised his voice, watching for her to respond, “I had no way of knowing it was it drill.” Linda went on cupping her pencils. Stefan crushed his teeth together. “I was under the impression someone was going to tell me something.” Is it so hard for you to look at me when I’m talking to you? Or do you just not care? He had gone silent, and she still made no eye contact. “Nobody came to check on me after the alarm went off. What do you think of that?” Finally, Linda responded, making soft eye contact. “It was irresponsible,” she said. She was standing, and Stefan felt helpless. She was not his equal, and he was not hers. “But I had a talk with the RAs on duty, and they said not to worry.” Her body, covered in jeans and a sweat shirt, moved restlessly. “Somebody dropped the ball, but that won’t happen again.” “What do they mean, ‘don’t worry’?” Would you sit down? 37
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Linda leaned forward, her face contorted in gentle sweetness. “I agree, Stefan, it was unacceptable, to be sure.” She reached out to touch his knee, and Stefan wouldn’t allow it. “It won’t happen again, I promise.” Her soothing tone was beginning to get on his nerves. “I don’t need to be told that it will never happen again, I need to be shown.” He turned on his chair and moved backward. The power went off again with a click of the switch. “Last night, you guys proved to me that words are useless.” His blue eyes stayed on her. She was picking at something on her sweater. “So telling me something you think I want to hear is not going to cut it any more.” Linda glanced up from her shirt. “Look, Stefan, I’m sorry; the only thing I can do is give you our word that it will be different next time.” “How sorry are you?” Linda sat straight in the chair. So she was done messing around, and ready to take this seriously. FREIGHTTRAIN
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“Do you understand what it’s like to be on my end, huh?” The face in front of him was almost expressionless. “You have any idea what it feels like to be sitting up in your room with the alarm going off?” No response. “How about having to stuff down the part of you that says ‘Get the hell out’?” No response. “And, not only that, but to realize the evacuation procedure is not being followed?” “I imagine it would be pretty rough,” said Linda. Stefan was now shaking. He tried to cover his ears, but the rise of the alarm would not be fought. He sat crouched and miserable, touching hysteria. The fire was everywhere. There it was outside his door, in his room, licking his feet. There it was climbing his body. “You imagine?” Stefan saw himself last night, in tears of panic. He was about to throw up. “How would you feel staying in a building that was burning?”
“Right. I wouldn’t either.” Stefan brushed a bang from his face. He smiled, his lips sour. “And yet you, and everyone else, acts like I have a tolerance for being a captive. How am I so different to from you, Linda? How am I so different from an able-bodied person?” “You’re not.” “If I’m not, then why is it assumed that I can tolerate being left in my room?” SUMMER 2008
“According to whom?” Stefan grabbed the water bottle resting by his leg. “Obviously someone who isn’t in a wheelchair.” He popped the top on his water bottle. “Someone who doesn’t have to stay in their room, right?” He drank, taking his time swallowing. He would let the question hang. “Of course, they can say it is in my best interest—the people who designed it can walk away.” “But it is in your best interest, Stefan.” “I don’t agree. I want to get out.” He took another drink of water, letting it wet his throat. They were silent for moment, looking at each other. The top was pressed shut, and the water bottle rested again at his side. “You can’t,” said Linda. Stefan startled, his feet pressing on the black metal.
“I wouldn’t.”
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“The policy was written with your best interests in mind.”
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“Why?” His eyes filled with panic. “Why not?” He reached out toward people on the other side of the fire. They refused his hand and disappeared like smoke down the staircase. “But you wouldn’t ask able-bodied people to stay in their rooms!” He looked at Linda, the muscles in his throat constricting. “So why ask me?” His voice was small and hard, and he hated it. “Because you could be hurt during the evacuation.” In his head, he was already devoured by fire. Choked by FREIGHTTRAIN
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“Do you understand what it’s like to be on my end, huh?” The face in front of him was almost expressionless. “You have any idea what it feels like to be sitting up in your room with the alarm going off?” No response. “How about having to stuff down the part of you that says ‘Get the hell out’?” No response. “And, not only that, but to realize the evacuation procedure is not being followed?” “I imagine it would be pretty rough,” said Linda. Stefan was now shaking. He tried to cover his ears, but the rise of the alarm would not be fought. He sat crouched and miserable, touching hysteria. The fire was everywhere. There it was outside his door, in his room, licking his feet. There it was climbing his body. “You imagine?” Stefan saw himself last night, in tears of panic. He was about to throw up. “How would you feel staying in a building that was burning?”
“Right. I wouldn’t either.” Stefan brushed a bang from his face. He smiled, his lips sour. “And yet you, and everyone else, acts like I have a tolerance for being a captive. How am I so different to from you, Linda? How am I so different from an able-bodied person?” “You’re not.” “If I’m not, then why is it assumed that I can tolerate being left in my room?” SUMMER 2008
“According to whom?” Stefan grabbed the water bottle resting by his leg. “Obviously someone who isn’t in a wheelchair.” He popped the top on his water bottle. “Someone who doesn’t have to stay in their room, right?” He drank, taking his time swallowing. He would let the question hang. “Of course, they can say it is in my best interest—the people who designed it can walk away.” “But it is in your best interest, Stefan.” “I don’t agree. I want to get out.” He took another drink of water, letting it wet his throat. They were silent for moment, looking at each other. The top was pressed shut, and the water bottle rested again at his side. “You can’t,” said Linda. Stefan startled, his feet pressing on the black metal.
“I wouldn’t.”
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“Why?” His eyes filled with panic. “Why not?” He reached out toward people on the other side of the fire. They refused his hand and disappeared like smoke down the staircase. “But you wouldn’t ask able-bodied people to stay in their rooms!” He looked at Linda, the muscles in his throat constricting. “So why ask me?” His voice was small and hard, and he hated it. “Because you could be hurt during the evacuation.” In his head, he was already devoured by fire. Choked by FREIGHTTRAIN
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smoke, and driven into madness by the alarm. What more danger could there be in leaving? “And being poisoned by smoke or burned alive is worse? What do you think is going to happen to me? I mean, what if I got one of the guys from my floor to carry me?” “Absolutely not.” “Why? Even if I asked him to, he can’t?”
was a drill. You were in no real danger.” She sat on the edge of her seat, her legs at sharp angles. He released his hand from the knob. He let his fingers slide down the ridges of rubber and rest on the dark panel. “Okay, so it was a drill.” She had him on that. For what seemed like hours, Stefan didn’t have the courage to say anymore. It was a drill. Did he really have any reason to be as upset as he was? Should he let it drop and leave her office before he looked like he was whining?
“Nobody is allowed to touch you.” “Not even if I want them to?” “No. They may drop you, or cause you to fall.” “So what?” Heat flashed up his chest and lit his cheeks. “What if that’s a risk I’m willing to take?” He felt like he was dealing with his mother, when she would move his powerchair away from a curb he saw, and knew to avoid. “No.”
No, he decided, no, he had a perfectly good reason for being here. Agreements had been broken, and people needed to be called on it. “Linda,” he said, “I know now it was only a drill, but I am concerned about what it revealed.” His head had been down, and now it was up again. “I’m concerned about what it has to say about the real thing.” Stefan replaced a foot on his footrest. “Nothing about the procedure went right, so what’s to keep me from thinking that this is exactly what’s going to happen in a real emergency? Yes, it was only a drill, but the outcome of the drill might as well be the outcome of the fire.”
“What am I to do then, huh?" Stefan looked at her, on the edge of wildness. “You—you can’t take that option away—not if every indication leads me to believe that I will be left high and dry in an emergency.”
“I see your point, Stefan.” Her shoulders and neck drooped. Her eyes wandered, and the fingers that had slipped into her hair, were combing boredom.
Linda shifted her weight to her feet, as if she were going to stand. Stefan pulled back on his joystick in response. He was ready to follow her. The chair was unresponsive. He realized the power was off. “Remember, though, Stefan, it
“In my opinion, you were lucky it was only a drill.” Linda stood up, and opening up the door to her office, asked a student worker to grab her some coffee. He had pivoted his chair to face her. Her legs were his only audience.
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smoke, and driven into madness by the alarm. What more danger could there be in leaving? “And being poisoned by smoke or burned alive is worse? What do you think is going to happen to me? I mean, what if I got one of the guys from my floor to carry me?” “Absolutely not.” “Why? Even if I asked him to, he can’t?”
was a drill. You were in no real danger.” She sat on the edge of her seat, her legs at sharp angles. He released his hand from the knob. He let his fingers slide down the ridges of rubber and rest on the dark panel. “Okay, so it was a drill.” She had him on that. For what seemed like hours, Stefan didn’t have the courage to say anymore. It was a drill. Did he really have any reason to be as upset as he was? Should he let it drop and leave her office before he looked like he was whining?
“Nobody is allowed to touch you.” “Not even if I want them to?” “No. They may drop you, or cause you to fall.” “So what?” Heat flashed up his chest and lit his cheeks. “What if that’s a risk I’m willing to take?” He felt like he was dealing with his mother, when she would move his powerchair away from a curb he saw, and knew to avoid. “No.”
No, he decided, no, he had a perfectly good reason for being here. Agreements had been broken, and people needed to be called on it. “Linda,” he said, “I know now it was only a drill, but I am concerned about what it revealed.” His head had been down, and now it was up again. “I’m concerned about what it has to say about the real thing.” Stefan replaced a foot on his footrest. “Nothing about the procedure went right, so what’s to keep me from thinking that this is exactly what’s going to happen in a real emergency? Yes, it was only a drill, but the outcome of the drill might as well be the outcome of the fire.”
“What am I to do then, huh?" Stefan looked at her, on the edge of wildness. “You—you can’t take that option away—not if every indication leads me to believe that I will be left high and dry in an emergency.”
“I see your point, Stefan.” Her shoulders and neck drooped. Her eyes wandered, and the fingers that had slipped into her hair, were combing boredom.
Linda shifted her weight to her feet, as if she were going to stand. Stefan pulled back on his joystick in response. He was ready to follow her. The chair was unresponsive. He realized the power was off. “Remember, though, Stefan, it
“In my opinion, you were lucky it was only a drill.” Linda stood up, and opening up the door to her office, asked a student worker to grab her some coffee. He had pivoted his chair to face her. Her legs were his only audience.
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“What would you have done if it had been the real thing?” He was blocking the way to her desk. Linda stepped around him, going further than was needed to clear his chair. Stefan faced her. “I’m not going to run over you,” he said. But maybe I should. “I didn’t want to bump into your chair,” she answered, but Stefan knew she felt differently. He knew it by the way she stared at the wheels of his chair every time it moved. And then, something odd drifted across her face. It was a smile, but heavy for its lightness. “Oh, Stefan,” she said, “I almost forgot.” A student entered with her coffee, and she stood to receive it. There were two shadows looming over him now, three counting the coffee cup. “I talked with your mother this morning.” The shadows felt stronger now, and he went from irritation to embarrassment. She did what? “We had a nice talk.” the second shadow left, and only Linda’s remained. They had what? Was he hearing this correctly? His mother had called here? This morning? When she knew he was going to come down here by himself this afternoon? Linda sat down on her seat again, looking relaxed. And they had had a conversation about this? Already? And without him? Stefan felt himself quaking. He was insignificant. Whatever standing he had made, that was gone. He imagined himself announcing some brilliant social revelation, only to have his mother step in. Stefan reached inside his pants' pocket, gripping his cell phone. Ha. And here he thought he had obtained autonomy. 43
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When Stefan found his voice, his eyes were foggy. It was humiliating. Now there was no way anyone was going to take him seriously. Not after they thought his mommy had to do everything for him. “She called you?” He couldn’t keep the harshness from his voice. “What for?” “To talk about the fire drill,” said Linda. Stefan’s throat stung, his pride writhing. Tears cut the edges of his eyes. Mom! How could you? I was going to talk to her about it, goddammit! If I wanted you to say something, I would have said so. “What did she say?” His voice was like rising venom. “She said you were upset.” Well, that’s that. Now I have nothing left to say. Mom’s already said everything for me. Hell, whatever I said before—not even that matters. “Stefan called me in tears,” he imagined his mother saying, “he said the fire alarm went off, and nobody told him anything about it. Loud noises frighten him, Linda—he’s been like that ever since he was little.” Now this discussion was not about his inequality as a man, and as a human being; no, it was about him being afraid. About him being infantile. “He was so scared, Linda, he got sick.” It wasn’t about his right to make choices anymore. “He told me he had to sit in his dirty clothes for two hours, until his assistant came back.” It was about the disabled college student whose mommy called, and now things needed to be fixed so she was happy. So he wouldn’t call her crying. “This is not to happen to Stefan again, do I make myself clear? This is his first year in college, and I don’t want him to have FREIGHTTRAIN
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“What would you have done if it had been the real thing?” He was blocking the way to her desk. Linda stepped around him, going further than was needed to clear his chair. Stefan faced her. “I’m not going to run over you,” he said. But maybe I should. “I didn’t want to bump into your chair,” she answered, but Stefan knew she felt differently. He knew it by the way she stared at the wheels of his chair every time it moved. And then, something odd drifted across her face. It was a smile, but heavy for its lightness. “Oh, Stefan,” she said, “I almost forgot.” A student entered with her coffee, and she stood to receive it. There were two shadows looming over him now, three counting the coffee cup. “I talked with your mother this morning.” The shadows felt stronger now, and he went from irritation to embarrassment. She did what? “We had a nice talk.” the second shadow left, and only Linda’s remained. They had what? Was he hearing this correctly? His mother had called here? This morning? When she knew he was going to come down here by himself this afternoon? Linda sat down on her seat again, looking relaxed. And they had had a conversation about this? Already? And without him? Stefan felt himself quaking. He was insignificant. Whatever standing he had made, that was gone. He imagined himself announcing some brilliant social revelation, only to have his mother step in. Stefan reached inside his pants' pocket, gripping his cell phone. Ha. And here he thought he had obtained autonomy. 43
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When Stefan found his voice, his eyes were foggy. It was humiliating. Now there was no way anyone was going to take him seriously. Not after they thought his mommy had to do everything for him. “She called you?” He couldn’t keep the harshness from his voice. “What for?” “To talk about the fire drill,” said Linda. Stefan’s throat stung, his pride writhing. Tears cut the edges of his eyes. Mom! How could you? I was going to talk to her about it, goddammit! If I wanted you to say something, I would have said so. “What did she say?” His voice was like rising venom. “She said you were upset.” Well, that’s that. Now I have nothing left to say. Mom’s already said everything for me. Hell, whatever I said before—not even that matters. “Stefan called me in tears,” he imagined his mother saying, “he said the fire alarm went off, and nobody told him anything about it. Loud noises frighten him, Linda—he’s been like that ever since he was little.” Now this discussion was not about his inequality as a man, and as a human being; no, it was about him being afraid. About him being infantile. “He was so scared, Linda, he got sick.” It wasn’t about his right to make choices anymore. “He told me he had to sit in his dirty clothes for two hours, until his assistant came back.” It was about the disabled college student whose mommy called, and now things needed to be fixed so she was happy. So he wouldn’t call her crying. “This is not to happen to Stefan again, do I make myself clear? This is his first year in college, and I don’t want him to have FREIGHTTRAIN
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fears about it.” “Yeah, well, I don’t think upset is the right word,” said Stefan. He dug his fingernails into the area where his cell phone sat. “I was more than upset, got it?” Linda’s expression was placid, as if she were saying, “Don’t worry, don’t worry. Your mother told me all about it.” Stefan thought of their conversation half an hour ago and thrust his jaw forward. She had already talked to Linda then, and hadn’t bothered to tell him. “And whatever my mom said, that’s only half of it.” What, Mom? Did you think couldn’t do it? Did you think I wouldn’t know what to say? Is that why you had to say it for me? Is that why you had to embarrass me? To make a fool out of me? He looked at Linda, studying her. Yeah, now no thanks to you I’m nothing but a kid. Nothing but an annoying little kid. “If she told you I was scared, that’s not what this is about.” “Well, I’ll assure you the same thing as I did her—things will be handled much better next time, okay?” “I don’t care about that. My mom can be worried about me all she wants. She can talk for me all she wants, but I still have more to say.” I have to work harder to have an effect now, but I’ll be damned if she is going to steal my power. “Just because you already talked to my mom, doesn’t mean you don’t need to talk to me.” “All right, then, Stefan,” said Linda, with an undeniable lilt in her voice, “what would you like to add?” Stefan’s mind puckered, stuck on his mother’s humiliating and unwanted intervention. This was his life; not hers. And he was fucking 45
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adding to it. He almost didn’t want to say anything now. What would be the point anyway? It was all one big joke. She wouldn’t listen to it—not the way he wanted. She would just be thinking about satisfying his mom—and placating him because he was her son, not about what he was saying. Disability equality? No. Disability tantrum. “Expecting people in wheelchairs to stay up in their rooms in case of fire is bullshit,” he didn’t regret his word choice. “Especially when you don’t do anything else to compensate for it.” He flung his arm out toward the door. “At this point, I'd say we’re better off getting out of the building.” “But that’s not an option for you,” said Linda softly. “If you guys don’t communicate to us what’s going on, and if you leave us in our rooms terrified and in the dark, that better damn well be an option,” replied Stefan. He folded his arms. “Sure, you might get me to accept the policy as it is, but you won’t get me to accept down right laziness.” His eyes lowered to hold her. Linda gazed kindly, the light in her eyes too tender. “We need to know what’s going on just as much if not more so than anyone else.” “Uh-huh,” she said. She sounded like she was listening to a little boy talking about his favorite super heroes or his favorite truck. “There’s no rule against calling me on the phone to let me know what’s happening, is there?” “No,” she said. “There’s no rule against that.” Linda smiled, FREIGHTTRAIN
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fears about it.” “Yeah, well, I don’t think upset is the right word,” said Stefan. He dug his fingernails into the area where his cell phone sat. “I was more than upset, got it?” Linda’s expression was placid, as if she were saying, “Don’t worry, don’t worry. Your mother told me all about it.” Stefan thought of their conversation half an hour ago and thrust his jaw forward. She had already talked to Linda then, and hadn’t bothered to tell him. “And whatever my mom said, that’s only half of it.” What, Mom? Did you think couldn’t do it? Did you think I wouldn’t know what to say? Is that why you had to say it for me? Is that why you had to embarrass me? To make a fool out of me? He looked at Linda, studying her. Yeah, now no thanks to you I’m nothing but a kid. Nothing but an annoying little kid. “If she told you I was scared, that’s not what this is about.” “Well, I’ll assure you the same thing as I did her—things will be handled much better next time, okay?” “I don’t care about that. My mom can be worried about me all she wants. She can talk for me all she wants, but I still have more to say.” I have to work harder to have an effect now, but I’ll be damned if she is going to steal my power. “Just because you already talked to my mom, doesn’t mean you don’t need to talk to me.” “All right, then, Stefan,” said Linda, with an undeniable lilt in her voice, “what would you like to add?” Stefan’s mind puckered, stuck on his mother’s humiliating and unwanted intervention. This was his life; not hers. And he was fucking 45
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adding to it. He almost didn’t want to say anything now. What would be the point anyway? It was all one big joke. She wouldn’t listen to it—not the way he wanted. She would just be thinking about satisfying his mom—and placating him because he was her son, not about what he was saying. Disability equality? No. Disability tantrum. “Expecting people in wheelchairs to stay up in their rooms in case of fire is bullshit,” he didn’t regret his word choice. “Especially when you don’t do anything else to compensate for it.” He flung his arm out toward the door. “At this point, I'd say we’re better off getting out of the building.” “But that’s not an option for you,” said Linda softly. “If you guys don’t communicate to us what’s going on, and if you leave us in our rooms terrified and in the dark, that better damn well be an option,” replied Stefan. He folded his arms. “Sure, you might get me to accept the policy as it is, but you won’t get me to accept down right laziness.” His eyes lowered to hold her. Linda gazed kindly, the light in her eyes too tender. “We need to know what’s going on just as much if not more so than anyone else.” “Uh-huh,” she said. She sounded like she was listening to a little boy talking about his favorite super heroes or his favorite truck. “There’s no rule against calling me on the phone to let me know what’s happening, is there?” “No,” she said. “There’s no rule against that.” Linda smiled, FREIGHTTRAIN
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reaching out to him again. “If that will make you feel better, I will be more than happy to get your number from you.” “Get Emma’s too—she’s on the sixth floor.” I want you to do, not just say you will.
door jam stuck in the corner. She rested her back to it, holding the handle. “I’m glad you came in to talk all this out, Stefan.” He turned and saw her looking at him. “Are things settled now?” Stefan only raised eyes to her, before making his way to the door.
“Okay, I’ll get her number too,” said Linda, pressing a fancy pen to her yellow legal pad. “I’ll make sure that they get added to the piece of paper that the RAs are supposed to have with them in case the fire alarm goes off.” The pen growled, as she underlined something. “Now,” her eyes looked at him above smiling lips, “what’s your number?” “206. 845. 7235.” Linda repeated it to herself as she wrote it. “All right, Stefan, problem solved.” She clicked the pen closed and, tearing off the sheet of paper, stuck it to the message board above her computer. The smile on her face sparkled. “Now you don’t have to worry so much. Next time the fire alarm goes off, one of us will call you, okay?” So, all he got was a substitute. There was no recognition of the denial of choice. His agency remained stolen from him, and it was no crime. He would not get it back. He had wanted her to recognize the wrong they were doing him. He had wanted her to see the ignorance of the policy. But what had he gotten? Only the comfort of communication. His rights were untouched. Linda rose and went to the door. It was pulled open, and a 47
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reaching out to him again. “If that will make you feel better, I will be more than happy to get your number from you.” “Get Emma’s too—she’s on the sixth floor.” I want you to do, not just say you will.
door jam stuck in the corner. She rested her back to it, holding the handle. “I’m glad you came in to talk all this out, Stefan.” He turned and saw her looking at him. “Are things settled now?” Stefan only raised eyes to her, before making his way to the door.
“Okay, I’ll get her number too,” said Linda, pressing a fancy pen to her yellow legal pad. “I’ll make sure that they get added to the piece of paper that the RAs are supposed to have with them in case the fire alarm goes off.” The pen growled, as she underlined something. “Now,” her eyes looked at him above smiling lips, “what’s your number?” “206. 845. 7235.” Linda repeated it to herself as she wrote it. “All right, Stefan, problem solved.” She clicked the pen closed and, tearing off the sheet of paper, stuck it to the message board above her computer. The smile on her face sparkled. “Now you don’t have to worry so much. Next time the fire alarm goes off, one of us will call you, okay?” So, all he got was a substitute. There was no recognition of the denial of choice. His agency remained stolen from him, and it was no crime. He would not get it back. He had wanted her to recognize the wrong they were doing him. He had wanted her to see the ignorance of the policy. But what had he gotten? Only the comfort of communication. His rights were untouched. Linda rose and went to the door. It was pulled open, and a 47
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