Submissions/Inquiries hotlullaby@gmail.com www.hotlullaby.com volume 2: 2/11/12 1639 Chase St
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Featuring Leanna Jackson Greg Privett Raleigh McCool Matt Bridge Erik Rocca Ian Lincoln Chris Hayzlett Neta Harris Allison Gale Paul Felton Amanda Oliver
Art House A Literary companion
To The Artists Who Don’t Make Art Ian Lincoln To all the artists who don’t make art, (The painters who don’t paint, The writers who don’t write, The musicians who don’t play & all the rest) I get it. I do. You want to be an artist. You want to be acknowledged. “Hey that’s Ian. He writes amazing songs, man. Damn.” But you don’t want to be an artist, you just want to be an artist. And I get it. Succeeding at your craft was supposed to be a shortcut to an easier life. More stress, maybe, but less labor intensive. Less daily toiling. Only that is not reality. Now you have a job, and you work hard. You tell people that “this is my day job, this is how I support my artistic endeavors”. But really you don’t pick up the easel all that often. A couple times a week tops. And you probably strum the guitar a bit most every day, but sitting down and writing music regularly, or honing your craft through excersizes? “Well I’m busy, you know? Besides, I had that art show in May.” But you’ll never be happy. You will never find peace. You’ll never be able to do the thing you’ve literally been created to do, unless you are able to learn to do it even when you don’t feel like it. Because creating art isn’t about you. The process of making art, of gathering up inspiration like a deep inhale, and exhaling something unique and powerful, speaking into the darkness and commanding light (and with the light: trees and earth and sky and life), that process isn’t about you, its about God. You didn’t decide to become a writer, you didn’t ask to become a 2
Listen, Rick, I sort of lost my temper back there. I promised myself I would never treat you that way again – after the chainsaw incident. (Sidebar: I thought I would treat you badly for a while, so we could have a dynamic relationship that would engage our future movie audience, and it would all change over traumatic scene involving a chainsaw.) Let’s get back to the advice. Second, if your question is about sex, just stop reading. I don’t have a clue. The fact that I will someday need to have sex in order for you to be born is terrifying. But if I ever end up having sex and you turn out, and you still have a sex question, maybe you can look for answers on the Internet. Try doing a web search for “sex video” and I’m sure you’ll find help. People on the Internet are very forthcoming. You know what else terrifies me? The baby delivery process. I urge you to never, ever learn about or be near childbirth, no matter what. Promise me, Rick. Promise me on your mother’s grave that no matter how much your future wife begs you, you will not even go to the hospital with her when she goes into labor. I can’t explain the details because I have a rather weak stomach, which you’ve probably inherited, but I accidentally saw a video about childbirth and there’s so much poop, Rick. There’s poop and slime and blood. And there’s an umbilical cord. Oh no, Rick, just writing it initiated my gag reflex. Well, son, I hope you have found the advice you needed. I want you to know your dad loves you and is so proud of you when you’re not being a weenie. Don’t be a weenie, Rick. Your dead father, Greg Privett
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It comes from a sadness deep inside. A life of mattresses, pizza parlors, flop houses, and high fashion. “Tre Chic” She says. Top hats and Tiaras. Whiskey and Cocaine. As she rises to the top, she tells me “Same shit, different sign on the door.” We’ve sold clothes; we’ve sold the only things we care about. What we get in return is a falafel sandwich and another day. “Let’s try and stay healthy.” We had pizza last night. All for another day in this incandescent city. Where cabs fly and needles cry. She has already resigned. I would not go with her.
singer. You don’t dance because it keeps you in shape. You do it because you have to, because God decided to give that to you before you were born. So you create or else your insides burst open. The artist who doesn’t make art is in pain, and we numb our pain in such unoriginal ways. So begin. Fix it. Own your calling. Discipline yourself. Make a regimen. Get out of bed in the morning before you’re ready to get out of bed in the morning. Learn to fail brilliantly, and to not get disheartened. Make becoming a vessel for the creative process your full time job. Learn to be yourself. You’ll be alright.
A Letter to My Future Son Greg Privett To my future son, Rick Moranis Privett, Although you haven’t been conceived, I’m writing you because someday you will be alive and I will be dead, and you will need advice about a girl situation. You will then go looking through the things I left you for some kind of sign. And you will stumble upon this letter. It will probably make you cry because I am an amazing father. You will likely be inspired to make a movie about our relationship, and if so, I suggest you call it “Lionheart.” That’s already taken? Then “Mr. Holland’s Opus.” First, full disclosure: I haven’t been “a hit” with girls in my life. Do I know some girls? Yes. I know several. But I’m just not what most girls think of as “attractive” or “charming” or “masculine” or “normal” or “straight.” Have I ever had a girlfriend? Well gee, I don’t know, Rick, but what’s with all the questions? Why don’t you stop giving your dad the third degree? You know what, maybe you should just go to your room and think about your attitude. No, Rick, you can’t eat dinner! Because, Rick!! Just get out of my sight, you weenie! 26
Saint Joseph’s Update Matt Bridge [Ed. Note: This is a transcript of a presentation Matt recently gave at the Anchor Mission conference on the state of his church, Saint Joseph’s Mission.] The majority of my influence in public speaking comes from Joshua Stump. So i have decided to write out my thoughts as i have a tendency to go off on “rabbit trails”. My wife and I just had our second baby, a boy name Jonah. He is a fat, happy baby. His interests are eating, sleeping and pooping... just like his father. Our first child, Ruby, is about two and a half. We all feel we are smarter than our parents when we are preteens, but in Ruby’s case I fear she actually will be. My favorite story of fatherhood thus far is one night when Ruby and I were having a discussion on the moon. I think we were reading a book with a moon in it. I asked her if she know who made the moon. She shook her head. Then I said, “Well Jesus made it because He loves us and didn’t want nighttime to be too dark for us.” Although that may not be 100 percent theologically accurate you could tell by her eyes something about that amazed her. Saying out loud that God loves us so much that he gave us the moon stuck in my mind, and every time I would see the moon after that 3
it reminded me of God’s love for humanity. So after a few nights, I asked her if she know who made the moon and she said, “Jesus so it’s not too dark.” This touched my old, bitter, calloused heart so I preached about it that Sunday. I believe it was that night after church that I took her outside to look at the moon. It was beautiful, just a dad and his daughter standing together in reverence of God’s creative beauty. After staring silently for a few seconds at a big full moon I asked her again, “Do you remember who made the moon?” She turned and looked into my eyes as she smiled and said, “Elmo.” When people ask me how things at Saint Joseph’s are going I usually say something along the lines of it sucks, we don’t know what we are doing, it’s amazing, I have never been so humiliated, I have never been so honored to be a part of something, it is miserable, and I love it...you know, like a regular church. In the two plus years we’ve been at this, I don’t believe that we’ve ever had more than $1,500 at one time, but we have always had what we’ve needed when we’ve needed it. We have been meeting in an old-house- turned-hair-salon-turned-our-church. To help with rent, Brother Luke moved his screen printing studio in to one half and we have services in the other half. When we first started we held our service in our friend Ryan’s thrift store and about 40 people came each week. I always say I am either a really great or really horrible preacher, because I preached our church down to about 10 folks in a couple months have stayed around that number ever since. Although we are few with limited resources, I am proud of the willingness to serve and practical love I see in everyone that comes to Saint Joseph’s. While we could all certainly do more, I believe what unites us is the conviction that faith without works is just boring. I do not believe that the hope of salvation is a place far away, where if we only make it though this miserably painful world with some amount of faith left we will receive it as our reward. But I do believe that salvation starts now and we can experience it- not by avoiding the worlds pain- but by engaging the pain around us. By making it our own. To rejoice with those 4
chicken-shit cops with their big cars, their radios, and their guns I can make it no matter what, no matter what those jerks back home said in front of my friends or what my uncle told me in secret; I got self-respect He doesn’t tip her, but at least she is right about him not being mean. Look for me again, she whispers to him as she cautiously escorts him to the door She thinks about Jo-Jo lying in the street his homeys running from the scene as his blood runs from his chest: he relaxed a bit too soon. She thinks of her man safely locked up gaining those jail pounds while she is out losing hers She can see T-man across the lot and waves her fingers at him through the narrow opening before she closes the door completely Party tonight, she thinks, rubbing her thighs quickly. The bruise was not hurting all that much now. Lakota Ghost Dance Erik Rocca I know a woman. I know a woman good and strong. Her heart is half-Lakota, and her eyes burn like pools of emerald. The brown liquor flows through her veins like a dormant madness. 25
missionary position he’ll like my legs way back I will have enough for a rock and a pizza And he might tip me because I look so young and delicate and sexy She banters with him and he relaxes She strokes his hair as he leans his head along her neck If they all could be so easy –and be regulars How many times could I have been dead and not be here to count them? How close to my death can I get? My past was dull, my future is impossible, my present is constant danger, a thrill more addictive than crack and more surprising He sighs and grins at her before rushing off to the toilet she reaches for her panties wondering if T-man waited for her like he said he would— always something to wonder about keeping her wary as a rabbit Yes, I’m either wired or tired But, hey, I just made more money than all those girls back home will make their whole shift and I’m free to go I’m country with a twang pretty and young very desirable but I’m not helpless, not a weak little girl with my crappy education and down-home raising No, I am powerful, got more balls than a NASCAR driver more courage than any soldier, let alone these 24
who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. As we encounter the living Christ in the thirsty, naked, and hungry, we will see salvation though the miracles of forgiveness, friendship, and hope. We’ll see salvation through the lowering of self, the knowledge of our dependance on each other, and the unconditional love of God our Father. If Christ himself was willing in humility to come into our world, maybe we too can find what He found that compelled Him to such sacrificial Love. During the winter, we have joined with a handful of churches though the nonprofit Open Table to do what we call “emergency winter shelters”. Anytime the weather drops down to 20 or below, we open the doors to the church and go around town looking for folks that would otherwise be sleeping outside and would potentially literally freeze to death. We provide a warm place to stay, dinner, breakfast, clothing, and conversation. Sometimes we even bum them a cigarette, but don’t tell the rest of them or we won’t have any left for ourselves. Naked i came from my mothers womb, and naked i will return. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. We pray this prayer every sunday in our makeshift liturgy. What have we learned from this prayer? It comes from the book of Job. God tempts the tempter, Have you considered my servant Job? God makes no apologies for the suffering of Job the righteous man, much less the suffering of the unrighteous man. No, God questions Job: Then the Lord answered Job from the whirlwind: “Who is this that questions my wisdom with such ignorant words? Brace yourself like a man, because I have some questions for you, and you must answer them. Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? We can offer God nothing when we come into the world, and we will have nothing to give Him when we die. Through the gift of faith, even in our doubts, even if we don’t understand the reason for suffering or the living God Himself, we confess in humility: The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. We are perpetually becoming; He is the I am. We as humans seek wisdom and knowledge, but 5
Christ is the treasure. For In Christ all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge are hidden. We began to rely on liturgy for our worship service because we have had a hard time keeping a worship leader. But what we used as a backup until we got someone to commit to leading us in worship has become the highlight of my week. Whether consciously or unconsciously, when we come together and pray these old prayers we are confessing our need for each other as the body of Christ, and not just the members of that body standing in the same room as us, but the whole body that transcends time, race, language, and nationality. Dorothy Day, in a lecture called “Liturgy and Sociology”, wrote “When we pray with Christ (not to Him) we realize Christ as our Brother. We think of all men as our brothers then, as members of the mystical Body of Christ. ‘We are all members, one of another’, and, remembering this, we can never be indifferent to the social miseries and evils of the day. The dogma of the mystical body has tremendous social implications.” The accusation that liturgy is nothing more then empty words could not be farther from the truth. When we confess our dependance on our Mother, the church, through liturgy and see our unity with her, we then see our unity with all God’s children. Yes, all God’s children: the Catholics, Baptists, whatever it is we call ourselves, the Muslims, the Jews, homosexuals, the abused and the abuser. We, humanity, God’s children, are united in our need of our Father’s mercy. Father forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. As Anchor Mission, we prophetically live out our hope That He might gather together in one all things in Christ, both which are in Heaven, and which are on earth, even in Him. We are not building or advancing the Kingdom, but our lives should be a celebration that the Kingdom of God is already here, as we bare witness to it and invite others to join our celebration. 6
the candymen and the blue-light bullies the spur-of-the-moment hustle on the street, the guessing game I am about to play again The excitement the speed the fear the half-expected fist the unexpected gun the escapes the scratches and bruises, telltale traces of close calls that mar my creamy skin so out of place on my petite frame, my smooth tummy and tiny breasts The partying, the rush, the puking the grief over gunned-down comrades and slashed sisters and now my man in jail, just days after I get out, how did I manage to get here? He shuffles toward her, checking furtively over his shoulder gratefully slipping across the threshold after her She runs her fingers reassuringly down his back and places the mental bet she must always make This is a safe one, nothing rough about him It’ll be straightforward: half and half, some of both sets of lips he’ll have a condom so I won’t have to use one of mine 23
She lifts one slight shoulder and cocks her head twinkling at him underneath those pale pink eyelids and showing her long parenthetic dimples She knows he cannot see the bruise on her left hip just above the hem of her knit green and brown miniskirt She slips her arm around his waist and lifts a black-bottomed foot to scratch a mosquito bite on her calf tottering a bit and giggling as she regains her footing and takes the cigarette he has lit for her and draws it to her glossy sienna lips He is as calm as she is animated and quietly accepts the truth she hides with her mercurial cuteness I’ll be right back T-baby, gotta take care of business, she says, and gives him a peck brushing her wispy golden cornsilk back over her ear then adjusts her skirt repositions the thin black strap of her small leather bag and heads down the breezeway toward her room beckoning with daintily crooked index finger to the man uncertainly leaning against the wall How, she wonders, did I get here from my small hometown hundreds of hills from here –my big town in a little county with my mom and sister and the girls from school– to this give-a-shit city with its players and snipers, 22
What I’m Thinking if I’m Brendan Fraser Hearing About A New Movie Role Greg Privett I’ll do it. I’ll take the role. Let’s be honest, I’m Brendan Fraser. What have I always said about picking scripts? Treat every script like it’s your last offer. Because it probably is. Wait a minute. What if the movie is about, like, a hippo? Like, what if it’s about a hippopotamus that gets selected to be launched into space for a new Moon Zoo initiative, and they want me to dress up in a hippo costume to play the role? Will I take the role if I’m going to be a hippo astronaut? Yep. Yes, I will take that role. Oh wait, they’re telling me what it’s actually about right now. What if it’s a documentary about my life and career, and they happily admit their goal is to show that not every Hollywood actor has a glorious life. Would I let them make a fool out of me and my family, just so I could be in a movie? I would let them, yes. Besides, it might be kind of fun. Like I’m in The Truman Show or something. Now that was a great movie. I loved that movie. Oh man, I’m not listening again. Hey, what if Jim Carrey is in this movie! But what if they want me to play his older brother, who is in a full-body cast the entire movie because he fell into a vat of chemicals, and he has no lines, and my name won’t be in the credits, and they won’t pay me, and I’m not allowed to talk to Jim while we’re on set? I’d do that, sure. I don’t have anything else going on. Would I take a role where I’m just a human fire hydrant that people 7
walk by and let their dogs take a wiz on? Sure I would. What about being a voice actor for a piece of already-chewed gum? I guess, yeah. What if they want me to play myself, but they describe the part as “a delusional man with misguided morals, a minor drug addiction, and a crippling fear of the dark?” Well, that just hurts. But yes, I would take the part. Oh, someone’s tapping me on the shoulder. It’s my agent. He’s whispering in my ear. A few years ago, he told me that whenever he whispers in my ear during a meeting, I should always pause and then murmur that I’ll need more time. Okay, here’s my pause. Hey, this feels like acting! This is great! Okay okay, my line. Take it slow.
What is the problem with heart meeting heart next to the dumpster behind The Anchor at Music City’s back door? “Is this a church? Do you pray?” Yes. “I’m not here to beg, My father died,” he said. “And I need to get home To Kentucky.” No smell. No con. No harm. Only asked for a tissue to wipe his eyes. The Way She Looks at It Paul Felton
“I think I’m going to need more time.” “More time for what?” says my agent. “There’s nothing to need time for! They never wanted you, they wanted ‘That guy from Frasier.’ Let’s get out of here.” I look over to the casting directors. “You mean Kelsey Grammer?” “Kelsey Grammer! That’s his name. Whew, that’s been bugging us for days. That man is brilliant.” “Why didn’t you just Google it?” “Listen, we really appreciate you coming out. And look at it this way: we couldn’t have made the movie without you. You’re the guy who got us our guy.” “That’s true. I’m still furious, offended, and very, very disappointed, but I see your point.” 8
Feisty little redhaired waif playful lolita-like tramp bats her translucent orange eyelashes as she tiptoe-sashays her way across warm blacktop barefoot, flashing her sassy wide grin, jaw thrust provocatively forward tongue arched seductively behind her straight and confident teeth, pumping her arms in mock gingerliness to convey firm and irresistible intention Her lilting nasal squeal descends into rapid-fire syllables flicked off her tongue like so many air puffs Boy whacha doin over here tonight I thought you was gonna head out yesterday gimme a cigarette babe don’t your black ass look cool in that hat 21
Eyes can’t open. Back dots in brown circles on white balls You shake it till it dies Because it was never alive, anyway. And why you can keep pushing and persisting And I can’t get out of bed And you’ll never stop And I’ll never win And I don’t even know the game we’re playing. Assert: “You’re sensual.” Reply: “I like to feel.” “No black dots in brown circles on white balls for youYou’re aware. Sensual.” “I like to feel.” And you can and you’re alive. Red, blue, orange swirl Float on color. Rough, smooth, silk, stone. “Did you know how much I love A squirt of lemon on my tongue? Jolt, revive, refresh, awake.” “And you can feel it all.” and she’s jealous And he wanders into the night To enjoy the touch and taste and smell and color of air. And he smiles And she’s jealous. Tony Amanda Oliver Bum. Hobo. Homeless. Fear pushes us forward as we walk the other way. Love is the answer to “Reasons Not to Judge” for $1000, Mr. Trebek. 20
“Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Brent. Loved your work in Jungle 2 Jungle.” “That’s not-” “Liz, can you get Kelsey Grammer’s agent on the line for me?” As I’m escorted out of the room by security, I realize that I was considered for the same role that Kelsey Grammer is going to take. How humbling. I really love his work. Uninvited Leanna M. Jackson it was supposed to be a simple good night, but you came into my home, uninvited came into my room, uninvited came into me, uninvited i tried to say no, i tried to plead, i tried to run away, but i was frozen and afraid and my heart was a frail and broken mess and i cried myself to sleep that night and forever because you, you ignored me and you never took me seriously and your arrogance diminished what little fire i had left inside
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Alaska Raleigh McCool In the summer of 2011, I moved to Alaska to work at a zipline tour company. I climbed a couple mountains, saw several bears, and met several hundred tourists from Texas. This is an excerpt from my as-yet-unnamed story about Alaska, and ziplining. A big part of our job was encouraging timid zippers. Timid zippers, nervous zippers, too-much-chest-hair-too-be-crying zippers. Some just needed a wisecrack from their husband—“Go on, fat ass!”—or a subtle shove, which I was more than happy to provide. Most clients were hesitant at first, feigning anger after I pushed them off the first couple platforms, but would come around soon enough. I saw some break down, though, standing there in that harness, silently fighting tears or openly weeping, begging to be let down. (One woman, who was so terribly scared of ziplining that she bailed at the first tree, broke into maniacal giggling the second we clipped her into the rappel. She left us a tip and a note that read, “You should have an entire course of lower-downs!!! Yippee!!!”) Often, we were the ones begging for mercy. Why some of our clients were allowed to board commercial cruise liners—lo, and go ziplining!—is beyond the scope of my imagination. There were women who outweighed me by 100 pounds and men fresh out of surgery, their arms barely attached, their formerly malfunctioning hearts now beating through their chests. Aging bucket listers were harnessed beside bitchy tweeners (Cameryn, 12, told me: “I’m the coolest person here. You better let me go first.”). Entire families who were incapable of spelling “cruise” were joining our tours and taking up space in our trees, the onus of their family tree’s survival resting squarely on our shoulders. Kids who wouldn’t make the weight minimum with a forty-five pound rhesus monkey draped around their shoulders cried when we turned them away, and cried when we didn’t. A couple guys, Vietnam vets, attempted to smuggle concealed handguns on tour, which we almost didn’t 10
with Dr. Hollingsworth. Sam was his name. So, I took Larry with me, cause it was right off Belcourt, and I introduced him to Sam. The appointment was ok, I guess, except Sam tried to tell me I didn’t have a pet goose. Doctors. Afterwards, Larry and I waddled over to Centennial Park. It was a beautiful day and Larry never could resist that pond, so Larry went for a swim and I went for a snow cone. It took longer than usual for me to get my snow cone that day on account of how hot it was and how many people wanted snow cones. When I came back I didn’t see Larry anywhere. I sat there and ate my snow cone… and then I ate another… and then another… and still no Larry. I figured he found some lady goose and they were probably having a romantic waddle somewhere. Assuming Larry was a boy goose, I never checked. Anyways, I got tired of waiting, so I went home. Came back later that evening to meet up with Larry, but damned if he wasn’t there. Must have been some special goose he found. The next day I went to that pond in Centennial Park four times trying to find that goose! For a while I would go to the park at least twice a day… then just once… then once a week… then just once a month. I guessed he’d found a new home with some lady goose, and they were off working on there own gander somewhere, so after a while I just stopped going. I missed Larry though, especially on Wednesdays when I’d go to Hillsboro Village. I tried talking to Sam about it, but you know how doctors are. Anyways, I didn’t forget about him, but I got on with life. One day I was watching football in the living room and I went to the fridge to get another Vanilla Coke. When I came back, who do you think was sitting there in the recliner next to me, like nothing ever happened. Larry. I guess he let himself in. The Jamaican Allison Gale “Wait for me?” “No.” “But I’m scared” But you’ll go alone. Eyes don’t open. 19
Just as before, they trudged on in stony silence, each hoping to make the strongest impression. After they had traveled about a block’s distance, their forsaken bus rumbled passed. As Clara turned and watched it slow to a stop, Mitchell looked down at her with his bejeweled eyes, and said in his softest, mocking voice, “Last chance.” He crept closer as they charged on together and Clara remembered the original feeling the he gave her. Repulsion and attraction. Comforting uncomfortableness. She glanced back at the stop as the last two passengers were ascending the stairs. She stopped, glared at Mitchell with narrowed eyes and a crooked smile, then darted. She ran quickly and lightly, like a gazelle or a dear, and she laughed to herself as she went along. She knew he would never follow or chase her. She was free of his quiet grip. She slipped into the bus just as the doors were closing and surveyed her surroundings. Through the back window Clara could see Mitchell a block down the street looking shocked and stunned and a little amused. Looking around the bus she saw there were no empty seats, so she grabbed hold of the nearest railing and planted herself. Smiling to herself, Clara looked up to see an ad for a local gym that stated, “Sometimes it’s not enough to walk. Sometimes you have to run.” Larry Chris Hayzlett I had a pet goose once. That damned thing waddled everywhere with me! I named him Larry on account of I couldn’t pronounce his given name. Larry and I would waddle down to Hillsboro Village a lot. We would just stroll along, stopping here and there to look at things. Larry didn’t like dogs much, and I didn’t keep him on a leash or anything. He was a goose for Christ sake! He would make an awful ruckus when a dog would come up. You’ve never seen anything like it! Wings flailing, waddling like crazy, and the most god-awful squawk you ever heard. Damn, he was loud! Had to be careful though, or he’d peck a dog near to death. This particular day was a Wednesday, and every Wednesday I had an appointment 18
catch, because a woman was loudly imploring to bring along her makeup bag. Once, it took a married couple fifteen minutes—fifteen minutes! I counted!—to climb a flight of stairs that you or I could easily scale in the time it takes to sing the bridge to Katy Perry’s “Firework.” This same couple—bless their motherfucking hearts—were the victims of a whopping nine pull-ins during the course of a day. When a zipper became stuck on a line, lead guides (I was one) were required to perform pull-ins, which, really, just means that I had to go get them. This could happen for a variety of reasons—the client braked too early, or too much; the client did not have enough body weight to propel themselves across the chasm; the client’s glove became stuck in the trolley; the client’s pink, puffy, sequined jacket became stuck in the trolley; the client’s finger became stuck in the trolley—you get the idea. This couple’s name, which I once remembered—once cursed so casually under my breath—has now joyfully escaped my memory. Between the two of them, they became stuck on the line nine times. Nine times! Each time was for a different reason—she braked too early this time, he flailed his arms wildly that time. They floundered about up there like circus clowns, their cheeks flushed from the height, spinning around, jerking on the cables, halting their momentum, stuck in the middle. I saved their lives. To become a lead guide, we had to pull in our 260-pound moose of a boss, Andy, in less than two minutes. I did it in just over one. These people we were pulling in, day after day, were at least Andy’s size, but did not possess the added benefits of being, say, calm, helpful, or remotely cooperative. They would squeal and moan, afraid of death, and I would comfort their ailing spirits, gently reminding them, “Hey, you’re not the one pulling 440 pounds of dead weight up a seventy degree incline.” They thanked me after that. 11
The opposite of a pull-in, I guess, is the prussic brake system. The prussic brake is an automatic braking system to be employed when zippers did not possess the mental acuity, hand-eye coordination, or physical strength to keep from hurtling headlong into a Western hemlock. The system appears convoluted but is really quite simple: I tugged on a rope, and this rope tightened a knot, and this knot rudely impeded the progress of oncoming zipliners. In the most extreme cases, speed demon zippers would come to such a sudden halt that their legs flipped up over their head, and, if not for my swift assistance, zip back out into the middle of the cable. So, to prevent such a situation, I intervened, thrusting my own helmetedbut-vulnerable body into the fray of arms and legs and knees, grabbing the beleaguered zipliner before they crushed me or the tree or themselves. If executed properly—and with only minor compliance from the clients—the brake resulted in little trouble—a sudden but soft lurch, and a nice, easy landing on the platform. Again, though, sometimes it got ugly. There was a youth pastor once, from Wisconsin, I remember, a little overweight. She was zipping with her flock, and making a great noise about being a good zipper. I did not concur, exactly, but didn’t make a fuss about it. Let her have her day, I thought. About halfway through the course, all her kids were there on the platform, not so much making conversation as they were making those loud, spastic youth groupy noises. She came racing down the line, very obviously losing control, and fast—her Wisconsin Badgers sweatshirt like a bright-red Toyota Corolla approaching a green light. Without time to really steel myself, I yanked on the brake, but she was hurtling in such a way—turned to the side, her legs straight-out and rigid, like she was in a recliner—that rendered traditional braking methods obsolete. I bore the brunt of the Wisconsin youth pastor, taking her yoke upon myself at 30 miles per hour, and while her youth groupies yipped and yapped and giggled behind me, I lay on the platform beneath her, convicted of this one thing: she was a god-awful zipliner. 12
played the victor. She began to wonder about the intricate details of his life. Where exactly did he live? What were his friends like? Had he ever had a wife? What types of books and movies and music and beer did he like? Did he enjoy this brisk fall weather? Clara knew now that she was the one in control and carefully considered asking these questions in rapid fire succession - catching him off guard and leaving him breathless and stunned. She knew, however that she never would. The mystery is always better than the actual knowing. There were six other people waiting when they arrived at the bus stop. Two of them sat on a bench, partially concealing an ad for a local gym which pictured two fit, tan co-eds on treadmills, ponytails swaying and said in big, bold type, “Sometimes it’s not enough to walk. Sometimes you have to run.” Mitchell and Clara stood in silence near the bench as they eavesdropped on other conversations and impatiently waited for the arrival of their bus and their sweet departure from one another. Suddenly, and without warning, trying to regain his position of influence, Mitchell looked at Clara and said, “Hey, why don’t we just walk? I can walk you home.” Clara’s snapped her neck so furiously that her hair went flying. She looked up to Mitchell and replied, “But I live three miles from here.” “The weather is nice. It will be nice.” She was fully aware of this Golden One’s intentions; his desire to be her only influence, to overpower her for no real reason. She set her will and determined she would not be taken down. Their eyes locked as in battle; like two children in a starring contest. But it was no game. Both parties were acutely aware that the loser of the contest would surely die some sort of small death. She grinned at him and said, “Sure. That sounds fine.” 17
She was taken in by him. Once she was in his presence, she was always uncomfortable. The uncomfortablity was comforting; she could rely upon it. It made her feel safe. She enjoyed its sensation. As she recalled all this, she had a startling thought. What if this uncomfortable feeling she had was actually comfort? What if she had mistaken the comfortable for the uncomfortable all along? “Could I really not know the difference? Is it possible that I have confused the two?” thought she. Mitchell watched her face slightly contort itself in anger and confusion of her revelation - something she was unaware of. Clara thought she concealed all her thoughts and emotions, when the reality was that she wore each one on her face. He grinned down at her, perfectly content with the confusion on the face of his walking companion. He knew that Clara’s furrowed brow and bent lips were somehow due to him, and while not exactly proud, he raised his head a little higher knowing he had a power over her. This power, this upper-hand, gave Mitchell the confidence to continue their journey in silence. Their eight block trek to the bus stop was nearly halfway over when a startling thought came to Clara. It was startling because after three months of taking this afternoon stroll together, the thought had never entered her mind. Keeping her pace, she looked up at Mitchell with wide eyes and said, “Why does someone with a dentist salary take the bus? Why aren’t you driving an impressive foreign car and pulling into a parking space with your name on it?” The question jolted Mitchell out of his silent, head-high power walk. He fumbled for an answer as he tried to regain his composure. “Well,” he said, taking a long time to form his sentences, “I suppose it’s because I like the idea of not having a car. I had a car once. I got it when I was sixteen, and I drove it for ten years. I loved that car. I just don’t think anything else could compare.”
The First Thing I Did Erik Rocca The first thing I did after I made a little money in New York was to buy a leather jacket. My Father taught me to look sharp. He told me, “You never know who you’re going to meet.” Now there are many types of leather jackets. Many fucking types. There are leather dusters and leather racing jackets. There are leather blazers and leather bombers. Shit, they even have leather vests. The leather vest is very difficult to pull off unless you live on 3rd Street at the Hell’s Angels Clubhouse, or you’re a fucking rock star. There are leather jackets with pockets where pockets should not be. There are leather jackets with zippers where there should not be zippers. And then, there are motorcycle jackets. The holy fucking grail of leather jackets. At least according to me. Every once in awhile I’ll be running the streets and see something good…… That’s when I say to myself, “Shit, I should buy it.” This don’t come around that often. When I bought my first one, it seemed like a good idea and everyone I hadn’t met yet who was worth a damn, owned one. They usually owned a good one. The one I picked up was fine. I’ve been looking for the right one ever since. I’m still looking.... We’re all still looking. Currently, I own three. But, I’ll never forget what happened to me when I started wearing that first one. It’s been over four years now.
It was Mitchell’s turn to go on in contemplative silence while Clara 16
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Certainty, and Escaping The Grasp Neta Harris Clara narrowed her eyes and tilted her head to the right side - the most quizzical look she could muster. “But....but what about your dreams?” she stammered. After a long pause, seeming to think it over, he stated somewhat matter-of-factly, “Well, I suppose I don’t have any. Not anymore, anyway. I reckon I could be just as happy being one thing as being anything else. People get caught up in whether or not they’re happy in their work. But I don’t see it like that. It’s just something I do to keep the lights on at home. Sure, it takes up a sizable portion of my day, but what would I do with that time otherwise? I’m certain I would manage to squander it away. So the way I see it, I could be doing anything. I could drive a truck, or be a farmer, or a janitor, or a lawyer, given I was trained properly. So I chose dentistry; partly because someone said I look like a dentist, partly because I really like the sound of the drill.” Clara looked at Mitchell in wonder. Could anyone really be quite so nonchalant about something so seemingly permanent as a fullgrown, adult career? She studied him and realized his words must have been genuine. Whether or not they were true, he believed them himself and stated them with such confident certainty that she started to believe what he was saying was true. Mitchell made her uncomfortable. For starters, he was the most pure looking creature she had ever beheld. He stood tall, several inches taller than her, and, though he stood rather slim, his chest was sturdy - like something strong could ram it and he would continue to stand. His hair was pure gold, as if the sun itself had given birth to it. His eyes were emerald green and shown like jewels; they darted about, looking everywhere and nowhere in particular all at once. He simultaneously seemed to exude innocence and 14
wisdom. Secondly, he said things similar to his speech about his work all the time. How did he come up with these ideas? So nonchalant. So sure of himself. Clara felt dirty and plain next to him. Perhaps she was. She was of average height, and while not plump, she couldn’t be described as slim, either; somewhere in the middle. Her eyes were some sort of murky mix between brown and green - like dirty pond water. Her hair was blonde, though not like his. It did not shine like it was birthed of the sun. In fact, it did not shine at all. It was what they call “dirty blonde,” and the name made her feel thus so. Everything about Mitchell was pure and radiant. Everything about Clara appeared unfit, unclean, imperfect. So she stood as far away from him as possible as they continued along down the street, hoping he would not detect her lack of closeness. Clara worked as a receptionist in the building next to Mitchell’s and the two had met for the first time one evening while walking to the bus stop. He had been quite jolly, even perky that Thursday, and was more than obliged to introduce himself to the reserved young woman. He was not the sort to go on and on talking about himself, nor did he ask much of her. While kind, his presence was somewhat overbearing, like he had a sort of grip on her; he had no malicious intent. As they trudged along in the red-grey evening, Clara wondered what it was about him that made her uncomfortable. It was the strangest sensation. When leaving her place of work in the evenings she always felt anxious, hoping she should not have to see Mitchell. When she didn’t see him she felt a pang of annoyance; as though something that she had relied on had fallen through. Though when she did see him, instinctively, her hopes were dashed. She was attracted to him, though not like a lust. Her attraction to him was more like a magnet, a beam, a moth to a flame. It felt as though he surrounded her on all sides. 15