Paragon Gilman School Baltimore, Maryland 2011-2012 Volume XXXIV Editors
Co-Editors-in-Chief: Alec Tarantino & Frank Tamberino Art Editors: Max Beatty, Yanbo Li, and Bob Weisbecker Layout Editor: David Cha Eli Clemens Matt Gailloud Seth Gray William Herman Sam Im James Johnson Will Richardson
Literary Review Board
Art Review Board
Max Beatty Chris Cortezi David Cha John Brandon Cesare Ciccanti
Matt Schlerf Will Sherman Frank Tamberino Alec Tarantino Kyle Tarantino Tyler Wakefield
Faculty Advisors
John Lee Yanbo Li Andy Shea Bob Weisbecker Karl Connolly John Rowell
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David Cha - ‘13
Johnny Unitas Stadium | Nikon D300 | 18-200mm
Page Title
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02 04 06 06 09 10 15 16 17 18 18 19 20 21 21 21 21 23 24 24 25
Table of Contents: Art
Stadium Lights View from the Eiffel Tower Alaina Everything is Going to the Cloud After Van Gogh A Dozen Study of Hands Exchange Cracked Self-Portrait Steps to the Lumen Sublime The Alabama Homeward Bound Watercolor Study Gown Panda Untitled Late Afternoon in Paris Antelope Canyon Liquid Rush Man’s Best Friend
Artist
David Cha David Cha Chris Cortezi Jonny Pine Stephen Zeng Max Beatty John Lee Ryan Stevens Bob Weisbecker Robbie Demuth Henry Kelly Jake Matthai Yanbo Li Chris Cortezi Max Beatty Ben Fisher Peter Ahn Jake Matthai Daniel Yue James Cavallon Max Beatty
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Lyon Vineyards Untitled On the Edge Pinned Untitled What a LIfe Elie (Self-Portrait) Xavier Untitled Kitchen Portrait of Jack They Did What to the Spirit Shirt? Study of a Skeleton Sand Dune A Boy’s Imagination Wanderer Above Lake Powell Optics Howard Street Bridge Still-Life with Book Self-Portrait with Rubber Band Ace of Hearts Self-Portrait Reclining Still-Life Spotted Lagoon Jelly A Statement of Love Shower
Table of Contents: Literature
Page Title 06 07 10 11 18 22 24 26 30 34 36 46 51
David Cha Robbie Schuetz Ben Mendelson Max Beatty Jordan Britton Andy Shea Elie Barongozi Jake Matthai Mike Hanley Bradley Tendler Bob Weisbecker Yanbo Li Blake Benfield David Cha Andrew Burton Daniel Yue Henry Kelly Yanbo Li Yanbo Li Bob Weisbecker John Lee Andy Shea Bob Weisbecker Andrew Burton Daniel Yue Mike Hanley
Castaway Lone Ranger Jenny The Clock Walking Down the Street The Window The Idea of Coke Airplane Hypocrite My Favorite Things Southern Lights Runaway Buzz
Author
Joe White Matthew Schlerf William Herman Seth Gray Andrew Park Frank Tamberino Kyle Tarantino Galen Rende Ryan Mullican William Herman Matthew Schlerf Alec Tarantino Seth Gray
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Paragon Submission Guidelines 1) Paragon seeks to publish innovative and well-crafted art and creative student literature, including poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, and memoir. Other forms of student writing (i.e. analytical essays, editorials, etc.) will not be reviewed by the board. 2) Work may be submitted anonymously to Paragon but cannot be published as such. Any author who chooses not to claim his work after he has submitted it will not be published in the magazine. 3) All work submitted to Paragon must be the unquestionable product of the author. Any work which proves otherwise will immediately be taken out of consideration for publication, and the sudent who submitted it will be asked to refrain from submitting in the future. 4) Paragon only accepts work from current students of the Gilman Upper School. Work from any other authors will not be considered.
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Editor’s Note Art at Gilman, both literary and visual, needs only to be exposed. To us falls the privilege of compiling it. To you the pleasure of enjoying it. With that, we leave you with fifty-two colorful squares. -FJT & AZT
David Cha - ‘13
View From the Eiffel Tower | Canon 60D | 17-50mm
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Castaway Adrift upon the lonely sea The battered sailor ventures forth Towards Nothing; and the sun beats down And scorches through his skin Recumbent on his sinking ship He stares at crushing destiny His heart is full of Emptiness And hungry sharks surround him And dull grey hides, and ugly eyes, And flashing jaws, and jagged teeth, Encircle him on every side, To rip him into pieces – But still he drifts, too numb to scream, And pays no heed to looming Death For life to him seems but a dream And still the sharks are circling
Chris Cortezi - ‘13
Alaina | oil on canvas | 14 x 11 inches
Joe White - ‘13
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Jonny Pine - ‘12
Everything is Going to the Cloud | Nikon D40X | 18-55mm
Lone Ranger The saloon doors swung closed as the Thatchers exited into the night. Arthur, trailing behind after his rendezvous with the front desk mints, skirted between the flapping hinges in an effort to rejoin the family. “Hey!” he cried, irritated at the indecency of being left behind, “Hold up!” His words fell short in the waning light. Unsettled by the silence, he slowed his stride to a stop and peered through the haze of dusk. “Violet?” No response. “Mama?” His voice cracked. The air was starting to cool from the heat of the day and he could feel his arms begin to prickle. “Dada?” Nothing. He turned to the right, scanning the length of the road for signs of family, life, anything. He thought of the Lone Ranger, abandoned by his fellow cowboys and without his faithful steed, helpless before the Indians stormed through town, a Western nightmare. “Arthur!” He spun around and saw Violet barreling towards him, her heels clicking in a sideways shuffle. “Come on!” He wanted to hit her, yell at her, reprimand her for leaving him, but his throat seemed too tight for words. Instead he grabbed her hand, squeezing it for pressure and comfort, and they swung back to their parents, kicking dust in their wake. The Thatchers were assembled at the outskirts of a large crowd. In fact, the crowd was so large that its amoeba-like membrane stretched from one side of the street to the other; its gradual emergence as a mob would have denied both car and horse had either desired passage through the bulging throng. The road, however, was empty save for them and their presence was docile as of yet. Reunited, Arthur forgot his anger and focused on the more immediate sense of confusion. He stopped beside his mother and, releasing Violet from his grip, leaned closer for a whisper. “What’s going on?” She shrugged without turning. All effort seemed concentrated in the squint of her eyes and the strain of her toes. “Miss me?” Mrs. Thatcher glanced to the side with a quick twist of the head, her sight away from the commotion for no more than a second. A moment passed before she recognized her son and turned back with surprise. “When did you get here?” “Just now, what’s going on?” “Someone famous in the bar.” “Who?” She shrugged and brought her attention back to the crowd. Waiting for her to dissolve into oblivion, Arthur placed his hands on her shoulders and attempted to peer up and over the mass. Unable to compete with the countless craned necks and bobbing heads fighting for sight, he lowered himself in 7
frustration. His father’s polo shirt flashed in the corner of his eye just as he hit the ground and, crawling between arms and legs, he hurried towards him. Yet right as he emerged from the thicket of limbs, Violet came dashing out of nowhere, and in the blink of an eye scrambled up his father’s back and onto his shoulders. “Hey!” cried Arthur, dazed and annoyed at the loss of his chance. Violet grinned, checking for their father’s preoccupation before sticking her tongue out in response. Arthur opened his mouth, shocked, aghast, offended, yet closed it for a lack of words and instead resigned to folded arms and a pout. He watched his sister’s hungry eyes feast upon the scene before them. Jealousy boiled within him. His mint melted in his mouth. A voice came from the crowd. “There’s no use makin’ a fuss.” Arthur sniffled, dragging his sleeve under his nose, and kicked a rock. “I said there’s no use makin’ a fuss.” Arthur turned and came face to face with a freckled girl about his age, or at least about his height. Her folded arms nestled against a cotton white sundress that flowed down her petite frame, past the laced collar and the cinched waist, to two sparkling black shoes. Arthur was wondering how she kept the prairie dust from staining those pearly pools of ink, when all of the sudden she stamped one and blurted, “Well aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” Arthur blinked, startled, before stammering his name. “Pleasure to meet you, Arthur. I’m Miss Abigail Percing, but everybody calls me Dolly, so you might as well too, seeing as we’re acquaintances now.” She presented her hand, not as a shake, but palm down like an invitation for a kiss. Arthur hesitated before squeezing her fingertips in an awkward grasp. “So what’s got you so down all the sudden?” “I…I wanted…she…Dolly?” “Now don’t tell me you’ve got your cherries pickled and your pickles canned all for seeing Ol’ Jeremiah Hornshaw!” “Who?” “Well, whaddya think all the commotion’s for? Why, it’s Thursday of course, and Ol’ Jeremiah Hornshaw’s about to profess his love to Miss Lou Ellen Foxworth Mays, just about the prettiest bar maid you’ll find in these parts.” Arthur stared deep into the eyes of Dolly, checking for any signs of humor. “Seriously?” “Why, sure! He’s been at it for over twenty years now, they say. Why Ol’ Jeremiah Hornshaw…” Arthur broke off before she could finish the sentence and walked past her out of the crowd. “Hey! Where’re you goin’! He’s almost out!” Mrs. Thatcher turned and spotted Arthur walking away into the night. 8 “Arthur! Where are you going, honey? He’s almost out!”
Arthur kept walking, letting the dark of night envelop him. The air was much colder, yet fresher now, like morning back home. He could hear the shuffles and whispers of the crowd behind him, bustling like cattle in a pen. “I’ll be in the car.” The Lone Ranger always rides alone. Matthew Schlerf - ‘12
Stephen Zeng - ‘15
After Van Gogh | acrylic on canvas | 24 x 30 inches
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Jenny is ruby love in her pursed lips, but passion passes into the air. William Herman - ‘13
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Max Beatty- ‘12
A Dozen | oil on canvas | 30 x 30 inches
The Clock I met Joe Day when I was sixteen at church on Christmas Eve. I was sitting with my mother in the back, watching people trickle into the pews in front. There were French horns playing in the background and the talking around us had downshifted to a murmur. Joe Day walked through the side door awkwardly, as if he had two iron legs. He had red hair mowed down to a crew cut, small beady eyes, and wore a cream-colored turtleneck and a navy blue blazer. I nudged my mother to slide over and invited him to sit down. When he saw me, he smiled and threw his arm out just the way a stubborn old man would, as if to say: “Don’t be ridiculous.” He did this in silence, yet it spoke to me; I replayed this interaction in my mind for the entire service and tried to imitate the exact angle and speed of his arm, how it was both soft and absolute. After the service, my mom sprang up to talk to him, while I hung back awkwardly. Apparently, his sister had just moved to New Mexico and he needed a ride to choir practice every Sunday. Within seconds, it was decided that I would drive Joe Day to and from choir practice every Sunday. I shot my mother an angry look. He extended a gnarled hand and said in a husky baritone voice that was deeper than what his appearance suggested, “It’s a pleasure to meet you and your mother.” I smiled and we shook hands. His fingers could not fully extend and his skin was dry. The lines on his hand looked like a cracked riverbed after a drought. “Come around by next week at 9:30 sharp. Remember to knock because the bell doesn’t work.” I nodded. * * * The next week I drove to his house and rapped on the door. Its paint was peeling and at places I could see the wood underneath. He swung it open. “I’ll be ready in a minute. Come on in.” The first thing I noticed was that there was something parked at nearly every space in the house. His refrigerator was plastered with pictures of his kids. Stacks of newspapers, an empty mug, two figurine nuns as pepper and salt shakers, and an array of medicine bottles covered his dining room table. His wall was covered with: a large Indian hair dress, a watercolor of two triangular wine glasses, two posters—one of a red bull laughing some French words written at the bottom in yellow font and the other for Twelve Angry Men, a long, sleek canoe paddle, and an army uniform, folded and framed. There was a small TV and a TV chair with a blanket draped over it and a pack of Tootsie Rolls in a bucket that said Fisher’s popcorn. I took one. A gramophone crouched in the corner. It was as if the décor of the apartment had not changed in sixty years. Joe came shuffling back from his bedroom wearing a thick camel hair coat that padded his frame. “You good to go?” he boomed. 11
* * * I didn’t say much in the car for the first few months. I just tuned out and let Joe’s voice fill the car. He would usually recycle three topics: updates with how his sister was adjusting to New Mexico, stories about his brother RJ, who I learned was the chief historian of the Porsche Clubs of America, and complaints about the bagger at the supermarket. But one day, he pulled an envelope out of his back pocket and from it, poured ten black pennies into his hand. “Young man, do you know what these are?’ Actually I did. I had collected coins since I was seven. “Yeah, those are Steel Pennies, aren’t they?” He let off of a soft whistle. “You bet. Not many people your age would know that. Do you know why they were made?” “Why?” “Well, this one is from 1943. As you know, the war was going on then, so all of the copper was being used to make bullets. So the government used steel to make these suckers.” “Really?” I was interested. “Yup. I’ll give you one. They aren’t worth a hell of a lot, but they sure are something interesting to have.” “Thanks. I really appreciate it.” I put it in my pocket and hesitated, recalling the uniform framed on his wall. “Were you in the war?” “I was, but never on the battlefield. I translated intercepted messages at the command center.” “Was it dangerous?” “Well, obviously it wasn’t as bad as combat, but that didn’t mean I didn’t see a lot of weird crap.” “Like what?” I took my eyes off the road to look at him. “Well,” he said. “For example, once, I was walking through Southern France—this is after the German occupation—and I come through this little town, and I tell you, everything about it could be on a postcard. I mean really, it was just the most beautiful place you’d ever see. Anyways, I’m walking past a little cottage when this woman comes sprinting out to me, waving her hands, and hollering something in French. Now I don’t know more than my p’s and q’s in the language so we must have both looked like a couple of idiots playing charades. But after a few minutes, I come to understand that while her husband was fighting, a German officer occupied her house—God knows what he made her do—for four years. And what this woman was trying to tell me was that she murdered him and buried him in the yard behind his house. So she takes me to the backyard where I can see fields of mustard in the distance and shows me his grave. What gives me the chills was that she didn’t just bury him normally; she buried him vertically, like he was standing up. For nights, I couldn’t shake the thought of this matronly woman stamping on a shovel to a six-foot deep hole and then dragging a body right up to it and forcing it to stand up.” He 12
paused as we pulled into the church. “You know there has to be something greater going on when you experience that kind of shit. It had to mean something, I just don’t know what the hell it was.” * * * He never brought up that memory again and I didn’t want to ask him about it. I learned that asking him direct questions about his life was almost like putting a dam in his stream of though; he had to volunteer information himself—and when he did, I received each new piece as if it were a gift, and added them to my collection. When we would get to church, Joe Day always wound the clock that stood in the corner of the Fellowship Room. It was almost like a wooden person—it had a face, hands, and four curved legs all made out of sleek mahogany. It also had a heart; it’s pendulum beat back and forth, slowly pumping time through its whole body and sharing it with the rest of the room. It only kept time for thirty hours. Every week, Joe resuscitated it and it fell in line with the march of time. One day, maybe six months after I had started driving Joe, I asked him if he could show me how he wound the clock. He was delighted. From the office, he retrieved a buck-toothed key, unmasked the glass cover of the clock’s face, plugged the key into a hole, and twisted it to the left. I watched the minute hand spring to life and fall in line with the ongoing rhythm of time. He then plugged the key into a different hole and did the same with the hour hand. After he was done, he stared at me for a moment. All he said was: “Never turn the clock backwards. If you do it counterclockwise, it’ll screw up the gears.” The clock also marked each hour of its life by sounding Winchester chimes, as if to remind everyone it was alive. They lasted for over a minute, running up and down a scale of notes several times before being capped with five decisive deep strikes. On the ride back to his townhouse that day, I asked, “Why do you wind the clock every week?” “I guess I try not to kill time.” “Come on, Joe. Seriously, I want to know” He looked at me blankly. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “You must know if you do it so often.” He looked down. His hands were trembling, “I don’t know!” he snapped. The veins on his neck pulsed and his jaw shifted. He looked back up; his eyes shimmered with agitation. My cheeks went red. I felt like I was beaming a harsh light on him and his eyes hadn’t adjusted. We spent the rest of the ride in silence. * * * I didn’t see Joe for two weeks after that. He had fallen in his kitchen and slightly fractured his ankle. When I took him to church, he had a protective boot on that made him walk even more stiffly so I escorted him into the Fellowship Room. That day there was breakfast in the basement so I asked, “Joe, do 13
you want to eat first?” He shook his head. “I can bring you a plate of eggs if you want,” I offered. He nodded. “Sounds good.” When I came back up with his plate, he was staring face to face with the clock. I stayed in the doorway for a minute just watching him. His camel hair jacket hung on rounded shoulders. His square jaw was a harsh border for his soft face. He just stood there leaning on his cane, staring at the clock. There was something so sad and beautiful about the sight. I felt a shiver down my back; you could feel his connection to the thing. “Joe…I have your food if you want it.” He gasped and spun around in surprise, losing the cane from underneath him. He stumbled backward and came crashing down to the ground. His head missed the table behind him by inches. I sprang up in panic, spilling eggs all over my shirt. “Joe!” From the ground, he panted. “I’m fine. I just lost my balance, that’s all.” I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or gritting his teeth, but with that, he leaned on the table and pushed himself up as if he was climbing back up a cliff. He staggered over to a chair. I just stood there with my mouth open, unsure of whether to run and get help. “Sit,” he said. He was out of breath. “And hand me my cane.” I picked it up, handed it to him, and sat in the adjacent chair. I sat up straight, watching him intently, and flicked bits of egg off my shirt. Suddenly, the Winchester chimes began to play. They rose up and down the scale, filling the room with triumphant notes. Joe leaned back into his chair and sighed. The notes kept following one another, never seeming to stop. “Relax.” He closed his eyes. I closed my eyes and remembered how I used to read comic books on my front porch and listening to the same chimes rippling in the wind. I would be barefoot with my legs crossed, rocking on the porch swing. Even though the wind would be blowing, turning the pages of my books, the chimes gave the whole scene this wonderful stillness, as if time was suspended. The silence of the clock pulled me back to the present. I saw Joe still sitting in his chair and I said to him: “We have those same chimes hanging on our porch at home. When I was younger, I’d just sit on the porch on a windy day and listen to them. There’s something about them that reminds me of home.” Joe sat up straight and stared at me. His lips were trembling. Slowly, he said, “That’s the reason I wind the clock.” We stared at each other. “The first thing I did when I came home from the war was call my mother. I had just gotten off the ship in New York and I needed to reach her in Virginia. I burst into this flower shop looking for a telephone. It was summer so all the doors and windows were open and it was so hot that the flowers were 14
curling up. I finally got my mother on the line and I just repeated ‘Mom, I’m home.’ My voice crackled and I was spitting all over the receiver.” He paused. “And outside, these same chimes started playing from the church across the street. They rung out over the whole neighborhood. I put my hand over the receiver and listened for a second. And then I picked it up again, I was bawling, and I say ‘Mom, I’m home. Just let me listen. Just let me listen.’ I was sweating through my uniform just standing there and I held the receiver, crying, and listening to those chimes.” He finished, eyes shimmering. * * * I carried the steel penny to college. Five hundred miles away from home, I became the sole owner of that memory and locked it deep inside me, fearing that if I looked at it too many times it would lose its power. What’s curious, though, is that five years later the memory has not yellowed; its lines aren’t blurred and its contrast hasn’t faded. Time keeps moving, but I have an image of Joe preserved in my head: He is in his camel hair coat winding the clock winding the clock, with the long brass key. I am in the room, but he does not see me. And when the clock chimes, it takes both of us deep within ourselves, out of the present, into memories within memories, all still in focus, where color has never faded. Seth Gray - ‘12
John Lee - ‘14
Study of Hands | charcoal on paper | 18 x 24 inches
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Ryan Stevens - ‘12
Exchange | oil on canvas | 48 x 48 inches
Bob Weisbecker - ‘12
Cracked Self-Portrait | oil on canvas | 12 x 12 inches
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Walking Down the Street He walks down the street shoes tapping against the blackened sidewalk watching old cars come screeching through the littered road walls festooned with the work of vandals blurred by the slight drizzle and smog. He watches as people with disheveled hair limp by with angry or despondent faces, nothing in between no conscious thought, no dreams or hope, just enduring. He feels the odor of cigarettes and acid rain put a veil over Happiness— with his head cocked at an angle, a wet child clutching a glistening rubber ball stands in his path. He looks at the child fondly and pats his head. Andrew Park - ‘14
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Robbie Demuth - ‘12
Steps to the Lumen | oil on canvas | 12 x 16 inches
Henry Kelly - ‘12
Sublime | oil on canvas | 7 x 5 inches
Jake Matthai - ‘12
The Alabama | oil on canvas | 60 x 36 inches
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Yanbo Li - ‘12
Homeward Bound | oil on canvas | 36 x 48 inches
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Chris Cortezi - ‘13
Max Beatty - ‘12
Watercolor Study | watercolor on paper | 7 x 9 inches
Ben Fisher - ‘13
Panda | oil on canvas | 20 x 16 inches
Gown | oil on canvas | 14 x 11 inches
Peter Ahn - ‘12
Untitled | graphite on paper | 18 x 21 inches
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The Window The window faced east toward nothing in particular. It was not content with its existence, being set in such a direction. The windows that faced west got views of the rolling fields where the horses lived. They could also peer up at the cornfield in the distance and watch as it changed color and texture with the seasons. The windows that faced north could see the road and observe anyone who came to visit as they drove down the long stretch of pavement leading to the back door. On the south side, there were 32 windows, all an audience for the jubilant activities of the back yard with the gazebo where the people sat and drank wine on cool nights and where the dog was locked up when he wouldn’t stop barking. The window that faced east, on the other hand, thought that for a window, it was without a purpose. It looked out at a hedge, consisting of a random assortment of ivy and trees that couldn’t be distinguished one from another. The hedge began about twenty yards from the base of the window. It had every property of a solid wall and, looking at it, one might even be led to believe that behind the mess of tangled growth there was stone. But there wasn’t stone, there was space and another yard and a house and possibly another unfortunate window that framed an identical view of the overgrown barrier. It struck the window as unusual how little the family that lived in the house thought of what was on the other side. It dreamt of men coming with chainsaws to pull back the hedge like the red curtain of a stage, revealing a new world with a new house and new lives that moved about inside of it. The window spent years staring at the ugly hedge, never realizing that the sun rises in the east. Without any other windows facing in this direction, it was the only passage through which the sunlight could shine at dawn, illuminating the rooms of the house and awakening those who lived inside. Frank Tamberino - ‘12
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Jake Matthai - ‘12
Late Afternoon in Paris | oil on canvas | 48 x 36 inches
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The Idea of Coke I love the idea A sugary explosion A refreshing potion A universal nectar Triumphant symphony of flavor It’s all just too perfect The polar bear The glistening glass The waves of letters A welcoming red and white But all I taste is A gooey sap A heavy malt A bitter carbonation Trapped in stale aluminum
Daniel Yue - ‘12
Antelope Canyon | Nikon D90 | 18-200mm
All I feel is The tepid tonic The grime on teeth The simple drink Just sugar mixed with water Kyle Tarantino - ‘14
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James Cavallon - ‘15
Liquid Rush | Coolpix P90
Max Beatty - ‘12
Man’s Best Friend | oil on canvas | 36 x 48 inches
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Airplane Joel glided slowly from row to row without any firm sense of conviction. He turned to hear his mother’s voice beckoning him to their seats at the front of the plane. When they sat down, Joel was left with an open seat next to him. Joel’s older brother and sister, who never hesitated to collectively condemn his every thought, were sitting behind him. He prepared himself for five hours of getting consistently flicked in the ear. Joel turned to his mother across the aisle and asked if they could switch. The first time he asked, his mother pretended not to hear, so he tapped her on the shoulder and asked again. She looked at him and sighed. She turned away and said something to his father, then looked back at Joel in reluctant agreement. He was relieved. He unbuckled his seat belt and stood up. He was leaning over the seat in front of him, trying to avoid hitting his head on the TV monitor. At this point everyone had taken their seats and the aisle was empty. Then, something terrible happened. He closed his mouth and swallowed. He could feel his neck roll as the saliva went down his throat. The walls seemed to shrink in as he stared feverishly at the newest arrival on the plane. Out from behind the cabin wall entered the most beautiful girl Joel had ever seen. She had brown hair that covered half of her face and she wore a baggy grey sweatshirt and black yoga pants. It didn’t even look like she was walking, but rather hovering past the other passengers like a Roman goddess being pulled in a chariot. She looked down at the letters on each row with a keen sense of certainty, like she’d been there a million times. Joel hurriedly sat down. Please God no, he thought. Joel looked up. With one magnificent swoop of her hair, she looked at him with two huge brown eyes and smiled. He wanted to sprint to the back of the plane and hide in the bathroom for the rest of his life. Joel got up and stood in front of her. His parents looked on with weary anticipation, like they felt sorry for the girl. He opened his mouth and attempted to form a coherent word or statement. He blurted out one syllable of gibberish. There was a second or two of silence. He realized that he wouldn’t be able to speak any more so he just pointed at her and then at the open seat. She could only nod in subtle confusion. He took a step back and let her take the open seat by the window, wondering how it could possi bly get worse. His parents looked at him like he deserved it. His sister whispered something to his brother, who reclined and laughed. He figured that the rest of the people on the plane were thinking up scenarios in which Joel desperately tried to court the girl but failed time and time again, ultimately resulting in one of the flight attendants asking the pitiful boy to go sit in the back where no one could see him. 26
Joel sat down next to her and tried frantically to think of a way to start a conversation. Recognizing his failure to do this, he tried to reason with himself. We don’t really need to talk. She’s probably really tired anyway. Maybe she’s actually five years older than me and the idea of the two of us talking is completely inappropriate. Also, she has a boyfriend, and he has a temper, and she’ll tell him to kill me. Maybe I’ll just try to make her laugh. Or then again, maybe I’ll just sit here and slowly wither away. Joel waited five minutes, which turned into ten, then an hour. Eventually, he just fell asleep. He woke up to the sound of the pilot telling everyone on the plane to put their seats in the upright and locked positions, close all tray tables, and fasten their seatbelts. Joel rubbed his eyes and closed his mouth, which he realized had probably been open the whole time he was sleeping. The speakers came on again- another reminder, as if no one had heard before, to fasten their seatbelts. “Okay already,” Joel retorted. Just then he heard the most wonderful sound come from the seat next to him. It was laughter. Not a giggle, or a chuckle, or any other form of unenthusiastic amusement. She was really laughing. He looked right at her and she looked back. For about two seconds, he saw right into her eyes. Joel’s head felt like it was going to burst. The whites of her eyes matched the clouds behind her. Her blue-black pupils reminded him of a small fifth grade boy sitting alone at the lunch table after being dumped and torn apart by an even smaller fifth grade girl. He imagined a high school freshman waving good morning to the girl across the street, and he saw her refuse to wave back. He saw the same boy, now a senior, drive by a group of screaming cheerleaders with signs in their hands reading CARWASH. He saw the boy silently pass by them. Then suddenly, her eyelids closed over the whole scene and all Joel could focus on was her indescribable beauty. The world vanished, and Joel floated on top of the clouds, passing over countless schools and neighborhoods and carwashes. Once Joel got off the plane, he and his family went directly to baggage claim. They all got organized and walked towards the exit sign. Before walking out, he thought about saying goodbye. He had kept an eye on her since they got off the plane. She was on the other side of the luggage belt, leaning to one side with her hand on her hip. He took one last look, then turned around and watched his reflection slowly glide away in the glass of the revolving doors. Galen Rende - ‘12
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Robbie Schuetz - ‘12
Untitled | Nikon D40 | 55-200mm
David Cha - ‘13
Lyon Vineyards| Canon 60D | 17-50mm
Ben Mendelson - ‘15
On the Edge | Pentax *ist DS | 18-55mm
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Hypocrite I am an American. I live in an average city. I have a heart, a brain, two arms and two legs. I am a man. I am a Republican, but when Democrats ask, I call myself an independent or urge them, “I’m not as conservative as you think...” I aim to please. Deep down I’m not judgemental. I see my own flaws in other people. I am slightly cynical. That took me three times to spell right. I am a bad speller. I lost the 6th grade spelling bee on the word fragrance. My room smells bad. My mom asks me to clean it constantly. I try to please my parents. When I fail I fall back on cliches. You can’t please everyone, I’ll say to myself. My favorite saying is “You only live once.” Unless you’re a cat. I deprecate myself. I am my own biggest critic. I can put myself in a dark and lonely place, and let little things like laughter pull me out. When I stay in, I want to go out. When I go out I wish I had stayed in. When I’m alone, I want to be surrounded by people. Big crowds make me nervous. I get addicted to attention and little red notifications on a computer screen. I love certain attention. I hate attention. When I’m sick, I can’t stand people asking me how I’m feeling. I would love to see myself in the spotlight, though. On birthdays and Christmas, I feel awkward receiving gifts. I always feel great giving them. I am a slacktivist. I can be influenced by the wrong crowd, but often consider myself a goody-two shoes. I act goofy to make people smile. I can flip this switch on and off easily, but don’t know when to. I like to dance and air guitar. When I get started I go on rolls. I like what I like. If it’s there I’ll have some thank you very much. I am polite to adults. I am too sarcastic to my peers. Pero me gustan mis amigos. I am bad at Spanish. I want to travel. I want to be a wanderluster. I want to go to college down the street. I am vulnerable. I feel butterflies while reading in front of the class. I like fast rollercoasters. I like bands you’ve never heard of. I hate hipsters. Hate’s a strong word. I cheer for the underdog. I am a fair weather fan. I seek out unknown underdogs that will one day have a chance at being successful underdogs, so I can appear knowledgeable. I like Ron Paul. I have his bumper sticker. I have his shirt. I have not registered to vote. Yet. I like fast food. I like it quick and easy. I want a good girl. I want love. I think I want that more than anything. I’d rather be mediocre and have love than have luxuries and a trophy wife. Mediocre is a lazy word. I am lazy. I want to make money, so I can be lazy. I enjoy music. I enjoy it a lot. I am always listening to it. I like every genre. I like to blast it in my car. I like to roll my windows down and sing at the top of my lungs. Except at red lights. That’s embarrassing. I want a convertible. I want a classic, navy blue, Jeep Wagoneer. I like classical music. But only some. I like being fancy. But only sometimes. I bought a guitar to get girls. I taught myself. I’ve never played for anyone. I am better than 30
beginners but nothing special. My talents reek of mediocrity. I fill the void by adding new talents. These talents and hobbies provide mere small talk topics. I like to mash songs together. My friends call me DJ. I am not a disc-jockey. I like horse races. I like cowboy movies. I like the idea of going West. How many frontiers are there for a 17-year-old boy? Oh wait, I am eighteen. I am a man. I can buy porn. I can buy cigarettes. I can buy lottery tickets. I can go to jail. I’m claustrophobic. I am not afraid of Santa Claus. I’m not much for organized religion, but I believe in things I cannot see. It puts my life in perspective. I like to stargaze. I live in the city. I am well-rounded, but conflicted. I have strong opinions, but cannot make up my mind. I am a hypocrite. And that’s just alright. Ryan Mullican - ‘12
Max Beatty- ‘12
Pinned | oil on canvas | 20 x 20 inches
Jordan Britton- ‘12
Untitled | oil on canvas | 48 x 36 inches
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Andy Shea - ‘13
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What a Life | oil on canvas | 24 x 26 inches
Elie Barongozi - ‘14
Jake Matthai - ‘12
Elie (Self-Portrait) | oil on canvas | 12 x 9 inches
Mike Hanley - ‘13
Untitled | oil on panel | 8 x 8 inches
Xavier | oil on canvas | 14 x 11 inches
Bradley Tendler - ‘13
Kitchen| oil on canvas | 16 x 20 inches
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My Favorite Things When I was eight, clementines were my favorite. The soft orange flesh, the sharp sugary nectar, The sweet citrus scent that lingered on the fingers. But one day, I pulled apart two slices hastily, Shooting a bitter sting into the corner of my eye. Clementines weren’t my favorite for a while. When I was ten, playing football was my favorite. The neighborhood friends, the rush of contact. The plausible dream of a professional career. But in the second game of the season, I cried ferally on the sideline after fumbling on my first and only carry. Football wasn’t my favorite anymore. When I was fourteen, girls were my favorite. Their enchanting long hair, their mysteriously soft features, The magnetic camber of their torsos. But when I found my perfect blonde debutante, She put a number in my Razr that was not in service. Girls won’t ever be my favorite again. When I was sixteen, speeding was my favorite. The free wind whistling through the windows, the free sun flooding the car, The completely self-contained contest against the speedometer,
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But three months after I received my license, I misjudged a turn going one hundred and ten miles per hour, slammed into a tree, and instantly paralyzed my best friend in the passenger seat. Now, I don’t have any favorites. William Herman - ‘13
Bob Weisbecker - ‘12
Portrait of Jack | oil on canvas | 24 x 24 inches
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Southern Lights In the summer of fifty-nine, I discovered both Friedrich and the tower. I had no intention of finding either, but the one led to the other, and before long we was “two peas and a pod,” as Papa used to say. I can’t begin to imagine what life would’ve been like if they hadn’t appeared, but I’m sure glad they did. Lord knows the virtue of a poor man feeling rich, and the fruits of my time with Friedrich made me feel like the richest man alive. I passed him every day on my way home from cleaning windows in the city. I don’t remember when he showed up, but there he’d be every afternoon ‘round four, just sitting by the road. I never paid him much attention; my body always seemed to be in a right fix after all that climbing and scrubbing, so I’d drag my soles and pail in silence and keep to myself. Besides I had a mama with a temper and a pan, and she wasn’t afraid to use either when it came to licking a late son. One day I spotted him lying face down on a tire swing over near the colored schoolhouse. Boy had always looked to be about as old as me, yet there he was rocking like a baby in a crib. The sun was struggling with some purples and reds, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before night pulled her down and supper hit the table. I hesitated for a moment, and before I could feel Mama’s hand across my face, curiosity had me skipping over to the boy on the swing. “Why you always got on your Sunday best?” I asked, leaning against a nearby tree. Every time I saw him he was wearing trousers and dress shoes with ‘spenders and a collar. I could tell how long he’d been in the heat by the dark shadows sinking into his shirt, holding time like rings in a tree. He lifted his head up and pushed his damp, blond hair out of his eyes, shuffling his feet so that the swing faced me. “Sorry? Say again?” “Didn’t your mama ever tell you Sunday’s for Sunday best and the rest’s for whatever you got?” “This is all that I have got.” I didn’t know whether that meant he only owned nice clothes or he only owned the clothes on his back. Regardless I knew better than to pry. I was more confused by how he was speaking; he sure didn’t sound like any folk I’d met before. “You from across the river?” “No.” “You from Virginia?” “No.” “New York?” “I am German and I live now here in United States of America.” I stared back with my mouth open like he said he was from the moon. I’d never met nobody from 36
the North, let alone someplace overseas. I could barely find Mississippi on a map. As for Germany, I hadn’t a clue where was what and what was happening. Of course I’d known about Hitler and the Jews, but the Soviets and the Wall were something for the books and the future. The whole matter never seemed to concern us Southern folk. Why worry ‘bout winds forming in the East when you got a whole damn twister tearing through your own backyard? “Well, watchu doin’ here for? Ain’t nobody ever heard of a German livin’ in Jackson.” “Mine father and brothers answer flyer and come look for work in land of opportunity. They make good weeks in factory in Braxton. I see them weekends and watch home meanwhile.” I didn’t know how to respond. Papa worked a double-shift at the corner store, but I always had Mama and the other children ‘round the house. And I’d heard of them Braxton soap factories and they sure as hell weren’t “good weeks.” Rumor said a black man fell in a vat one time and all they did was fish his shoes out and sold the soap half-price. Ain’t no place for a colored or a foreigner looking for some opportunity; Mr. Crow made sure of that. I pushed off the tree and stood with my arms crossed, pretending like I was sizing him up. “You got a name?” “Yes, I have. Mine name is Friedrich.” “Friedrich.” I said it real slow, testing out the consonants as if I’d never heard them before. He smiled like I said something funny. “Well, Friedrich, you ever try your hand at washin’ windows?” * * * Thirty years now and I can still feel that summer like a burn on the tongue; Mississippi heat can leave a man feeling numb he’s so hot. I met Friedrich early the next morning, but we couldn’t beat the sun. From my advice, he’d left the dress clothes at home and instead wore a pair of overalls I’d brought him. I’d forgotten about his shoes though, so we walked on the grass beside the road and sprinted from shade to shade under the trees. I kept quiet considering we was only strangers to each other at that point. He opened up real quick though, pouring words like he’d been waiting years for somebody to take them in. He couldn’t stop smiling and swinging his arms like we was strutting down the yellow brick road. He talked about the weather and the city and a whole lot about his family. Friedrich’s father had been a professor in Berlin before the war ended. He’d known what would happen if the Germans lost, so he taught his boys the language of the West and shuttled them off to Britain. Tensions must have been high though for they didn’t last more than a few weeks before they took a ship over here, following a flyer that promised the great opportunities for immigrants in the South. I’d love to meet the man that made that flyer and figure out what South he was talking about. I brought Friedrich to a high-rise they’d just pulled up on Pascagoula. I could see the boys already 37
at work up top, so I showed him how to use a pulley and we shimmied our way to the roof. There ain’t nothing like a fourteenth-story wind to set a flaming skin at ease. I could see Friedrich shiver in joy as we rounded the edge and reached the concrete top. We dangled our feet and took in the view, panting from the climb and rubbing goose bumps from the cold. I rigged him in a Bosun’s chair and showed him how to play the ropes real smooth. Albert and the other boys were throwing us a mean look from across the roof. Nobody wanted competition, especially from another white boy. I knew they’d be cool, though—Albert and I went way back to digging pop bottles out the dump. I tipped my head to them and brought Friedrich to the edge. We dropped over and I had us rest against the top floor. I always started high, that way you was near the ground when you got tired. I hollered up, and Little Bennie ran to get some rags and water. I could sense Friedrich squirming at my side, so I made sure he kept his head up and his eyes straight. The glass seemed to ripple from the heat, and though the sun had us squinting, we could see the whole city through the glare. I pointed out the head of the capitol building and the distant teeth of the cemetery. I traced my finger down Farish Street and circled around the Alamo Theatre in the colored district. Friedrich caught his breath, spotting the crowds of unemployed squatting on the curb, baking like ants in the sun. The rags sizzled when we rubbed the windows and the dirt slid away like grease in a skillet. We could see inside the building now and it was full with people bustling about. Old men in dark suits fingering glasses of scotch and blowing smoke from every hole in their faces. Lines of straight-backed secretaries tapping out papers like they was two hours too late. We must’ve looked an odd sight, two boys floating on the Mississippi skyline. * * * Friedrich and I got real close strapped up in the air like that. We scrubbed those windows for weeks, blowing change on picture shows, until one day he asked if he could take me on a trip. I said sure and met him near the schoolhouse at the crack of dawn. He was wearing the overalls I’d given him with a straw hat he must have picked up on the road. “You lookin’ like a real Huck Finn,” I said with a smile. “This sure gonna be an adventure!” He gave me a puzzled look, so I laughed and shook my head. “So where we headin’?” “You will see. It is a place I find by myself and I think you will like.” We strayed off the road and followed a path that cut between a cornfield and the woods. I’d left my shoes home that morning and the soft tractor prints on the ground felt good on my feet. The trail started getting steeper and the cornfield gave way to more trees on the right. After twenty minutes or so, we was thick in the woods and higher every step. I was excited just watching Friedrich march with that silly smirk of his. 38
“We almost there yet?” “Just ahead. I know it must be soon.” Normally, I’d have been scared trekking so deep in woods I didn’t know, but there was something about Friedrich that put me at ease. It might’ve been the way he talked or maybe just the general comfort he had being around me. He might’ve just been lonesome and I was the best he had for a friend. Didn’t matter much to me, though; I just let the skinny, blond boy in overalls lead me up through the woods. “We are here.” Friedrich stepped out into a clearing of weeds and dandelions. The golden petals blazed under the sun, sparkling against the otherwise dulled grass and baked soil. In the center of the field stood the stretched skeleton of an old water tower. Its bony legs jutted from the ground, supporting the rusted belly six stories high. It loomed in the cloudless air like a tin-headed monster reaching up for a breath. “I knew you would want to climb.” He looked proud of his discovery, but I could tell he was anxious for my approval. I smiled and sprinted towards the tower. Reaching its shadow was like jumping in a pool; underneath the ground was cold and the air thin. I could hear Friedrich’s muffled steps close behind. We pounced on the steel legs like wild animals, clawing our way up like we was born to climb. The rungs left my hands and feet dusted orange and itchy, but I kept my eyes up and my arms pulling, shouting to Friedrich all the way. It wasn’t until we was halfway up that I stopped to breathe and looked out before me. Between the bars I was holding the world spread out like an open window. City, county, country, it was all there nestled under one baby blue sky. I could make out every building downtown, gleaming like a toy fresh out of the box. Surrounding the city was a quilt-work of farmland, rolling deep into the distance. And right where the yellows met the blue in a hazy embrace, the river squeezed her silver body in and stretched the length of the horizon like she was butter to the bread. Lord, you’d have thought there was nothing prettier in the world than Jackson, Mississippi. Hanging from a rusty tower in the heat of July, we sure drank in the sweet beauty of that sight. * * * When we wasn’t eating, sleeping, or washing windows that summer, we spent every moment on top of the tower. We claimed it as our own and swore ourselves to secrecy. Mama thought I must’ve been crazy, rushing off after dinner every night like a fool in the dark. I’d kiss her on the cheek, stuff my pockets with chicken and hush puppies, and be out the door before she could give me a piece of her mind. Papa just laughed and said to put a good word in for him when I ran into the police. Nighttime was the best time for climbing a tower. I met Friedrich at the old tire swing and we talked our way up to the summit. I thumbed a flashlight on when the black closed in and it got too thick to 39
see. Ain’t no fear ever crossed my mind walking through those woods with Friedrich. We had the whole world ahead of us and nobody could’ve taken that away. Besides, Friedrich had that wild German blood pumping through his veins. Boy so much as stepped on a pinecone and curses started flooding like the Rhine. “Wonder what God made the night for.” I didn’t turn my head or ask Friedrich directly. I just let the words float out my mouth and dissolve in the air. “To give the world rest. We can only live under the heat for so long.” Friedrich and I had been working on his English near about the whole summer; it made me feel real proud when he spoke something like that. Got me thinking he knew the language better than me. “Then why’s the sun ever have to rise? I can live without the heat. Shit, I can live without the sun.” Friedrich paused like he was thinking something good. When he got all quiet like that I knew he wasn’t thinking, but remembering. He spoke real slow when he got it together. “Sometimes we need to burn to remember that we’re living. Pleasure always follows pain.” We reached the clearing, bright and still under the moonlight. I turned off the torch and we crept over to the base. There was no sprinting in the night; one wrong step in a Mississippi backwoods and you was dancing with a cougar. We took our time climbing too, stopping to breathe and close our eyes every so often. It wasn’t until the lights was out that your body realized how high you was up. Your palms sweat, your knees shake, your belly sort of do a flip. The tower seemed to creak and sway and you couldn’t help but think of the black swamp churning beneath you. We stretched out on the platform up top. The metal bars pressed into our skin like a cold-fingered backrub. I closed my eyes for a moment and let my heart settle from a thump to a tap. When everything seemed real smooth, real slow, I opened my eyes and took in the night. God must’ve been in a real good mood when he painted the sky. Nothing lifts a soul more than a wink from the heavens. “You got stars in Germany?” I smiled. He turned his face to me and there was no smile looking back. His eyes were soft and deep enough that I could see the swaying shadows of the trees and the glistening of the stars. “I must leave tomorrow.” He spoke real slow and then let it rest so I could take it in. I twisted my face and started breathing heavy like it was coming fast out the dark, but really I’d known all along. Folk don’t last in Jackson who wasn’t born there. Those soap factories in Braxton were nothing but hell, and the flyer they’d followed was nothing but a hoax. Friedrich’s father was sending them north to a German community in Wisconsin. He’d be leaving in the morning and once he left, he’d be gone for good. He kept talking, saying something about the tower and my summer, but all I could pay attention to were the tears pooling past his lips. I knew he had so much left to say and Lord how I would’ve loved to hear it all. We both took a quick breath as a comet tore the sky. Another quickly followed and I watched as 40
We both took a quick breath as a comet tore the sky. Another quickly followed and I watched as it burned through the stars, connecting the dots. I thought about Albert’s sister Dorothy who Papa found burning on a rope behind the corner store. I thought about Uncle Jay who lost a leg fighting in Korea. I thought about Friedrich’s mama who I’d never heard him mention. I thought about his brothers working in the factory and the colored boy who fell in the vat and the white boy using him for soap. I thought about how far the stars were and how close they seemed. I thought about how my hands would’ve scraped the roof of the world if I’d lifted them. I thought about how if I pinched one of those flashing stars I could pull back the inky sky like the wet skin of some warm milk. “Wonder if one day we all become stars and burn in the night,” I whispered, and imagined my words flowing out my mouth, over Friedrich, through the water in the tower, up into the air, and out between the lights of the city and the sky. Matthew Schlerf - ‘12
Yanbo Li - ‘12
They Did What to the Spirit Shirt? | oil on canvas | 16 x 12 inches
Blake Benfield - ‘14
Study of a Skeleton | charcoal and conté on paper | 19.5 x 15 inches
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David Cha - ‘13
Sand Dune | Nikon D300 | 14-24mm
Andrew Burton - ‘12
A Boy’s Imagination | Nikon D3000 | 18-55mm
Daniel Yue - ‘12
Wanderer Above Lake Powell | Nikon D90 | 12-24mm
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Henry Kelly - ‘12
Optics | oil on plywood | 12 x 12 inches
Yanbo Li - ‘12
Howard Street Bridge | oil on canvas | 36 x 24 inches
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Runaway I forgot the door, So you forgot that I loved you. And the breeze that kissed the daffodils, And littered the floor with petals Didn’t come in through the window, But through the hole in my heart. Paw prints in wet cement. Alec Tarantino - ‘12
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Yanbo Li - ‘12
Still-Life with Book | graphite on paper | 8.5 x 11 inches
Bob Weisbecker - ‘12
Self-Portrait with Rubber Band | charcoal on paper | 24 x 18 inches
Andy Shea - ‘13
Self-Portrait | oil on panel | 10 x 8 inches
John Lee - ‘14
Ace of Hearts | oil on canvas |18 x 24 inches
Bob Weisbecker - ‘13
Reclining Still-Life | charcoal on paper | 15 x11 inches
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Andrew Burton - ‘13
Spotted Lagoon Jelly | Nikon D3000 | 35mm
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Daniel Yue - ‘13
A Statement of Love | Canon T1i | 50mm
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Mike Hanley - ‘13
Shower | oil on canvas | 48 x 36 inches
Buzz The air had been holding its breath all day. Its earthy smell clung to the inside of Paul Barbera’s long silver Cadillac. His big frame leaned over the wheel of his idling car as he waited for his son, Tony, to finish getting dressed. After three minutes, Tony came running down the front stairs with his wet hair swept across his face and a white button down shirt sticking to his body. “Tony.” He rolled his eyes as his son got in the car. “What’d you take a shower for? You know they’re gonna wash your hair there, right?” “Yeah, I know, I just don’t like how the lady did it last month, that’s all.” Tony crinkled his nose as his father lit a cigarette and began to drive. They sat in silence until Packard Street. Tony ran his fingers through his hair and opened his mouth once but words danced away from him. His father put out his cigarette and asked, “You wanna listen to Sportstalk? I think I can get reception down here.” “Yeah.” A loud clamor filled the car, interrupted only by the cackle of static. “The Irish don’t have a fighting chance,” he chuckled. Tony watched his shoulders shake up and down. “Yeah.” The Cadillac slid into its parking space. “Pop, come on. You know I don’t like the way Uncle George cuts my hair.” “Damn it, Tony, how many times do I have to tell you? We go because we get a free cut. It’s a family thing. Come on.” Tony sighed and followed his father inside. A thin layer of hair coated the floor. To his right, Tony’s grandfather’s friends, Mario and Charlie, were playing a lazy game of checkers. They were immovable features of the shop, their presence as constant as the four ladies behind them sitting in hair curlers and gossiping. Smooth jazz wafted through the room, interrupted only by the rhythmic snap of scissors. “Tony! Long time no see,” his uncle George said in a low baritone. He was a spitting image of his brother—he had a round face with his chin spilling over its borders, thick and meaty hands, and a big red nose. “Good thing you came in, you were starting to look like a little fruity with those bangs right there.” Tony’s smile faded away. His father said, “That’s what I’ve been telling him all week. He’s gotta dance next week and I don’t want my son looking like one of the damn girls.” His thunderous laugh boomed, rolled, and crashed against the walls of the room. “So what’ll it be today, boys?” 51
“He’ll get a number 4, George. You know, the regular.” “Pop, can’t I just get a trim? Buzzes take too long to grow back.” The synchronized clipping stopped. The ladies in hair curlers looked up from their magazine. Uncle George raised his bushy eyebrows. “I don’t wanna have to drive you out here every weekend, Tony. What the hell is the matter with you? Come on now, get in the chair.” Tony wore an expressionless face as he slid into the chair, spreading his legs far apart. George fitted him with a smock and put a rough white band around his neck. “You like the Duke?” he asked. “The Duke?” Tony responded. “Yeah, you know, Duke Ellington. I got surround sound in here just ‘cause of him. He’s mean on the trumpet.” “Oh, yeah.” Tony sat in silence and scratched the band around his neck. Through the mirror, he watched his father sit down on one of the red chairs and put a toothpick in his mouth. One of the ladies with dyed blonde hair leaned over to his father. “You have a really handsome boy there.” Her mouth formed a gummy smile. “Does he have a girlfriend?” “Not yet.” His father’s shoulders moved up and down. “I’m trying to get him to ask someone to this dance next week, but he’s not biting.” The room became a symphony of competing instruments. The Duke and the buzzer furiously hummed underneath the snap of the scissors. Tony spread his legs further apart and slouched on the chair. Tufts of brown hair were spread over his smock. The buzzer stopped. George slapped Tony’s neck with baby powder, causing his gold necklace to jump up and down and a white plume of smoke to settle over Tony’s face. “You want a lolly?” he asked. “No, I’m good, thanks,” Tony forced a laugh. Tony and his father couldn’t get radio reception on Laurendale Avenue. “You hungry?” his father asked. “We can get McDonalds.” “No, I’m good, thanks.” “You know...” Tony’s father’s words crumbled in his throat. He fiddled with the radio as the car puttered at the light. “You could take Alyssa. She’d be real fun plus she lives close too.” Tony ran his hand through his buzzed hair; little pieces clung to his hand. He looked over at his father. His nose glowed red and he didn’t make eye contact. “Yeah, I can do that, Pop,” he said softly. They drove back in silence. Seth Gray - ‘12 52