The Garnet, 2013

The Garnet 2013

Will Hudson ’14 Editor-in-chief Ethan Sabo ’16 Assistant Editor

Hampden-Sydney College Spring 2013

Garnet

Volume 122 The Literary Magazine of Hampden-Sydney College (Continuing the Hampden-Sydney Magazine, founded in 1859) Will Hudson ’14, Editor Dr. Richard McClintock, Advisor Front Cover: Barrett Keeler © 2013 by the Board of Publications of Hampden-Sydney College While individual authors retain all rights to works published herein, reproduction of this magazine, in whole or part, is strictly prohibited.

A journal of literature and the arts, Garnet is published annually by the Board of Publications of Hampden-Sydney College, a non-profit organization.

All correspondence should be addressed to Garnet Post Office Box 655 Hampden-Sydney College Hampden-Sydney, Virginia 23943-0655 Garnet is available per upon request.

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Table of Contents Winston Bell

Poetry “Beginning to Know” “Autumn, three years ago” “Likeness” “Untitled”

8-9 10 11 12

Walter McCoy

Poetry “There Was, Until I Couldn’t” “Watching Leaves” “Tears Like Rain” “Dear June” “That Sense of Loneliness” “Ask The Dog”

13 14 15-16 17 18 19

Tyler Parham

Poetry “Echoes from the Asylum”

20-24

Johnathan Campbell

Poetry “Born to Swing” “When the Auctioneer Calls Your Name”

25 25

Hunter Dipallo

Poetry “Intimations on Inebriation” “C’est la Vie” “After Drifting by Sunny Lenz, Watercolor on Clayboard” “There is no pleasure without pain” “There is something in fire which speaks”

26 27 28 29 30

Dr. Paule Kline

Prose “Vignette from two exhibits in Paris”

31

David Simone

Prose “Relationship with Illness”

32-35

Carlos Galica Prose “Untitled”

36-37

Devin Baker

Prose “ Yeah, That Guy”

38-41

Matt Boschen

Prose “Accident Waiting to Happen”

42-50

Robert Arensmeyer

Prose “The Pursued and the Pursuing

51-53

EDITOR’S NOTE This year, I have been honored to be the editor of the Garnet and have the opportunity to work with such an exceptional group of writers, photographers, and faculty members. I can honestly say that this edition has seen the best overall talent in quite some time, which is no small feat, and I really cannot praise the contributors enough for sharing such great work. I was nervous about the responsibilities of this job, but without the help of the invaluable publications team of Kevin Tuck and Kevin Kirsche, Tommy Shomo, Linda Cassada, and Dr. Richard McClintock, this magazine would not be the work that it is. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed editing it.

Will

6

Beginning to Know Winston Bell ’16

Nothing is my own tonight in the pale humming light whispering from the streetlamp outside my window There are a thousand ways to say something already said and I can’t seem to say anything at all— Fallen in fall with grass-stained knees and blood beginning to bleed through I recall bearing for the first time my parents’ soft spoken distaste of each other and the weight of the world growing colder on the furrowed brow of the trees in the eve of Winter’s offing Even the best of us is no more than a breath, You said and I know it to be true now We are never

7 any more than these quiet breaths stained grey tonight by the light of early winter.

8

Autumn, three years ago Winston Bell ’16

There is a holiness in forgotten things that stabs holes in the world’s history books.

Even after these sleeping years have dreamed past me like a quilt of grey clouds and the sun has climbed down and back up the latter too many times to count, I can still see you standing in the light of early autumn saying, “Summer dies well.”

And it does: the new cool air slowly razes the suffocating verdancy into red and yellow and orange, and a stillness that only precedes the passing of life falls on everything.

Someone once said to me that no one can bear the weight of perfection, and I think that’s true.

I could have never kept you on my back longer than it took for me to leave you behind.

9

Likeness

Winston Bell ’16 Sad light of my father, stay with me tonight— In the reservoir of unsaid words swallowed from the tip of his tongue, I am my father’s son. Barely his son—same eyes, same nose

and not much else. But I’m beginning to avoid mirrors and I hate speaking now because I am my father 40 years ago not knowing how it will be 40 years from now.

10

Untitled

Winston Bell ’16 The trees outside my window stand in shades of grey and brown, muted by the quilt of silent clouds above them.

The cicadas are pulsing into buzzing crescendos and falling andantes, accompanied by the moaning of tired engines in old cars stopping and going.

There is a thickness about a Mississippi summer, a green and grey labyrinth of sounds that whispers fondly of a girl you once loved or a place you once went, and a wilted fatigue covers everything like topsoil.

This whole pale green planet seems an empty shell of the place you once took beside me.

11

There Was, Until I Couldn’t Walter McCoy ’13

There was a time, long before you were born, Back when I—like you—was only a child And I spent the days learning the limits Of my body, pushed boundaries by climbing Trees, swimming rivers, and holding my breath Until I couldn’t anymore.

There was a time, before you were born That I still questioned myself, still Tried, even though I knew I shouldn’t, To do the impossible—to fly, fall, Jump, and sprint far, far and further Until I couldn’t anymore.

There was a time, not long before you were born Where I worried about having a child, Worried that if I did, my limits Would drive me to the point of climbing High and jumping, or gulping for breath Until I couldn’t anymore.

There was a time when you were born, Love of my love, where you were still And silent and I knew I shouldn’t Breathe a word so you could fall So far asleep—so deeper, further, Until you couldn’t anymore.

There was a time after you were born, My daughter, when although you were a child, I knew you knew of love and its limits; But your fever never broke—it kept climbing While you fought for that final breath Until you couldn’t anymore.

Now is the time, long after you were born,

12 That I recall, and force myself to sit still To prevent doing what I know I shouldn’t; The time when all the heavens fall And with them, me, so far, yet further

Watching Leaves Walter McCoy ’13

They say to watch the leaves and they will fall, And as they fall the rake keeps them at bay; But give it time—the darkness takes us all And when it takes us away, they will say It takes some time to wait through night all night, And every day we wait, and wait, and hope, And when we wake and hope we fight and fight, And when we fight and lose, we learn to cope With fragile dreams and count the leaves and watch Leaves fall and fall, and cover dying grass Which dies from frost, and fragile life is lost To seasons, time, and love that love lost last.

13

Tears Like Rain Walter McCoy ’13

Tears have been like rain enough— Like diamonds, rivers, stars— So much That I can’t help Question the pain That made a poet say Tears are Rain.

What was the trigger That once produced Rain?

What was the wrong that reduced A wordsmith to rain?

My tears are bees, Stinging in my eyes; They’re poison, scorching; fire, Burning; Knives, carving.

A liar Complains of tears like water, But she’s wrong.

I taught her Eyes are subtle volcanoes Waiting, dormant, Beside the nose; Tears are magma, flowing, flaring; That while eyes tear, They’re tearing

14 Down your cheeks— With pain begot From pain.

Tears are pain, They are the bee’s sting,

The lava’s heat.

Tears are pain, Fluid, filling

My heart to learn That tears are not “like rain” at all, Because when they fall They hurt.

15

Dear June,

Walter McCoy ’13 How are you doing?

Is there any way of knowing That the first time you saw snow in Winter was the first time you would go on On your own without me showing You which way you need to go and Like that river that you row on In summer—never knowing where you’re going— That river where you met me floating Half-naked down the river, toeing Rocks along the edges, foregoing Months of hardships, favors I owed and Never knowing where my life was going— That was when we fell in love and Every spring you’d come back calling For the two of us to swim on Down the river where we found a Stony fork that split the flowing Of the river—no way of knowing That the Fall would show an End to things and catch you moving Back out east to your momma and Your poppa’s place, where the crowing Of the rooster wakes you up inStead of me—any way of knowing I could die before you come and Say you love me back?

16

That Sense Of Loneliness Walter McCoy ’13

I felt a sense of loneliness, Of loneliness and what was lost, Of what was lost and what I found: That sense of loneliness.

And at the cost of what was lost— Of what was lost and never found— I gained a sense of feeling past That sense of loneliness.

And with that gain I wish I’d found I’d lost more than I had, Though when I had it, wish I’d lost That sense of loneliness.

And if I lost it once again, And once again I lost it all, Then once again I’d find that sense— That sense of loneliness.

But knowing that I could not lose That feeling that I’d found, I took some solace that I felt That sense of loneliness.

17

Ask The Dog Walter McCoy ’13

Ask the dog what he thinks Of running, panting, chasing His tail, day and night.

Ask what he thinks Of bones, cats, you, me.

He’ll never tell.

He may cock his head Or bark, maybe growl.

When you say “speak” He will, but only because You trained him to do so.

The truth is he doesn’t think, He just does, like you, like me, Like we, too, are trained to do.

18

Echoes from the Asylum Tyler Parham ’15

Entry 1: January 23rd, 1926 Here am I, the bold and old. To tell thee of a tale I once told. They fought and died. Murder they cried. The Dukes, they lied. And so they hung high. Facing the gallows was nothing more shallow than the lives of commoners who told of glory in the story they once knew. Of men with few. They lived anew. Those who were poor still foreswore their ways in the days of he. And so down they fell. With nothing to tell but this story I have with me.

Entry 3: January 22nd, 1926 Memory lost was once regained. As I rose then fell I would shout in vain. The insanities of my lifeless name. Neither here nor there. Fear filled the air. As one by one we died inside. This mental ride would soon provide.

Entry 4: January 15th, 1926 Distillation of the mind commences in a bind. Of tragedy and war. Talk they would no more. With I at might. On fringe and on spite. Slowly rejuvenating am I, filled with fright.

Entry 6: December 13th, 1925 Progressed I have. From a mental lad. These words receive thought indeed. The chalice I have, bring malice it must. From dark until dawn, the noon brings dust. Made are we. The many see. Carnivorous is, as to apple trees.

Entry 9: September 27th, 1924 The birds and their bees with their trees and the cats and the dogs and a whale with a fish and a turtle on top. I sit with these unlikely steeds on the mats of headless hogs to tell a tale of a wish for a pail of ale and me on top. On top I go. On top I rise. On top. On top. On top.

Entry 12: August 4th, 1924 We eat. We sleep. We dance and talk all day. We eat. We sleep. We talk all day. We sleep. We sing. We listen. We think all day. But it is the next day. It is the next day. It is the next. We eat. We sleep. We cry all day. We eat. We sleep. We sleep. We sleep. We have all day.

Entry 15: June 20th, 1924 I sharpen. I sharpen, too many ideas. I sharpen. I write. I write. I erase.

19 I write. Can’t take ideas. Many. Many. Many. Can’t listen. The voices.

Too many. Stab. No voices no more. I stab. Stab. Fill my ear with pencil.

Guards take away. Blood flows. But no voices.

Entry 15: April 30th, 1923 The mad are me. Smelly is he beside the man with a key. Think I do.

Trust I not. Looney is I says men the. Mumbling. mum. mum. mumble.

Stutter I men. Men. Say men.

Entry 16: April 28th,1923 I, I, I, I want. Not this. Food. Food. Black.

Entry 17: April 26th, 1923 mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Entry 19: April 25th, 1923 Roses are blue, I ate a fish, my hair hurts, and the violets have turned red again.

Entry 21: April 23rd, 1923 The food is good. The pills are good too. I like the red ones the best.

They are tiny but good. Not as good as the rolls but tasty. I do love rolls.

I love sky too. The air. Its musty. Smells yummy. Like those blue pills.

Those are my favorite. Those taste like rolls. Rolls are yummy.

Entry 29 November 7th, 1922 Overheating I am scorn. Overheating I am torn. Overheating I am worn. Overheating I conform. Overheating I am made, reborn.

Entry 29: May 13th, 1922 Drip. Drip drip. Drip drip drip. I wake to the melodic singing of little droplets day by day. I hear them calling. Calling forth for me to lap the puddles like a dog fixated upon the ground. Cold and wet. It satisfies. It numbs the pain.

Entry 30: April 2nd, 1922 Feel the envy. Feel the pain. Feel the Strife, or take their knife. The pain comes and goes. Madness begins its shows. Beckoned at its whim.

Fallen a man, says him. Rhymes and monotony pull through. Degeneration I will show you.

Entry 32: February 16th, 1922 I am free. I made it out alive. I am free. No one survived. Let it be. That the doors abhor. Let it be. That the floors adore. The walls cling and windows sing of the men and women who died in dream.

Entry 35: November 29th, 1921 There is no brightness. There is no kindness. There is no guidance and

20 there is no confidence. This place is dark and dreary. Almost as if it could hear me. The darkness shrouds, leaving us in heaps and mounds.

No words can find their way out. We are all on a misguided route.

Entry 44: December 31st, 1920 The Forest is dark, The Forest is bleak, The Forest is wooded. Never, never go to the Forest.

Entry 45: December 25th, 1920 Defeated they went, defeated they go. To the woods, who would know.

Entry 61: December 17th, 1915 I saw the burning in their eyes. A city full of lies. It burned. They all burned. For nothing. And I, sent here. For nothing. It was great. We all were great. With the fire in our minds. Our souls evaporated. Our skin smelt like death. For nothing.

Entry 64: November 12th, 1915 My bed sheets ruffled. I had been immortalized. I had become the monster. I make sense. I wish I were king. King of the Jungle. A king like a lion. They do not die and yet they rule. I rule. Without me my mind wouldn’t work. It needs me.

Entry 68: September 20th, 1915 I made the deal with Lucifer himself. I murdered a man. For money. For life. For the soulless journey I have set forth. They plead with me, but I refuse. I know the burning is coming. Coming. Coming. And yet I reach forward. But I am in his grasp now. They beat him out of me and yet when I wake the demons are upon me once more. For I am marked. A marked man with a price on my head that drives me to insanity out of fear.

Entry 74: April 20th, 1915 What to do. What to do. What to do.

Entry 75: April 21st, 1915 The bearded men have surely plotted my death. They come for me. The fire by my bedside is warm. The last chance of hope I have. I did not kill the king. I swear I did not kill the king. They do not care. I am a dead man living in a dark world. I hear the screams of those tortured. But the end is upon me. I surely will hang come morning.

Entry 90: January 18th, 1910 The sun rises the sun sets, the cyclical system never ends. I see light at day, I see the light at night its mind numbing. Its effervescent glow kills me. I chill, I see with wide eyes. The hair raises. The wolves of my mind

21 howl. The echoing silence is deafening.

Entry 98: January 25th, 1909 I can smell the smoke still. I can hear the bombs touching the bunker.

I lost my soul but yet I still fly like the iron eagles. I made my decision.

I left. They declared me mad. But no Im not mad. I left with my sanity.

They will never have it.

Entry 99: December 6th, 1908 Fighting I went. Massacres of many. Nightmares. Deceiving and cunning like no other. Bullets flew high in the sky. And still no sign of ending.

Entry 103: September 5th, 1908 For the love. For the glory. It was all chivalry to me. They waged a war.

That never came to shore. A brutal tragedy that no one saw any signs for. No letters. No writings. Nothing.

Entry 108: March 9th, 1908 I tended her garden. Why, how, when could she have done this to me.

She turned on me. She called me treacherous. She left me to fend on my own. She put me here. These people understand me though. These people are my friends. It is here in the depths of these seedless plains that I can see the transparency of our lowly lives. It is I that outsmarted them. No one must know though. No one can know. No one will ever know.

Entry 111: October 5th, 1907 The clock ticked and my mind went cold. I couldn’t think clear. I got up, opened the door and fired. Cold, Blood, distraught. The carpet, red and pink saturated the brown shag. No more would his lungs exhale. No more would his eardrum receive the droning ticking. How torturous for me. If this be my punishment let it be. The constant ticking. Oh God the ticking. Am I mad? At least this sorry fellow doesn’t have to listen to me rant. And the ticking.

Entry 115: August 22nd, 1907 The bakery. I remember as if she were but a mere oasis. She was warm.

Inviting. Uplifting. And yet not a single cell could obtain the grasps of aroma she offered. She was the one thing I had in this world. She was taken by force. And still I fought for her life. To continue with our life.

Our love.

Entry 118: May 18th, 1907 I am here a wise man. A vicious, but wise man. I have no need for these

22 reforms and rehabilitations. These men are insolent and repugnant. I came here on my own accord. I murdered my scholar. My predecessor.

My inner most feelings. Gone with the old self as I shed this drab dense hell hole. I will leave here my mark upon history. I will etch my name in these very walls that have heard the shallow stories of old. That have heard the terrors of all. Reign shall I upon these ill folk of the every corner. And with them every guard will be my servant. I have come here.

I have come here to find not a soul, but a purpose. I will enlighten my mind with the despot ideas of old and show no mercy on thee.

Entry 120: January 1st, 1907 It is in this city of anecdotal thoughts that we construct our own selfless cages for a permanent slumber. We build and build and cloud our thoughts. We let no one in. And yet in some sense of self satisfying gratification we make our cages translucent for those outside to see. But they see no hope in us. They prod our minds until they have found the answers they were looking for. This madness ravishes us. It tears us limb from limb. And then with a warm tender embrace we are tucked in at night just to see our small smiling face.

23

Born to Swing

Johnathan Campbell ’16 Walking outside of my body These new shoes are made for jiving These camped, cold days are filled with isolation and slow moving feet Shuffling outside in the downpour of rain We can tell the critics that it has always been our fault Or just take to singing and fade into the pollution of the street

When the Auctioneer Calls Your Name Johnathan Campbell ’16

At my auctioned-off life I even bought a ticket And smiled when they won my last name I knew it was a game but I still wanted to play along I stuck around for a while just to see their faces when their prize ran away

24

“Intimations on Inebriation” or “Thursdays in Free Verse” Hunter DiPallo ’13

The college kids come from everywhere– They come inside and put aside their differences And have a beer Or two or seven–Heaven knows How many they will have gone through Before the night is through.

They stand outside talking and smoking, Smoking and talking and drinking, Some thinking, most just drinking With an occasional talk or smoke.

Or they drink by the bar, In hopes that someone will come And talk them into having a smoke, Just watching the bartender tend the bar, Serving drinks To kids who come from near and far Listening to the music drain from the speakers: Like beer draining from the tap It fills the empty spaces and places Along the wall with its bouncing rhythms, Inviting those along the wall and by the bar, Even those talking outside, onto the dance floor Where they show off moves never seen before, Like waves crashing on the wooden shore, Hoping to end the night with a kiss Or perhaps something more.

But the music holds them And carries them away Like a boat whose sails are filled With desire.

But the seas grow rough Once they’ve all had enough,

25 And they swear that they’ll never Do it again, but next week They all come walking back in.

C’est la Vie

Hunter DiPaolo ’13 As clouds unfold over the gray-blue November sky, the last leaves somersault, Tumbling down to earth, falling Gently with the sinking sun.

In the fading light– The red and orange Of the bleeding sky matches The red, orange, and yellow Leaves–more vivid now Than ever before in life– But they too die with the sun And are condensed to the echoes In the darkness As rain paints everything With a fresh coat of wetness, falling On their saturated skeletons, Carrying them away, Away from the frost That crawls in and covers The dead leaves With the coldness of loss.

26

Bardo Beings

After “Drifting” by Sunny Lenz, watercolor on clayboard Hunter DiPaolo ’13 The leaves look more like hands that wave good-bye To the lazy souls that float on by and out Into the open blue where water and sky Open up together, interrupted Only by the green of distant hills.

With hands trailing in the water, not grasping, Or holding on, but pulling the past with them– A past that disturbs fairly little, it seems, And is quickly filled in by the future’s fluidity– As they leave a wake that settles itself in time.

Their sunny domes reflect the sun itself And are reflected themselves on the water to become A part of the sky-water and the in-between As they drift farther away and farther out While hands and water move farther and farther apart.

27

Barrett Keeler ’13

Walter McCoy ’13

28

John Brandt ’13

Walter McCoy ’13

29

Walter McCoy ’13

John Brandt ’13

30

Walter McCoy ’13

Walter McCoy ’13

31

There is no pleasure without pain Hunter DiPaolo ’13

There is no pleasure without pain; No light without darkness Through which it shines–without The shadow the light is dimmed; The flaming wick–burnt-down–a candle Shines brightest in a dark room, Eating way the doubtful shadow In bright, revealing light.

In light the flame grows Pale–glutted and weakened– Dimmed by the pleasure which benumbs One’s eyes to the light And fades as though enwrapped In an inescapable shroud of darkness– The dark that was light now faded Into pain of faded pleasure.

32

There is something in fire which speaks Hunter DiPaolo ’13

There is something in fire which speaks To us; a need to consume all things; A burning hunger to leave our mark– Burnt offerings–on all things.

We light the fire and it warms us, Comforts us–speaks to us– We listen as it asks for more, Insatiable–we draw lines In the ash to mark our little piece Of earth, our place in the dirtWe mark with boundaries our desires, But fire burns through all, consumes All, burns through lines and marks Leaving nothing–nothing But the smoking reminder–burning footprints– Not of what was here, but what came after.

33

Vignette from two exhibits in Paris January 2013

Dr. Paule Kline-former French professor at Hampden-Sydney I have been to two exhibits lately, one of the painter Edward Hopper and the other of Toutankhamon. What struck me as I looked at the Hopper paintings was the feeling of isolation, of loneliness, of not being connected to the surrounding world, the urban landscape. People have lost the power of real communication in a universe of buildings, some apartments twenty to forty stories high! Architects are trying to design towns of the future: green spaces, shopping malls, schools, blocks of apartments that are less on the ground and more and more high above the ground. As a result, there are more depressed people!

The Toutankhamon exhibit was on loan from the museum in Cairo for a very short time, and it was very impressive—the sarcophagus and everything in the tomb. There were many people there and I became tired, (I am eighty-four years old) so I sat on a bench which was not in full light, but off to the side. The sarcophagus was in the full light. A man came and sat on the bench with me. He began to talk, “What a beauty! How rich! All this gold!” I explained to him that gold can be used in extremely fine sheets, only one-tenth of a millimeter thick.

What was important to know is that the Pharaoh was responsible for the travel of his soul and the souls of his subjects to the “Beyond.” That was the reason why the people covered him with gold. Nothing was too costly or rich for such a responsibility.

The stranger asked me after a moment of silence, “And today? What are people responsible for?”

I answered, “Today, people are responsible for their soul, and for their relation with God.” I was surprised by his response: “Yes, and I can tell you that sometimes, I have the feeling of the divine.”

I agreed with him.”Yes, it happens sometimes.”

All during this short conversation, there were pauses, silences. What is so special in this exchange of a few words with a stranger, is that he was a perfect stranger, a person I had never met. In France, you do not talk about religion or faith unless you know the other person very,

34 very well. I was staggered, speechless. Then I left, continuing my way through the exhibit, but this exchange, this testimony, remained with me.

Relationship With Illness David Simone ’15

Surrender to hardship or prevail through heartrending difficulties?

Departure from a doctor’s office after being diagnosed with a disease leaves a patient with these two decisions. How will he or she advance through such a cruel and relentless battle? The patient’s attitude towards his or her illness affects their level of strength and coping. Will they work with what they are going through and stay positive? Or will they merely give up and accept defeat as soon as they receive a diagnosis? The patient’s approach towards handling his or her illness takes an enormous toll on the emotional, mental, and physical battle he or she undergoes. Flannery O’Connor’s “The Enduring Chill” and Virginia Woolf’s “On Being Ill” provides plenty of examples of a patient’s approaches in dealing with illness, such as acceptance, denial, and everything in between.

The narrator of “On Being Ill” begins with revealing the hidden pleasures that one may find while experiencing bad health. She explains how disease brings out a wise and appreciative light in a patient’s view of the world and his or her surroundings. The first sentence in the story reads, “How tremendous the spiritual change that it brings, how astonishing, when the lights of health go down, the undiscovered countries that are uprooted in us by the act of sickness.” The act of illness forces a patient to step back, take a deep breath, and discover newfound beliefs, viewpoints, and understandings of the world around

35 him or her. These would have all been swiftly overlooked in good health.

The narrator styles this as a beauty and a special characteristic that illness brings out. She describes it as being able to play as powerful a force on a human as love is able to do. She enlightens us on how, “illness often takes on the disguise of love, sets us to wait, hour after hour, with pricked ears for the creaking of a stair, with a new significance, while the mind concocts a thousand legends and romances about them for which it has neither time nor taste in health.” Both love and illness have the ability to keep us on the edge of our seat waiting for what is to happen next. The anticipation they create is magnificent. Illness and love have the power to keep minds racing through legends and romances that would have never been fathomed with the lack of bad health or relationship. What makes them both truly special is the vulnerability they unveil in a human. “On Being Ill” shares the bright light that a positive attitude can evoke for a patient.

The sick Asbury Fox in Flannery O’Connor’s “The Enduring Chill” also finds hidden pleasures in illness. Similar to the narrator of “On Being Ill,”Asbury indulges himself in illness; however, his pleasures are found in a different fashion than those of the first story. When his mother first sees her sickening son coming off the train we find that, “The smile vanished so suddenly, the shocked look that replaced it was so complete, that he realized for the first time that he must look as ill as he was.” Asbury’s first realization of how sickness draws attention to him is shown when he sees his mother’s face. He loves the fact that his illness puts all eyes on him. He becomes so enthralled in how much attention he is receiving that he in turn searches for more; thus Asbury convinces himself that he is on his deathbed. When his mother suggests a visit from Dr. Block, Asbury says that Dr. Block would not be able to fix what is wrong with him. Asbury is desperate to die because he convinces himself death will result in the glorification of his name. The narrator asserts that, “On the point of death, he found himself existing in a state of illumination that was totally out of keeping with the kind of talk he had to listen to from his mother” Asbury’s claim to be on his deathbed finally makes the world seem to revolve around him; something he has always selfishly wanted. He callously loves the pain his mother feels because it is centered on him. The reader learns that, “She had given a little cry; she looked aghast. He was pleased that she should see death in his face at once.” Asbury feeds off all that illness

36 brings him, and instead of fearing sickness and death, he has completely embraced it.

After some time, a transformation is undergone. The hidden pleasures found in illness are what seem to be only temporary. After a while, reality sets in and the darkness of illness captures a patient.

The cold, harsh truth that there is uncontrollability in escaping illness becomes apparent. The narrator of “On Being Ill” explains it as, “it cannot separate off from the body like the sheath of a knife or the pod of a pea for a single instant; it must go through the whole unending procession of changes, heat and cold, comfort and discomfort, health and illness, until there comes the inevitable catastrophe.” Illness overpowers a patient; it is beyond his or her control. It decides when it wants to enter the patient’s life and chooses how long it wants to stay. In addition, the feeling of loneliness and emptiness in disease sets in. Although a patient may have family friends to accompany them through illness, the battle is truly being fought alone. “However strange your experience other people have had it too, where however far you travel in your own mind someone has been there before you--is all an illusion.” Friends and family provide endless support, others who have experienced the same illness empathize, but only you are able to really feel your individual experience.

In turn, allowing this epiphany to overcome the patient’s attitude is the ultimate struggle. Illness wins the battle as soon as a patient begins to feel bad for what he or she is going through. The narrator advises, “sympathy we cannot have. One great sigh alone would rise to Heaven, and the only attitudes for men and women would be those of horror and despair.” Sympathy is a temporary relief outlet; in the end it only allows for fear of illness to conquer a patient’s attitude. Conceding to sorrow and sympathy is the breaking point in a patient’s battle. Throughout the story, this realization surfaces among the patient’s attitude. She admits to the dream of immortality fading in illness. Inevitability, the rising mystery of death ensues. “ Incomprehensibility has an enormous power of us in illness.” The anticipation of death has a snowballing effect on one’s mind until it is impossible to clear out of his or her thoughts. The downfall to the patient’s fight in “On Being Ill” occurs when she comes to the conclusion that death is bigger than herself; her life is beyond her control.

Similar to “On Being Ill”, Asbury’s hidden pleasures begin to vanish.

37 He persistently heckles Dr. Block that, “What’s wrong with me is way beyond you” only shows how pathetic and immature he really is. When his mother suggested the retired Methodist minister, Mr. Bush to come talk with him, Asbury replied, “Well if you ask him here, Ill tell him to go to hell.” His behavior; however, begins to make sense. Identical to the patient in “On Being Ill,” Asbury Fox reverts to a life-altering epiphany. The once stubborn and self-centered Asbury ultimately discovers the Holy Spirit’s existence; also realizing that something is greater and more powerful than him. Asbury undergoes a painful wake up call that the world does not, in fact, revolve around him and he is not the most important being ever to exist. The story begins with Asbury believing that, “His mother was going to be introduced to reality and assist her in the process of growing up.” It turns out, however, that he is introduced to reality and assisted in the process of growing up because he finally comprehends that there is something beyond his existence.

Illness calls for a roller coaster of emotion in a patient. The prominent issue is how he or she handles the adversity. The patient’s attitudes we have examined in both “On Being Ill” and “The Enduring Chill” result in their acceptance of what illness has exposed to them.

The “undiscovered countries” that the narrator in Woolf ’s story once discussed ultimately revealed how something greater controls the eventual outcome of her life. Both the patient’s illnesses unveil a reality that would have never been acknowledged in good health. Two separate stories portray illness leaving a patient with the unavoidable confrontation of self-actualization.

38

The Boy

Carlos Galica ’13 With you I can share my story, only if you promise not to laugh or scold or punish me. I cannot nor will I tell my mother because I know that she will scold me. Perhaps she may have the right but I don’t want to hear it.

I’ll share it with you because you won’t say anything to me; I’ll tell you the whole story, just don’t tell my mother.

I am only 9 years old and in school every day and there begins the tragic story. Well, you see everyday I need to get up real early. At six o’ clock in the morning, my mother begins to nag and tell me I have to get up. When I finally “get up” it’s usually past six and I sit at the edge of my bed rubbing my eyes for a few long minutes. I then have to rush and get dressed, then I have to rush to eat breakfast, then I have to rush and leave for school.

Today I woke up earlier. Today, I don’t have to rush. I told myself this and began walking to school slowly. When I went to cross the street I tripped over a dog that had laid down on the sidewalk, a good place to sleep I thought as I touched its foot. He didn’t move. I kneeled down and saw that he was dead. Poor thing. He was probably run over by a car and someone simply tossed him in this corner. How sad because he was a big fluffy brown dog that probably no one had the desire to kill. I continued walking.

Since it was early this morning I went past the pastry shop, there were already fresh delicious pastries freshly baked. At that pastry shop there were these two older black men standing at the entrance each with a bag and with their hands outstretched asking for spare change.

One day I gave each of them 5 cents and the two of them at the same time said “May God bless you.” This made me laugh and again I put two coins in those wrinkled hands. They repeated, “May God bless you.”

Each time I passed there, I saw their little raisin like faces and I would have no choice but to give them each 5 cents. But yesterday I couldn’t give them anything because I had spent every cent for my lunch on a chocolate pastry. That’s why I left through the back door of the pastry shop, so that the poor old black men wouldn’t see me.

Now alone, all I had left to do was cross the bridge and walk two blocks and arrive at school.

39 On this bridge I stopped for a moment because I felt an enormous disturbance below at the edge of the river. When I looked, I saw that a group of guys had cornered this younger boy. They were yelling at him, punching him, and kicking him. Shoving, pushing him and calling him a faggot. The little boy tried to break through the circle of guys that surrounded him but he was not able to escape his tormentors. I could hear him cry and scream desperately.

Finally one of the guys took a stick and hit the boy until he killed him. Then they all began to jump and cheer in triumph. They then picked him up and threw him at the center of the river. The poor dead boy floated until he was lost in the current.

The guys walked away cheering in excitement for their accomplishment of killing the boy who simply liked boys. I also began to walk.

Wow! I said, how easy it is to walk over the bridge, I could do it with my eyes closed. At one side is an iron railing that keeps anyone from falling into the water and on the other side is the sidewalk. To confirm this, I closed my eyes and continued walking. And please don’t you say anything to my mother but with the eyes closed one can see many things, even better and clearer than if they were open. The first I saw was a big yellow cloud, brilliant at times and strong at others, equal to the sun when it is falling between the trees. Then I tightened my eyelids very hard and the red cloud turned blue but not only blue, but green, green and purple, purple and brilliant like the rainbow.

And with my eyes closed I began to think about the streets and houses that I walked by. I continued walking and tripped again over the big fluffy brown dog on the sidewalk. But this time, when I touched his foot, he jumped up and ran away. Great! The big fluffy brown dog was alive. The fact that he was a little startled and frightened when he awoke made me laugh a little. I continued to walk with my eyes closed. I decided to go back to the pastry shop...

40

Yeah, That Guy! Devin Baker ’14

A college student is granted a Nobel Prize for a short story that he has written. This same college student gave an extremely moving speech Thursday, just, two days before the letter that follows.

“I should kill myself…No. I should have been killed myself; either that or a coma. No one around me would support me killing myself so I’d probably have to settle for the coma so I can suffer more, later.

I don’t even know why I am mad?! I have friends, family, and enemies that all seem the same to me. I have clothes on my back, food on the table, and a head on my shoulders. I do think I get hungry anymore, it’s similar to pain now; I welcome it. We all felt the same kind of dislike from one another so what’s the difference between my best friend and my enemy?

I don’t tell them or anyone really what I think because, quite frankly, I don’t think anyone cares. Think about it, we all could care less about what we think.

For example, I’ve been known for making down to earth points but I look at me having something to say as someone eating cake everyday… eventually we get tired of it. And I am sure ears are fed up so my mouth is locked. I don’t know what to say out my mouth anymore so what’s the point of having a mind to speak from anymore?

Can I maintain, obviously not, since I am writing this suicide letter.

How inconsiderate and how selfish!?! I know, trust me, my friends, family, enemies whoever, they tell me the same thing all of the time.

How did I do this or did I think that was smart? So they know that I am stupid before they ask a question.

I guess that’s what happens when you know that your life is going to be over, everyone starts to look the same. Food loses taste, words become repetitive, women, they don’t change, still don’t bump into the right one.

I don’t play sports, the only black male that can’t jump, that can’t shoot a damn basketball and can’t make a tackle. How’d I get friends? By giving…Jesus said take care of your neighbor and give and you shall receive or something of it.

I am not nonchalant about Religion, just recognizing that my relationship with GOD is all that matters, so, let’s hope that I can

41 communicate to the world if GOD forgives me when I get to heaven for slitting my wrist, through my writing that lives on or through me visiting in spirit.

I am constantly pondering identity. For example, the sentence before the last, I was thinking about which way I should kill myself. “I gotta kill myself the right way so my father won’t say that I went out like a bitch.

But maybe he’ll be proud of this letter. I am writer just like him.”

It’s not like I don’t have a father though. Nigga just wasn’t around all of the time, but I had his phone number wherever he went. Well at least this is what he reassured me. But it’s not like me and my brother called him like that.

I am still convinced that my brother hate him. He would call me to tell me to ask our father for something that he wanted. I thought it bullshit, but what the younger brother says doesn’t matter. He tells me that what I say does matter, but growing up with him, I already fell into the mold that it doesn’t. Always the annoying little kid trying to do everything the big kids do…

I guess that happens when you’re about to go too…You reflect from present to past…I don’t see a future.

Ironic and all but quite frankly I think that I’ve been ready to go all of my life. Walking in the street when cars are bussing 40 down the street, I didn’t care, I am too expensive to hit. Downing a half a bottle of Nyquil freshmen year in college. I’ve been depressed for all of my college career so far. More than depressed: criticized; loved by few and misunderstood by everyone. How I feel is no-one’s fault but my own. I make decision regarding my actions and I make decisions regarding my emotions, despite how foreign they once were and still are.

I’ve been told that I think too much. I believe them. At one point I thought it was only because people don’t want to hear what’s on my mind. They’d rather hear how to get money; how they can get women and who looks good; how drunk they got; who they do not like; who they are in love with; who did what to them; how they plan to do this; why things are the way that they are…trust me haha, people would much rather hear themselves talk rather than listen to me…

It hurts. Only because I realize how selfish I am because every time I have a conversation I listen, think of a way to help or contribute but somewhere in the conversation I end up thinking about myself…Well maybe that’s not that bad.

42 Life is about you, I guess…Life is about you…That’s why I don’t see a future…Why? Because I see things clearly, definitely, no-one cares. I could care less…Reaching to a definite conclusion is you sending death an R.S.V.P. I am ready to die.

To my sisters, I love you both, more like daughters. I live for you but living wasn’t enough to keep me here. Don’t worry, I am elfish, something you won’t have to worry about since I am gone. Don’t follow in my footsteps; I am just the younger brother trying to cope with the world that was going to kill me anyway. To everyone else…from family to enemy, you all know who you are, I love you all equally, I apologize for the wrong that I did , the wrong that I leave and my cowardice display…

I am a coward for committing suicide. I accept that…dying a coward…I am still ready to die, I can handle that at least? Me taking responsibility?

Does cancel me playing the coward that we shame and hold evening funerals for?

But yeah, back to you all, don’t cry at my funeral, waste your tears on something else, not over me and secondly to you all, my writing is what I leave for you. I wrote in the present to lead us to a better future. I took and take and let’s pray GOD and Jesus will take great pride in my skill as well haha, but yeah, I take great pride in my writing…I hope you can find answers in there that can help more than just you all but all around the world. I prayed that I would change the world for the better, so if my writing does anything, and it has a negative effect, just know that the good is coming soon…I was always thinking ahead of myself…Meaning, what I think to be great is never nowhere near it. I could never do anything right. Let’s hope I accomplish what I aimed for in this letter.

Take it easy, a suicide note shouldn’t be this long, they are supposed to be anxious to leave. Me, I just know that my time is up. 8:37 P.M. 12/8/12 in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1.”

This letter was found next to the student’s brown and red body. The neck had a gash stretching from ear to ear. He had slit his own throat. The landlord, president to the house that he was living in, has a master key and it was Sunday afternoon when they found the body. The student’s neighbor spotted blood slithering from underneath of the door. And the president discovered just two days later that the student was picked to share the speech that the student scribed, with utmost precision, in front of the entire student body. “The speech was absolutely captivating…but not as captivating as this story.” Says a classmate of this student. Later

43 after a pause this classmate also stated that the student “always seemed happy. Things are never how they seem.�

44

Accident Waiting to Happen Matt Boschen ’13

All I felt was a gust of wind. A Nerf football wrecked a shelf of Matchbox cars. I spun around to see Ezra. Adam slid next to him holding another Nerf football, “Damn, you missed” he smirked. Model car boxes exploded off of the shelf and onto the floor. I ran at both of them and snatched a Nerf sword from the wall. Ezra and Adam were already prepared with swimming pool noodles from the bin in the center aisle. A medieval battle broke out through Walmart’s toy section.

I charged at both of them only to be smacked in the head with a pool noodle. Two on one was daunting, so Sporting Goods became my short term sanctuary. We weren’t willing to surrender as we bobbed and wove.

We weren’t going to break much; it was just what we did on Tuesday nights. Once we reached electronics, Ezra yelled “Manager!”

The three of us scattered like dropped Skittles. However, we weren’t done. In the race out of the store I ended up being the one chased.

Galloping away from the high school dropout manager I slammed into a display of Mountain Dew. I hopped up and ran again. As I looked back I saw the tubby manager was still far away, but there was a girl giggling with her friends just pulling her foot back. For some reason my neck wouldn’t turn around, I kept looking back at her when smack; a grocery cart full of some soccer mom’s junk was pushed into my path by one of her devil children. I knew I was reckless, but today I was king of crazy. This time I couldn’t run away from the mess that I’d created.

Knocking over a Walmart display was one thing—that was Walmart’s problem, but knocking over the mom’s cart was something I had to help with. She was apologetic and like all good moms blamed herself. I took this as my opportunity to jet after flipping her cart back over.

When Adam spotted me, he yelled, “Hey Sexy, what took you so long!” The picture of the cute brunette who’d tripped me numbed my tongue.

“A girl” was all I could mutter as I got close to Adam’s jeep.

“Oh a girl! Looking to bang someone tonight?” Ezra was laughing to himself; he knew it was a joke. Banging was as remote in my universe as Jupiter. You could see it on a computer screen, but had no actual hope of reaching it.

45 “So what’d she look like? What took you so long? I’m guessing you have a pretty good idea” Adam loved to talk about breasts and butts and was expecting me to say something about her body.

“She just had a cute smile?” Ezra hopped out of the bed of his truck, “twenty extra minutes and a smile is all we get?”

“Well, too bad we can’t go into check her out because you two decided to start a war inside of Walmart. Thanks.” Mark slammed down the tailgate of Ezra’s truck and took a seat.

“Cool it, Mark. You know we can’t ignore tradition. What is life without a Walmart fight two to six times a week?” Adam laughed and hopped up onto the hood of his Jeep.

“I mean there’s nothing to do around here anyway.” Ezra started kicking rocks at the tires of his truck.

“What about trying not to scare off every girl who sees us?” I was starting to get irritated with the two of them. If they weren’t my best friends I wouldn’t be stuck here hanging with them.

“Speak for yourself.” Ezra grinned to himself and humped the air.

“Ezra we all know those fat skanks you sleep with don’t count” Adam was grinning from ear to ear as he let that one rip. Neither of us approved of Ezra’s sex life, or believed that he actually had one.

The air suddenly filled with “Whistlin Dixie” as my leg vibrated. I dug into my pocket to see it was my dad calling to make sure I wasn’t too late out tonight. I hit ignore to see the time, 11:30.

“Shoot guys, I’ll catch y’all later. I gotta get up early tomorrow.”

“Big Ben calling you home? Ignore him.” Ezra leaned up against his beat up Dodge Ram and lit a cigarette.

“Yea buddy, stay for a while. It’s not even midnight.” Adam relaxed against his windshield like he wasn’t moving for days.

“My dad is up my tail about this.” Slowly my feet were moving me backwards to my truck.

“Dude, I’m just sayin, you have no backbone” Ezra said as Adam laughed.

“The second one of you gets a steady job you can tell me how it is. Tomorrow night?” They nodded as I turned and jogged across the parking lot to hop in my Chevy Silverado and bolt home.

My dad was pissed that I ignored his call, but I headed upstairs to my room. Laundry was neatly folded on the bed, which was also made.

The clothes didn’t smell like when mom used to wash them and the

46 sheets weren’t folded like she did it. Gloria could try all she wanted; she was a trickster and not a mom. I scattered the clothes on the floor and tore the sheets off the bed. Sleep came quickly.

5:10 a.m. came suddenly. It was only day three of my job and I hated it already. For the past three days I would lie in bed wishing I were on a beach in a hammock. My eyes closed and I could feel the warm salty breeze. The rocking of the hammock soothed me. The snooze time ended and my dream was crushed again. My dad was a foreman at Southern Builders where he had just earned me the position on the team doing hard labor. I rolled out of bed half asleep to tread across the floor to my light switch.

A fire started in my toe. I grabbed my foot to take a look at the damage. I forgot I still hadn’t turned the lights on. Hopping over to light switch my feet became entangled in my the mess Gloria made.

The chair caught my shin as I started falling and flipped me to the floor. I was the acrobatic stunt double of the last 24 hours. My Walmart run had already made me sore, not to mention broken my toe. I heard pounding as somebody bounded up the stairs. Breathing wasn’t’ really happening as I laid on the floor. Just as I went to sit up, POP, everything went dark.

“Wake UP! Come on Sunshine!” Dad looked down on me.

“Dad?” “Yep, time for work. You’re running late.” I felt a throbbing lump developing on my head.

“Did you hit me with the door?”

“Sorry son. Still gotta suck it up and get to work.” Dad stuck his hand out; I reluctantly grabbed it and came to my feet. He took one glance at my toe.

“Meet me down stairs in fifteen minutes to leave. You’re lucky your mom made you lunch today.” No, all I could think is that working with a bum toe and busted head could not happen.

“She’s not my mom. She’s Gloria, you’re horrible and sorry filler for mom.”

“Fifteen minutes” Dad stomped down the stairs.

My dad’s truck always smelled like cigarettes that he snuck in there away from Gloria. Tobacco mixed with dirt from the construction site, I loved that smell. When I was a kid, on special occasions he would let me ride along on Saturdays while he checked on jobs. We never really

47 played catch. He never taught me how to ride a bike. Dad took me to job sites, and got me a McDonald’s kid’s meal. Goin to work with Dad used to make my week. Mom always encouraged it. When we left she would stand at the door with the most beautiful smile and say “you boys stay safe now ya here? I love y’all.” Occasionally Dad would sneak a kiss that I thought was icky. Mom knew that time was important. Dad’s new thing, Gloria, doesn’t even get up to say goodbye. She just greets us at the door and says some seductive bull about her man bringing home the bacon. I didn’t give a rats tail about money. This morning the only good thing about the ride was it was only seven minutes long.

The last two mornings had been hell. I didn’t know anybody, and I was the only summer help. Worse than that was the fact that I was my dad’s son. The workers ranged from twenty something drop outs to sixty year old grandpas. A scattering of men in the middle, some good guys, but none I got along with, or wanted to. Walking onto the supply yard I went straight to loading the truck for the day. Scott, my foreman barked, “Twenty six inch and thirty eight inch block.” Great, I got to load a shit ton of block; our paid hours didn’t even start until we got to the job site.

The inside of the truck was like a pack of Vienna sausages the guys ate for lunch. The owner of Southern was a horrible boss sliding into bankruptcy, ruining his dead dad’s business because he refused to buy more trucks. Scott drove, Dink and Groundhog sat up front, and the three laborers–me, Moon and Harvey–were in the back. Moon and Harvey reeked of cheap alcohol and sweat from the day before.

Being the little one, my bonus for the day was to sit between these two dumpsters. Luckily Roy, the forklift driver was meeting us there this morning. My eyes slowly sewed themselves shut as Scott drove fortyfive minutes up I-95 to Fredericksburg.

I guess you get used to being a slave to your life choices after a while: sadly I hadn’t made this choice for myself. I helped Moon throw the plastic off the mortar bags. “Start up the mixer.” Every pull on the five horse power engine was rough. Third day on the job and I was already doing more than I was responsible for. Shoveling the sand, lifting the mortar bag, throwing in a bucket of water, and making sure the mixture was just right. Roy rumbled up on the forklift “Cummon kid. Hurry your ass up!” Roy yelled from the pit of his lift. I pulled the lever to drop the mixer’s load. I was content mixing mortar for the day. It was a ton of work but in intervals and alone.

48 Moon wandered back to the mixer and slurred, “I got the mixer for the day. You get on the scaffold.”

“I’m here you lazy old man. You get on the scaffold.” I underestimated the crazy in him. Thwap.

“You get your young tail on that scaffold or I’ll really pop ya.” Moon glared through his glazed eyes.

Today would be two stories high on the structure the two drunks had built the day before. I grabbed Dink, Scott, and Groundhog’s tool bags as they climbed the ladder.

“Mind if I grab your hammer for a sec?” I asked Dink as he hefted himself onto the scaffold.

“Young Blood, you gotta get your own shit soon.” Dink tossed his hammer at me. I had been there three days. Why the hell should I have my own tools, I didn’t even have my first paycheck. I shoveled the mortar I had just made into the pans as Harvey bullshitted with Moon down by the mixer. Roy impatiently tapped the lift controls.

“C’mon! I’m not gonna tell ya but so much today!”

After lunch I was using some brick tongs to stock the scaffold. I had a rock sitting in my stomach. The leftover jalapeño pizza Gloria had packed me shot lava up my esophagus. Each step down the scaffold sent sizzling magma higher and higher, tagging my tonsils. Gloria had recently tried to ruin my life. The day was touching 90 degrees. The sun felt like the top rack of an oven. Tomorrow I would pack my own lunch.

Sickness wasn’t an option. Gloria continually did little things like fix lunches, or tofu for dinner, or try to clean my room to spy on me. She was diabolical and was perfect for my overlord father. I scooped mortar and carried bricks to Dink, Scott, and Groundhog.

The girl who had tripped me in Walmart was striding down the sidewalk. Why was she all the way up here? It didn’t matter. I stared at the frayed edges of her denim shorts. Then the pain from the Walmart war shot up from my toe. My brain clashed with the lightning bolts coursing up from my foot. My hand went out to catch myself, but all that I caught was a face full of bricks. The board I was stacking on caught my stomach. A volcano erupted out of my mouth. A second spout came out of my nose. Burning jalapeno pizza lava hit the wall. My face was on fire. I watched blood pour onto the boards and felt the heat of it running down my cheek.

“Are you trying make me lose my job?” Scott hopped over the

49 stocking boards to prop me up and check out the cuts on my face.

“Damn Youngin. Never seen someone so mean to them self,” Groundhog continued to lay brick as he smirked about my fall.

“Well I think gravity just hates Ben’s boy. Hear about his fall this morning?” Dink was talking like I wasn’t there. Scott checked my gashes as Dink and Hog mocked me.

“Well, I think you’ll be all right, but go sit in the bed of the truck for a bit and get back up here soon” Scott hefted himself back up to continue laying bricks. I climbed down the ladder and crossed the broken brick to the truck. The tail gate slammed down.

“Are you ok? I saw what happened.” Holy shit. It was her. I had to act tough, I couldn’t sit. Wait, I could get some pity by sitting. Hold on. Girls like bad boys. Squatting over the tailgate I reached for a cup of water. Smooth, not sitting, not standing, and looking like a dumb ass.

“Oh that, I’m fine.”

“If you say so. So, why did you fall?” My eyes darted to the ground, and back up to the sky, anywhere but at her. I couldn’t say I was near death. Maybe Ez could drop some smooth line, but not me. Logic, use logic.

“I broke my toe last night when some girl tripped me up.” Yes, half truth, it worked.

“Really?” she smiled. I zoned out. “My friend saw you staring at my butt. So I came to ask about the view.” My reality shifted from her smile to what she had just said. I was trapped. Staring up now longingly at the scaffold, I turned back “Sorry,” pitifully leaked through my lips.

“No smooth line about how I should pity you for the fall, or how I caused this so I owe you dinner?” She smirked as I squirmed. If there was one thing I was good at, it was constantly disappointing others.

However, something clicked inside my mind.

“Nope. But, why did you trip me last night?”

She stopped. Her grin faded and her blue eyes widened. I had turned the tables.

“Trip you? I just explained to you why, you were looking” “Alright, you are right I was looking. I recognized you from Walmart last night. You were the one who held your foot out. You tripped me.”

Her lips moved, and I just wanted to put her in the bed of my truck on a

50 starry night in an empty parking lot. I started to feel bad, like I was the one who’d done something wrong.

Scott peered over the scaffold.

“If you’re well enough to talk, you’re well enough to work.” I had forgotten I was at work. I looked at the girl. My lame self had finally taken the offensive, and I had to leave.

“Well, here is my number,” I scavenged for a pen in the truck and wrote it on her hand. “You could explain again why you tripped me, later” I was proud of myself.

“Maybe” she walked away giving me a smile and a look that could have caused another sort of eruption. My heart had teetered on a maybe, maybe it would start beating again when she texted or called me.

I dreamily climbed back up the ladder and went to work in a trance.

The scaffolding just increased my height and belief that I had died and gone heaven like the nineteen hijackers. My co-workers quickly snapped me out of that dream.

“Gonna screw tonight?”

“Gonna get that stinky finger?” Dink and Groundhog turned around to see I had used all my words on the girl; I still didn’t know her name.

“Cummon, at your age, I was slayin it left and right.” Scott chimed in from the other side of the scaffold. “Slayin it” was on that planet Jupiter.

“No, she just caught me lookin and came to cuss me out. Girls, right?” All of the guys looked confused.

“Yea, because that’s really in your league” Dink stared as if I had just said I had hooked up with a Playboy bunny. They couldn’t tell me the chemistry wasn’t real, I had written on her hand. Ignoring them for the rest of the day was easy.

The F250 rattled into Southern and I saw my dad standing by the gate. I didn’t even bother a goodbye to the crap I had been working with today. I slid into my dad’s truck. “Everything go well today?” The third day in a row he asked the question, and the second time I ignored it.

I struggled up the stairs to shower and wait by the phone. Secretly, I had looked at advice from a dating web site. Crap, I was already screwing up. “A man always plays to the girl’s interests, but make sure they align with his. If a man lies the relationship may fall through later.”

What did I care if it fell through, I wanted her now. This dating stuff was bull.

51 I suffered through a dinner where Dad and Gloria stared at each other. I was about to leave when Dad started talking: “Son, when I first met Gloria I swore I could have seen a ghost, or an angel. I didn’t know something so beautiful could exist.” I didn’t know such a hard man could lose his head over such a horrible woman.

“After your mother died, I thought I would never find anyone. Now that I have, I want to make it official. We are getting married and I, your new mother, we, would like your approval.” How the hell could he do this?

Mom died only five months ago. Didn’t he have a grieving process? Was his heart concrete? Gloria decided to help out.

“We can wait a while, I don’t mind as long as we’re still together.”

“Forget this!” I roared across the table. My dad’s face told me I’d better leave.

I jumped into my Silverado and spun tires flying out of the driveway.

I was so angry. Mom would always take me on long drives through the farms around my house. The hills rolled. I ran away from my dad and ran into memories of my mom. The corn fields were green. Yet, my life wasn’t new; it was old. The sun was setting over the tree line. The mixtures of orange and pink were fluorescent. I felt as if God had put a neon sign in the sky, bragging that He had my mom.

Then she was there; my mom was in the passenger seat. The grass and weeds wacked my Silverado’s wheel well. My eyes flashed back to the road “Relax honey. Keep driving” My mind was reeling. Tears streamed down in what was becoming a flood. “Mom?” Her voice, her look, it was as if the cancer had never touched her body.

“How are you?” The inflexions in her voice took me to my sick bed.

I couldn’t breathe, and I was six years old. Asthma seems to take one’s breath without question. Before the diagnoses I sat in that enclosed hospital bed. Each visitor, nurse, or doctor loomed over my bed as my lungs felt vacuum sealed. Yet, mom’s hand took the hair off my forehead and the fear from my body. I was relaxing, and breathing naturally for the first time in two days.

My eyes were locked on two yellow lines. “I’m empty” sputtered out through slow sobs and tears.

“Darlin you’re not empty, you’re scared. Life is scary, but you have people around you that do care.” Her form started to take a wispy

52 quality, she was slowly moving up like smoke from the end of one of dad’s cigarettes.

“No, you were the one that loved me! You can’t leave again!”

Thudding filled the truck as my palms slammed into the steering wheel.

She was gone. The Silverado drifted to the side of the road as the ocean rolled down my face. By the time I looked up it was dark. Stars were poking through the darkness of the sky and the moon was softly illuminating the corn field.

Spare changed rattled through my cup holder as my phone vibrated sporadically.

“Hey man, you looking to hit up Walmart tonight?” Adam always called at the right times. The night my mom had died he had called me to hang out to. Sitting around moping was never progressive.

“Yea, I’ll be there in a sec, bud,” managed to escape my mouth without much grief.

We didn’t run through and break anything. Me, Adam, and Ezra sat in the rusty bed of Ezra’s Dodge Ram and talked. Nothing important came out of our mouths. I sat and watched the smoke rise from the end of Ezra’s cigarette. The smoke danced, each stream interweaving itself in an upward spiral.

53

The Pursued and the Pursuing Robert Arensmeyer ’16

She was a very special person to him. She did not know it, until he told her that night, but by then she already didn’t believe in what he said and everything was lost already. He cared about her. Not the same way as the others, but she didn’t understand. He knew she didn’t, and he tried to explain, but he sounded fake and soon too realized it was lost.

And that’s how it went.

But he wasn’t satisfied. He could never be satisfied because he did care about her, and so he decided he must change. Not his character, his being, for that’s what he thought she liked, but his way of expression.

And the lies. He must stop lying and then it would be alright.

He called her on a Saturday and she said she would meet him for coffee at half past three. They chose a café on the corner of a quiet street and sat down. She ordered an espresso with extra cream and he asked for just a bottle of water. He hated coffee.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine. It’s sort of cold in here. And bright. Very bright.”

“We can ask to have the blinds down.”

“No, it’s alright.”

“All we have to do is ask. Excuse me Miss.”

She looked embarrassed. The waitress came over and smiled and put the blinds down.

“How are you Nick?”

“I’m fine too. I really am. But I thought we should talk.”

“Well, talk.” She seemed upset. He wasn’t starting off well but he began.

“I can’t stop thinking about the last time we talked. It didn’t go well.”

“I know.”

“The thing is, I need to explain it.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

“I do. I told you a lot of things. A lot of true things. Things I feel about you.” He hesitated. “And only you.”

“Stop.”

He did stop. He knew the whole thing was hopeless. She came, but not for him. She came to have coffee for something she thought she

54 once felt, for the mystery of it–that maybe he’d be different this time.

That everything would be flipped around and make perfect sense. But he was the same. He was sincere this time but it didn’t matter. She felt nothing for him anymore.

“Ok. Let’s just finish our drinks.”

They sat in silence for some time. Then she said, “You really had me all around. I don’t believe a word you say, but I did want to trust you once.”

He finished his water and got up to pay the bill. He came back and left cash on the table for a tip. A very generous tip.

“Listen, okay. I know I’ve had my fair run at you and I’ve failed, but I don’t really want this to end. You’re my only friend.” He thought for a second, and realized he really meant it. “The thing is, I thought about everything quite a bit. You’re very important to me. I don’t know. You just have to know.” He paused. He might as well say it. “I didn’t love her.”

They had finished their drinks and the bill was paid but they didn’t get up. They watched the customers coming in and out, going to and from the counter. They didn’t look at each other.

“One day when I’m old, and we have a lot of kids, I want to go to Spain.”

“You’ve always said that.”

“I mean it though. I want to buy a little casa on a hill overlooking a river. And we can fish and read all day. Would you like that?”

“Very much.”

He really hated himself at that moment.

“I never did love her.”

“I know.”

There was nothing more they could say. He got their coats and held the door out into the brisk afternoon.

She went left out into the street and crossed. He kept walking straight and made a right at the corner into the sun.

55

Walter McCoy ’13

John Brandt ’13

56

Walter McCoy ’13

Thank you.