Lit 2015

Lit

MMXV

A NARRATIVE NON-FICTION MAGAZINE A SPECIAL PUBLICATION OF THE ITHACAN

Lit spring 2015

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Lit

| spring 2015

Lit

MASTHEAD

STAFF EMILY HULL JAMIE SWINNERTON GRACE CLAUSS TOMMY BATTISTELLI MELISSA DELLACATO RACHEL WOLFGANG JACK CURRAN KIRA MADDOX MICHAEL SERINO

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Co-Editor Co-Editor Design Editor Photo Editor Proofreader Copy Editor Ithacan Editor in Chief Ithacan Managing Editor Ithacan Advisor

EDITOR’S NOTE

The stories you are about to read are a labor of tough love. As students in Todd Schack’s Narrative Journalism workshop, our understanding of our craft was turned on its head.

We read the works of narrative masters Joan Didion, David Foster Wallace, Terry Southern and John Steinbeck. They inspired us to throw conventional interviewing tactics, news ledes, and headlines out the window in order to replace them with characterization, metaphor and our own voice, while maintaining journalistic integrity.

These pieces challenged us to look outside our traditional journalistic lens and explore a new way of telling our stories; the stories that make up everyday life in Ithaca, New York.

None of them will be front page news, but they offer us something nonetheless: a unique perspective, a renewed look at an ordinary world, a glimpse into an unfamiliar culture.

We begin with a morning at a diner and end with an evening at a comedy open mic.

These people and places are part of our everyday lives and could be easily overlooked.

We could tell you more, but as Steinbeck once wrote, “It might be better to let visitors find out for themselves.”

Emily Hull & Jamie Swinnerton

Lit

spring 2015

BAPTIZED IN BACON WRITTEN BY Amanda Hutchinson On a cold Saturday morning, the back end of Fall Creek is quiet. The air is filled with an enticingly buttery smell, tricking passers-by into taking a deeper breath and instead giving them a lungful of ice. A spatula-wielding caricature of Abe Lincoln looks sternly at them from the window, either judging them for not entering his establishment or mocking them for falling for the buttery arctic blast. As the door opens the clanking of pots and pans, shouted orders and friendly banter welcome guests inside.

Lincoln Street Diner is a no-nonsense greasy spoon with a dedicated breakfast crowd and a flattop baptized in bacon.

While the 24-hour joints are the late-night go-to for drunk college students, Lincoln Street is the diner of their parents and grandparents. They come in right at 6 a.m. when Chris flips the “Open” sign, awake far before the rest of Fall Creek.

They grab a house mug off the rack and help themselves to coffee behind the counter, even refilling the grounds in the machine if it’s empty. They know exactly what they want to order; half the time, the conversation is little more than “The usual?” “Mmhmm.” And most of them have come and gone long before noon, with the occasional exception of Helene

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PHOTOS BY Tommy Battistelli and her scrambled eggs, three slices of marmaladed toast and grumblings about last night’s hockey game.

This is an unlikely hotspot for a city that prides itself on being dietarily inclusive. There is no vegetarian menu.

There are no designated gluten-free options. You can’t even really keep kosher when the entire flattop has at some point been graced with some sacrilegious combination of beef, cheese, and at least three different pork products. It’s a notouch-itarian’s worst nightmare. Pancakes will be kissed by the savory flavors of the previous patron’s Ziffy omelet, and there’s a slight chance that the next Ziffy will have a stray blueberry (or, heaven forbid, a chocolate chip) from the previous pancake order. Everything will be greased up with copious amounts of butter.

And no gritty little diner would be complete without its owner calling the shots from the grill, donning a pair of navy blue shorts covered in flying pigs and wiping his hands on his increasingly less-white apron. Chris bought Lincoln Street 11 years ago, back when his daughter was young enough to be excited about writing a poem about spoons for the menu. Food service is in his blood. His mother ran a catering business in addition to working as a nurse,

BAPTIZED IN BACON and he and his brother Sean both went to Johnson & Wales University for culinary arts.

Chris pulls out a sheet of bacon strips from the distribution box and slaps it paper-side-up on the flattop — “the paper is so they’re flatter” — as he recalls his first restaurant job. As a teenager, he started as a dishwasher on a Friday, and the next night, he was closing the restaurant by himself.

“The police were at my doorstep Sunday morning because the place burned down.” He laughs heartily. “I was the last one who was there, so you can imagine … I think I was maybe 14? That was a little scary. Like, I don’t know what the hell you think I did ...”

Mugs clink on the other end of the counter, and bacon sizzles behind him on the flattop. He stands there, still bewildered by that Saturday night decades ago.

“I mean, it was kinda bizarre: they had this brand new kid, you know, one night he’s there and the next night they’re letting him close by himself. I guess in hindsight I could’ve paid attention more cleaning, but …

I mean, I would never let somebody that just started here close on their own, let alone a 14-year-old.”

out, but Jolie shakes her head.

“We can’t do tips on cards. The machine won’t even accept it.” She hands a pen and the receipt, devoid of a tipping space, to the friend.

The two cringe. “I’m so sorry!” She apologizes, convinced she’s ruined Jolie’s day. “It’s my first time here.”

“That just means you have to come back and see me again,” she replies without missing a beat as she finishes the second transaction. “Have a good day, guys.”

Sass is standard fare at Lincoln Street, especially if you’re a regular like Jester, a disabled Army veteran, physics graduate of North Carolina State, and self-proclaimed mad scientist. He’s only been in Ithaca since August, when his girlfriend started grad school, but he considers himself a regular.

Living three and a half blocks away from Lincoln Street means Chris has a “geographical monopoly” on him.

“Regular?” Chris gives a robust “huh!” that lies somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“There’s nothing regular about him.

More like an irregular.”

Jester enjoys getting Chris’ goat by telling fellow patrons how to Incoming customers jostle get Chris to serve a breakfast sandFOOD OR RESPECT, around one another and the door wich on pancakes, demanding that YOU CAN’T GET BOTH. to hang up their coats and wipe the his staple (blueberry pancakes, two –Chris breakfasty fog from their glasses. eggs over-medium and bacon) be Ben comes over to greet them in added to the menu as the “Mad Scihis usually plaid, always collared entist Special,” and threatening to shirt, varying amounts of beard and eat at Denny’s where he can “get a smile. some respect.”

“We’ll have a table ready for you in just a few minutes.”

“Food or respect, you can’t get both,” Chris warns as he They look at each other, debating on whether to go tends to the flattop. elsewhere.

After sharing a laugh with Jolie and reminiscing over Ben clasps his hands together in proper maitre d’ fash- that first Philly cheesesteak omelet that got him hooked on ion. “I can assure you it’s worth the wait.” the diner back in August, Jester gets very serious over his Once the table is wiped down and reset, they sit down. blueberry-covered French toast.

In between taking orders, delivering orders and receiving “My psychiatrist at the VA said there are two genres of payment for orders, Jolie flies over in a blur of hot pink hair. people who I can always count on to say whatever they’re “Can I get you guys something to drink? Coffee?” thinking, whatever’s on their mind. The first are toddlers.”

She’s greeted with a resounding chorus in the affirma- He laughs at the thought. “The second ... is infantrymen betive and quickly returns with all five cups filled to the brim, cause they deal with life and death for a living. These are not a single brown drop sliding down the white ceramic. wars, and, hell, I say what I mean, what more are you gonna She flies back to the cash register, puzzling for a split sec- do to me?” ond before very slightly hanging her head apologetically He pauses and looks around the orange-walled diner. and asking the guy in front of her to remind her what he “It’s difficult for me to find a place where people actually had, hon. Prices are punched in by memory — very rarely say what they’re thinking. It always has been. But this is a does she reference the menu or turn around to the spe- place filled with farmers, construction workers, people that cials board covered in her swirly script and Snoopy and plow roads, contractors, people who have bigger things to Woodstock drawings. A menagerie of solar-powered bob- worry about than what the world thinks of them. You can bleheads in front of the cash register stare at the guy while say whatever, and you know that if that person’s skin isn’t waiting for Jolie’s verdict rounded to the nearest nickel: al- thick enough to take it, they are wrong. And it is like that most $10 even. She hands back two 20s as change for the 50; nowhere else.” the guy frowns. No good for a tip.

Jester leans over to see past the other patrons at the “I’ll do the tip on my card,” offers his friend as she cashes counter and locate Jolie.

“

“

Lit

spring 2015

BAPTIZED IN BACON “Jolie!”

“What-y?” she yells back, eventually making her way to Jester’s end of the counter.

“Jolie?”

“Yes.” “Your ass looks gorgeous today.”

“Oh, well, thank you.” She casually shrugs it off, a little confused but not insulted.

“Now, name me one other place in Ithaca where I can say that.”

She laughs. “That’s all you wanted me for, huh? Alright.”

“That and if I pulled you down to this end of the bar, you eventually have to walk down back to that end of the bar.”

Jester turns back to his blueberry-covered French toast as Jolie returns to her post.

“I told you, I have to find it. Wherever the hell I am, whatever the hell I’m doing, I have to find this place, otherwise I have to spend my life alone, and no social creature wants to spend their life alone.”

In an instant, he returns to the light-hearted banter, notso-subtly calling out Chris for not sending out emails for his specials. He’s still mad that he missed the Valentine’s Day red velvet pancakes.

To the right of the register sit two Cornell vet techs, a rare sight in the primarily (grand)parent-age clientele. To the untrained ear, their voices fuse into a single poetic waxing about their late breakfast.

“This is awesome.” Bite. “This is awesome.” Bite. “That is bomb.” One tech notices his Kosher-keeping friend looking longingly at his feast: country fried steak with red-eye

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gravy and bacon cheddar grits. “Jealous?”

“Yeah.”

Chris takes advantage of the post-breakfast break to step back from the grill and drink his coffee. “Next time you come in, I’ll make some without bacon.”

On the other side of the register, Jolie leans over onto the counter in order-taking position, sleeves rolled up to reveal a three-quarter-length tattoo on her left arm. She starts writing without asking the man in front of her.

“Alright … wheat toast, over easy…” She pauses. “Do you want an OJ today?”

He smiles and nods, and Jolie rips off the sheet and crams it under the clips with the other orders. The slips wait for Chris to start as he serves up a breakfast dessert of single pancakes for both techs, slapping a spatula’s worth of butter on each plate.

“If it wasn’t so expensive to get your stomach pumped…”

“This place would put me in an early grave if I lived in Ithaca.”

The other vet tech looks at the now-empty pancake plate of the first. “You ate all your butter too?”

“I’m going to the early grave happy.”

As the diner continues to empty, the Cornell vet techs join the emigration, still aglow from their meals. One cashes out with Jolie, and the other walks toward the door to suit up for the trip back.

“He’s leaving this guy as collateral.” Black fingernails with silver star designs punch the prices into the register.

Chris sips his coffee and turns back to his workstation. “I don’t know if we want him.”

BAPTIZED IN BACON Two whiteboards hang high above the flattop to announce the specials. The larger one, rarely touched, serves as the diner’s calendar: in the church of Lincoln Street, Tuesday is the holiday of chicken and biscuits. The smaller board is home to Jolie’s Peanuts cartoons as well as the daily specials, where Thanksgiving sandwiches and strawberry Texas French toast catch the eyes of those without a “usual.” On Saturdays, it serves as calendar overflow for Chris’ omelet lineup. He hates making them, but they scratch his creativity itch.

Holidays provide an additional creative outlet for the diner: Jolie gets to doodle on the specials board, and Chris gets to play with new ingredients. This is how the red velvet pancakes that Jester was so distressed about missing came to be, toasty pink circles smothered in strawberry sauce and finished with a dollop of homemade buttercream.

Halloween, however, goes beyond the food, as the restaurant annually transforms into the Haunted Diner.

The regulars who make the diner a part of their breakfast routine don’t notice anything different about the building on October 30. The bright orange walls, while conveniently festive, are part of the standard 1970s-style decor. But the basement under the hole-in-the-wall houses some eldritch horrors only seen in an old-fashioned horror movie, horrors that gradually consume the diner itself. By the next morning, it transforms into an insane asylum.

The already cramped space is filled with a maze of moving walls, on which eerie murals are painted. The faint purple glow of black lights and the twitching of strobe lights replace the bright fluorescence that normally lights up the walls. A girl was tied into her wheelchair, struggling to escape. Outside, a zombified figure in a white nightgown swung in the tree in front of the building, and the girl’s father donned a lab coat covered in blood and slowly stalked unsuspecting visitors in the asylum.

“Leave me alone!” one girl finally screamed, and Chris backed off.

While many were sufficiently spooked — Jolie was given reprieve from waitressing for the day to hand out candy and console the children — a lone cowboy stepped up to save the haunted diner from Ryan, the dishwasher, who was moonlighting as a chainsaw-wielding madman. As the maniac ran out from his hiding place behind a Jeep in the parking lot, revving his chainsaw, the quick-thinking 7-year-old sharpshooter pulled out his toy pistol and pumped him full of invisible lead. Ryan convulsed with each shot and fell to the ground as the cowboy jumped for joy.

“I got him! I got him!” he cried.

Articles, reviews and plaques take turns with the Phillies memorabilia to pepper the diner walls with glowing praise about the cheap eats, homey atmosphere and awardwinning chili. Nowhere to be found, however, is the key to the city of Ithaca that Chris won simply for making Mayor Svante Myrick a garbage plate.

“I’ll make a proclamation. Cut a ribbon. Whatever it takes. I just want a garbage plate in my life,” he pleaded in an interview with Edible Finger Lakes, published July 23.

The Ithaca Voice officially published the challenge July 24, offering the key to the city to the first person to make Mayor Myrick a garbage plate.

“Let’s try it,” dishwasher-turned-prep-chef Cody said to Chris the next morning. “We have all the stuff for it.”

“Well, go ahead and make it.”

Chris personally drove the Rochester-style monstrosity — a greasy, pain-in-the-a-- mountain of carbs, meat and the traditional spicy chili known as “hot sauce” — to City Hall that morning, so it would be on Myrick’s desk ready to eat when he came in. The administrative assistant looked at Chris in confusion, wondering why this guy from a little no-name greasy spoon was delivering a garbage plate to the mayor when a handful of other restaurants, including the iconic Moosewood, had called dibs on Twitter the day before.

Chris shrugged. “You said the first people, so …”

Handing over the styrofoam box was the last he saw or heard of Cody’s creation. Aside from a Twitter picture of a very happy mayor and his garbage plate, no announcement of Lincoln Street’s win was made. Despite a valiant attempt by some local reporters to get Chris his due, he never received the key to the city nor any recognition from the administration.

“Yeah, well, that’s politicians for you.”

The order clips see fewer and fewer slips, and fewer coats hang on the racks behind the door. Eighties music in the background fades in as breakfast conversation fades out. The home fries on the flattop sizzle quietly. Jolie leans on the far end of the counter, investigating the newspaper with two regulars as they finish their breakfasts. Ryan, armed with a stack of plates, delivers dishes to the front line without having to jostle between everyone. Ben greets an incoming group of four to find seating for them. Chris fights with a stubborn piece of bacon as he tries to drape it over a slice of ham on the flattop.

A lone breakfast ranger sits by the window, hunched over his meal as he drinks from his oversized house mug.

A couple migrates to the mostly empty counter to allow the incoming group to sit down at their table. Guys lean over their girls, protecting them from the draft of the door as they check out the menu. A dad and his bow-tied son season their eggs.

Tomorrow is Sunday, Chris’ only day off. But come Monday, he’ll be back bright and early, slapping bacon paper on the flattop, heckling the regulars and starting their usuals as soon as he sees them through the window. Outside, the spatula-wielding Chef Lincoln waits for passers-by, his serious glare threatening them to get their asses inside the diner for breakfast.

Lit

spring 2015

G u n n i n g i t

WRITTEN BY Kristen Mansfield

Snow tires optional, four-wheel drive — mandatory.

There’s a fork in the road where 38 meets Beam Hill. A cop sits posted at the base with his lights off, but there’s really no way to make it up the steep, wrenched path without absolutely gunning it.

About a quarter mile up the wooded street, nestled between three freshly painted cabins and shaded by snowy oaks and pines, sits BoltWorks Tactical Firearms, in all its rustic glory.

Four cars, all pickups, are parked in the lot along the shop’s front door. Each of the cars’ tires rest on a mixture of rock gravel and metallic shells, giving the ground a shimmery glare that stretches a hundred yards back into the homemade target range behind the cabin next door.

Suddenly, six roaring gunshots rip through the quiet landscape, sending shaky blasts through the trees.

“Fire,” Skip says inside the shop, pulling the door closed a second too late.

One American flag is on display at BoltWorks. It’s dirty and tattered, which fits the decor but makes a striking contrast to the shiny new guns that line the walls and shelves.

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PHOTOS BY Tommy Battistelli Small posters and memorabilia are scattered wherever there’s room. A bulletin board smeared with fliers hangs on the wall by the doors. In the middle is a photograph of a woman holding her baby with one arm. Two scared children bind her legs, tucked into her sides. She has a handgun in her spare hand, pointing directly to the camera. Above her head are the words: “When running away is not an option.”

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG! ... BANG! “Man, when you hear ’em like that … that’s a big gun!

Hah-ha haa, woo!” Derek Barr, also known as D-Barr or D with this crowd, kicks back his head in laughter while he listens from behind the counter.

“What is that, .308? Sounds like it donn’ed it? He’s havin’ way too much fun out there,” D says as he watches for Jamie, the owner of the shop and the lucky jackass who gets to test out the firearms he fixes. Jamie walks back in, holding the enormous hunk of metal in his right hand. The muzzle of the gun is pointing downward, unloaded.

“2-2-3” he says to D without looking up. “Fireballs comin’ off the end.” Jamie pulls the gun up and secures it in

GUNNING IT its case on the counter. “I gotta go move the four-wheeler so we can get more people packed in here.”

Jamie, Derek and Skip move along the counters of the shop to make sure everything is situated. Derek is an ex-SWAT and a buddy of Jamie’s who helps at the shop whenever he can, and Skip has the face of a kid and demeanor of a teenager, but was hired by Jamie because he knows a thing or two about firearms.

It’s the first day of the 10-hour hunter safety course BoltWorks offers a few times a year, but they’re not expecting to have to do much — the course is kinda a buzzkill for business. Even without much in the way of profit, Jamie insists on having the events.

“I think everyone who gets a gun permit should have to take these classes,” Jamie says, loud enough to get nods from Derek and Skip. “The best thing you can do to defend owning a gun is to learn how to use it right.”

Making a guest appearance is Environmental Conservation Officer Ozzie Eisenberg, whose full, green, bullet-proof uniform keeps him at the center of attention for most of the night.

Men and boys of all ages start lining up at the sign-in table, with a smaller number of girls and women trickling through in between them.

Those who haven’t been here before select one of the 30 folding chairs lined up in front of a projector and take a seat. Those who have, start moving around the perimeter of the shop, shaking the hands of anyone with a familiar face.

Two guys in old baseball hats and blue jeans are too late to find seats and wind up leaning in the back, their elbows propped up against the counter.

“Hey how are ya,” one says in a quiet voice, bringing his hand out in front of him.

“I’m not so bad, yourself?” They shake.

“I’m alright, I’m alright.” They exchange names in a friendly, low voice.

“Hey, you don’t happen to know Johnny do you?”

“Well shit, I do! He works with my buddy downtown!”

They find out they have more people in common and start chuckling at the coincidence in the back of the room.

Jamie notices the disruption and walks over in front of them, turning his back toward Ozzie and Les who are leading the class.

“Hey guys, I’m sorry I have to ask, but do you mind steppin’ outside to catch up?

You’re welcome to hang out there as long as you’d like.”

The two realize their mistake and give sincere, mumbled apologies as they head out the door.

Jamie Arnold’s nails are so short that the calluses on top of his fingers have nearly grown over them. Grease has settled between the cracks in his hands. They’re rough and gritty, reeking of workmanship and experience.

Before quitting his job to start the gun shop, Jamie worked for the Department of Transportation. He and his wife Caren took the kids on their fair share of vacations, and they were always in the stands at Molly’s soccer games. When Jamie was at the DOT he had normal hours, a solid paycheck and the ability to separate work from home.

He is a self-taught shooter, and a pretty good shot, who’s had a passion for firearms for as long as he can remember.

He always loved taking apart his own pieces, but it wasn’t until he started fixing up a few of his buddies’ guns that the idea of a shop came into the picture.

“Most people like a little customization with their firearms, and it’s hard to find people — especially in your area — that you trust enough to give yours to,” Jamie shouts across his mechanic station, metal-to-metal contact echoing over the cement floors of the shop.

Construction began in the summer of 2012, and Caren thought he was crazy.

“I remember having our kitchen table covered with

Lit

spring 2015

GUNNING IT

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parts for weeks at a time,” Caren says as she leans forward onto the glass counter across from Jamie, her arms folding over each another.

An elementary school teacher in Ithaca, Caren has that sweet tone of voice that always comes off friendly and kind, but firm. When she’s not at work or in the house, she’s filing paperwork or helping with sales in the shop.

Caren wears her hair in a stylish ponytail, showing off dangly silver hoop earrings that shake a little each time she laughs. Red tortoise reading glasses cover her eyes and a delicate wedding ring sits on her finger.

“When he told me he wanted to do this, I said … well, I just ... I had no idea it would turn into this,” she says in disbelief, the slightest bit of country twang in her highpitched voice. “It’s just unbelievable!”

The store is essentially one big room, with two long, see-through countertops separating the register area and the assembly station with the rest of the open space. Every surface is covered. Emergency beef jerky, rope, whistles, boot straps, face masks. The glass countertops under and around the register are filled with handguns. They range from delicate to menacing. The pink, flowery one has rounded edges — user friendly.

Jamie and his buddies put the building together on their own. He created a digital layout online and built everything the way he wanted. Mason and Molly, their children, who were 10 and 12 at the time, helped flatten the foundation and put in the drywall. Getting Molly to put in the work was a job in itself, and it wasn’t until recently that she started to warm up to the business.

“It took her a longer time to adjust than Mason,” Jamie says to Caren, his eyebrows raised, waiting for her to say it wasn’t just him who noticed Molly’s attitude. Without even looking at Jamie, she smiles and nods her head in exaggerated agreement. “She wanted our time, and we just couldn’t give it to her,” Jamie adds.

“With the shop only 20 feet from the house, I never really stop workin’ except usually on Sundays and Mondays.”

Molly likes the store now, although she still doesn’t get as involved as Mason does. She’s almost 16, and her life revolves around pushing herself in soccer practice, trying to get a job at the grocery store where all her friends work and hanging out with people after school. Molly has always had an independent spirit, which her mom lovingly attributes to a book she read when Molly was a baby.

“It was called ‘How to Raise a Confident Girl,’” Caren admits, laughing. “I think I did it too well because she’s a little shit.”

and is way more fun than the other cat that only comes out when it needs food. “Come here Lucy Liu,” Jamie says as he snuggles his face into the animal, and it settles into his arms with ease. He’s holding the kitten as he walks over to look at marks on the Arnolds’ wall.

Mason is scooting out of his chair to get some Swedish fish when Jamie pipes up, “Hey Mase, come over here — let’s see how much you’ve grown.”

It’s hard to believe there was a time when Mason was smaller than his parents. He moves behind the table and lines his back up tall and straight against the frame of a sliding door.

“Three and a half inches since November!” Jamie says while he marks the wall with a new dash and date.

“Holy cow,” Derek says to Jamie, who is pursing his lips, trying to hide a smile.

Derek, his wife Shera, Mason, Caren and Jamie sit around the kitchen table one night, picking at homemade mashed potatoes and grilled Italian sausage while filling one another in on town gossip. Jamie bends down to pick up the 6-month-old, black kitten that Molly brought home after Caren distinctly said no. It has six toes on each foot

It’s an hour after close. Jamie’s at the computer showing a guy something neat he found online the other day, and Derek is at the counter talking to an older gentleman and his nephew. Jamie and his customer, a regular — a buddy of his — are shootin’ the shit.

Derek, on the other hand, has taken it upon himself to

It’s summertime when Mason gets to try shooting a gun — he’s 6 years old.

There’s a gap in the railings around the big, red porch outside the Arnolds’ house. The wooden posts were taken out in order to shovel snow off during New York’s snowy winter months. But on sunny days, Mason would find himself dangling his legs over the edge, looking out over the Arnolds’ four acres of land.

Mason liked that little opening; it was the perfect place to spot chickadees, or “tweety birds” as Jamie calls them.

The boy sat on the porch, with a gun his dad gave him grasped tightly by tiny hands. Jamie watches from a window upstairs, making sure Mason uses the right form and safety techniques. Over, and over Mason would shoot, all day, all summer long.

Mason was an observant kid, who spent his free time watching his dad hunt and hit targets in their backyard.

“He knows how to respect a gun,” Jamie says of Mason’s practice as a little kid. “And when he did something wrong, I ran downstairs and told him what to do.

I trusted him because I showed him early on what would happen if he played with guns.”

Mason pulls the trigger on something other than his target. Jamie pulls out a plastic jug of water and goes outside to where his son is sitting. He tells Mason to take the gun and shoot it at the jug. When he does, he reminds Mason that that kind of power, the power to make something leak, bleed, break, isn’t something to mess around with.

“Everyone knows Mason can beat most competitive shooters around here, and I know more than anyone that the kid knows how to hit a target.”

GUNNING IT show off the true meaning of customer service, pulling out model after model of handguns for the two new guys to see. Derek is an officer of the Ithaca Police Department, and is lining up his retirement by taking up some hours at the shop. He and Jamie met through their daughters, but the men became friends in their own right. Derek describes himself as a “character, you know what I mean” and something of a ladies’ man. He’s a smooth-talker, and has a quick wit. Jamie and Derek’s banter is constant when he’s around — but there’s also an enormous amount of respect there. The words “Glock Team” on his baseball hat are covered by a pair of those sunglasses that all cops seem to have.

The older customer flashes a special license, and Derek pulls the magazine out of the first gun and hands it over to him to see how it feels. He aims at the wall, his nephew standing by, his eyes fixed on a different gun in the showcase.

“Listen, Jerry. We want you to be happy, alright?

Close your eyes for me, will you Jerry?”

Derek is talking as he turns around to the safe and locks in a Glock from earlier using a 5-digit code. When he turns back toward the front counter, he narrows in on Jerry’s eyes to make sure they’re really closed.

“Imagine you got one of these on you. Pull it up, pop a chuck, put it back in your pocket. How does it feel?”

Derek has both hands on the glass, leaning forward, exuding confidence and the air of the best blue-collar salesman on this side of the Mississippi.

“Oh, well you know I really like that 9mm — the Kel Tec,” Jerry mumbles, his scratchy, muffled voice giving away his old age.

“Yeah, I know you do, Jerry.” Derek’s intonation rising, he knows what Jerry wants. “Here’s what I’m saying: Go home, sleep on it, come back in whenever you want. If you keep thinking about the same one, it’s probably the right one for you. I’m tellin’ you.”

Before his eyes even open, Jerry’s shoulders fall slightly lower as he realizes he can relax. The self-driven pressure of buying a handgun too hastily fades away, and he starts nodding his head in agreement. His eyes slowly open, readjusting to the light.

Derek pushes off the counter as Jerry comes to, crossing his big arms over his chest, his underarmor shirt clinging to him. He reaches one hand up to rub his temple as he falls back onto his heels and leans against the table behind him.

“Listen, Jerry.” Derek says cooly. “We’ll work with you, we’ll find a price that works and we can find a payment plan that works over however long you want. We love what we do, and we love havin’ you stop by.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll come back,” Jerry responds as he shuffles across the glass for one last look at his favorite pieces.

“My time is your time, my friend.” Derek unfolds his arms and reaches out, grabbing Jerry’s attention. They exchange a sturdy handshake and friendly nods, and Jerry makes his way out the door.

On Mondays, Jamie locks the double glass doors and closes up shop. He and Caren want to have at least one day a week where they can be a family and try to have dinner together. Sitting at the Queen Diner in Dryden one Monday night, Jamie, Caren, Molly and Mason drink milkshakes and catch up.

“I can’t even go to Christmas parties anymore you know,” Jamie admits in between bites of biscuits and gravy. “I always say, ‘People don’t know what they don’t know.’ Gun safety always ends up coming up, and it’s just so tiring being on the defensive all the time.”

There’s a strong tone in Jamie’s voice, a confidence that others in the community recognize. He’s become the point of contact for the local radio station when they need someone to speak about new laws or regulations in the gun community.

When Jamie’s not holding a new gun, getting giddy about “blowin’ some shit up” at target practice, he’s extremely eloquent and well-spoken. “He’s getting pretty famous,” Caren says with a grin.

“Some people just don’t want to hear facts. People who shop at sports stores like Dick’s and L.L. Bean don’t know that part of the tax in those stores goes to environmental conservation, which includes running gun safety classes for hunters.”

“I have a fire extinguisher, but I’m not going to use an open fire in my house to cook my dinner. People drunk drive, but we don’t blame the car, do we? No, we blame the person who crashed it and killed someone else.”

Jamie carries his Glock when he’s working and is confident that most people who come through the entrance are packing too. But even surrounded by military-grade rifles, heavy handguns and big boxes of bullets, there’s an odd sense of safety within the walls of the shop.

“Honestly? I’m not worried about beating somebody with a gun,” Jamie says matter-of-factly. “If a time comes when I need to protect my family, I’ll be ready.”

Lit

spring 2015

NOT

HANDSOME, FANCY

WRITTEN BY Emily Hull PHOTOS BY Tommy Battistelli

A snow-covered driveway, with no sign of shovel or plow, sits near the intersection of Harford and Canaan Roads in Brooktondale, New York. A maroon Ford pickup is parked outside a cedar-sided, solar-paneled workshop. It’s quiet, as per usual. A large German shepherd mix dog bounds through the snow, bone in mouth, tail wagging ferociously as he goes. The faint outline of footprints that lie beside the truck lead to the frosted glass French door of Wolff & Nagel Furniture.

The room is bright; large windows border the west side of the shop. The reflection of the sun on the snow illuminates the room. Snow falls, moving eerily in the steady wind. It seems to be accumulating quickly; blanketing the tracks the dog has left surrounding the exterior.

The dog, Blue, frolics in the snow, now pushing a red rubber kickball with his nose. The snow beneath his feet kicks up, creating a brief cloudy tornado around him. Tall grass peaks out from beneath the heavy snow, begging for a bit of the light emitting from the sun.

The workshop’s structure is open, with only a couple of columns supporting the ceiling. It is long, with doors at either end. The walls are the color of butter, but aren’t very visible. Almost every open space is covered with shelving units or cabinets.

Pieces of wood of every length and thickness lean against the walls.

The ceiling is a maze of silver piping of various thicknesses. A low hum emits from the piping as Jim feeds a piece of maple through the planer. The tubing connects to plastic, ridged tubes fastened to a hole on the planer to catch the scraps. A roar interrupts the hum as Jim, in an orange flannelled shirt, Levi’s and work boots, pushes the wood through as it makes contact with the razor-sharp blade. A few fine curls of the ivory wood shavings fly free, catching in Jim’s salt-and-pepper hair. He adjusts the round, Harry Potter–type glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose and rubs his scruffy unshaven face. He moves his hand to rub the back of his head as he examines the piece as it finally comes through the opposite end of the machine.

The room smells strongly of wood. Not a particular type, but a mix of many. Every surface is covered with layers of dust. The dust varies. Some are golden flakes; others resemble a reddish confectioners’ sugar, while some are splintered, ideal for kindling.

The creak of a pullout stairway leading to an

12

HANDSOME, NOT FANCY attic interrupts the hum. The rattle of the makeshift staircase echoes as Jim brings a collection of items to the overhead storage.

The black shelves against the wall hold cardboard boxes of varying sizes. Cobwebs cover the corners, and a layer of fine dust settles on top of each box. They are labeled with a black Sharpie: “Lamp Parts,” “Tree Swing,” “Dog Bones” and “Edge Sander.”

Jim moves about the space methodically, organizing and cleaning some of the mess. A workbench full of pieces, parts and tools sits near the back. He wraps the cord of a palm sander that was sitting atop an old newspaper before wiping the excess glue from some plastic bottles originally intended for ketchup, not the cream-colored adhesive that fills them now.

He approaches a stereo system and switches on the radio.

Classical music plays in the background before fading to a voice: “This is Morning Edition from NPR News.”

He then begins to remove the dust from the floor. There’s a certain rhythm to his task, demonstrating he’s done this many times before.

Sweep the floor.

Shake out the broom.

Smack the dustpan against the bin.

Sweep.

Shake.

Smack.

The only time this place was dust-free was the day it was built in the late 1990s.

Jim pats his calloused hands together, removing any of the remaining dust, satisfied with the job now complete.

He now grabs a packaged band sawblade, breaking open the plastic to remove it. The blade springs dangerously as it uncoils itself, bouncing as it takes new shape. Fine pointed teeth mark one side while a straight edge borders the other.

Jim doesn’t even flinch, he’s confident in his ability to complete the chore safely.

With one hand, he opens the band saw’s front-facing panel with a snap; he removes the dulled, shine-less blade that sits there, disposing of it in a nearby garbage bin. In the other hand he holds the new blade, manipulating it into place. He closes the panel and pushes the power button to ensure it functions properly. The machine comes to life, the blade rotating cyclically just as it should.

Blue approaches the back door. Looking straight into the window, he begins to bark, moving his nose up in the air as the sound penetrates the window. Jim notices his canine’s plea, stops what he’s doing and lets the dog into his shop.

It’s the fall of 1988; Jim Nagel has just been named an artist-in-residence at the Genoa School, a woodworking academy that has opened in a small community just 25 minutes north of Ithaca. Jim has a bench-room in the newer wing of the building. There, he is free to work on projects of his choosing with fellow artists and students. It is also where

he houses Peanut, a 4-month-old runt black lab he had inherited from his parents after a weekend home.

Genoa was unconventional. It was owned by a couple of former morticians, who were “gay but never said they were gay.” They came into some money and decided to try their hand at woodworking. They found an old, abandoned high school in upstate New York and opened up the academy.

Elizabeth Wolff has enrolled as one of just five students in the inaugural class. The students are given permission to select a space to live in for their first year in the program.

She had only intended to register for the program; free housing was a bonus.

Liz, along with her fellow classmates, Todd and Laura, wander up the terrazzo stairway and walk the locker-lined former high school halls. Todd happens upon a large classroom with massive, paneled windows reaching all the way to the ceiling. Dusty wood floors anchor the space with only a few desks and bookshelves left behind. He has a vision; he would set this room up as his bachelor pad.

Laura, the only other enrolled female, finds a room similar to that of Todd’s. She and her Great Dane, Bindu, move in right away.

Although impressed by her classmates’ set-ups, Liz wants something more “cozy.” Wandering off on her own, she finds a teachers’ lounge.

“I’m going to put my bed in here,” she thinks to herself.

Complete with a half bath, the space is tiny. There isn’t much room for anything besides a bed and a small desk, all she would really need. Liz makes use of the lockers in the hall to store her things. She has found herself a home.

At night, long after classes have concluded for the day, Jim left for his apartment in Ithaca. Peanut remains in his bench-room because of his neighbors’ complaints about the dog’s behavior.

“I knew it wasn’t necessarily a solution,” Jim says. “But it was temporary.”

Liz and the residents of the Genoa School are left with

Lit

spring 2015

HANDSOME, NOT FANCY the unruly puppy. Liz takes a liking to Peanut and visits her in the evenings. Laura, Bindu, Liz and Peanut take long walks around town. Bindu, a well-trained older dog, sets a good example for the rambunctious puppy.

Peanut’s nickname soon becomes “Dribble” because of her inability to “hold it.” The building is huge, so it takes time to get to the door to let her out. Running down the hall, a faint trail of urine forms behind her. But Liz is still endeared by the pup.

One rainy morning, Liz and her classmates head to Corning for a field trip. The group is piled into a rented van, and Liz is stuck next to the window. As they drive through the gloomy Southern Tier, a thought comes to her.

“I want to adopt her, I want to adopt Peanut. I’ve got to do it. I just love this dog.”

Upon arriving home from the trip, Liz tracks Jim down.

She musters the courage to ask him, and to Liz’s pleasure he answers with a simple … “… Yes.” Jim is relieved on some level. He had been worrying about what to do with her for quite some time. He loved the dog, but knew he couldn’t provide the life Peanut so very longed for, and he liked Liz. He knew she would take care of her. And besides, Jim could still see Peanut each day.

Liz renamed Peanut, Sybil (rhymes with “Dribble”). The two would walk to Pete’s IGA Grocery in town, where the butcher there would save leftover bones for Peanut, now Sybil. The hallways of the school would be littered with the chewed remnants.

Liz would bounce rubber balls down the hallways as Sybil would bound down after them “almost cartoon-like.”

Sybil would bring Jim and Liz together. Not right away, but gradually. Jim would invite Liz over for dinner, where he would prepare some of his specialties.

“It was ‘Joy of Cooking!’” Jim says, justifying his frequent use of the popular Julia Child cookbook.

14

“You were known for your hamburgers, and you had a little toaster oven. And you were always making cacciatore,” Liz laughs.

“I was always up for a meal.”

From there the two started to “date.”

Jim and Liz are sitting in their apartment in Ludlowville.

The Genoa School has gone bankrupt. Jim is reading the Ithaca Journal, the classifieds to be exact.

“Victorian Estate, 10 acres, pond, $40,000.”

“That’s our kind of price,” Liz responds, intrigued.

It is the winter of 1994 when the couple visits the property.

“It was a wreck …” “… An absolute wreck.”

“No one had lived in it for a while.”

But that didn’t deter the prospective homeowners.

With the help of a friend, the two were able to finance the home. They had been renting bench-room space at Hunt Hill in addition to working for a former teacher from the school. In whatever free time they had, they were making their new home habitable.

“We would get back to our apartment at 11 at night, there would often be a party in the backyard,” Liz says.

“Jim would just lay down by the bonfire and fall asleep. He was exhausted from working so hard.”

The shop would come in 1997. Together the two would work to construct the building that would become home to their business, Wolff & Nagel Furniture. Two more renovations would follow bringing the shop to what it is today.

Jim grabs a piece of cherry. This will be a rail for a headboard. He secures the piece in a vise clamp and grabs a hand-planer from the shelf. He lines up the planer with the wood, and makes swift shifts over the top, fully extend-

HANDSOME, NOT FANCY ing his arms as he goes. Jim prefers the use of a hand-planer on a project such as this; perfecting a straightedge is just something no machine can do well.

He repeats this motion over and over until it has been made smooth. Small reddish brown curls litter the floor and with every motion he makes, his feet crush them flat beneath him.

He steps back and releases the vise’s grip, pulling the wood out. Checking for unevenness, he runs his calloused fingers over the edge. He sets this piece down, pleased, and looks over the pile before him.

“Hmm, let’s see.”

He picks out two pieces and bangs them together lightly to remove any dust before examining them closely.

“Blueeee. Blueeee.”

The name echoes in the valley as Jim calls nonchalantly for the dog to come to him. Jim knows the dog is smart, but lets him play his game anyway. This is a typical routine.

“Come on, Blue!” (pause) “Blueee!”

Birds chirp gleefully on this, the first of warm April days.

Jim walks from the front of the shop to the rear, muttering in frustration as he goes. A flash of blond, fluffy tail flies across one of the side windows.

Blue is now in the pond. He has made eye contact with his owner, understanding that he wants something, but that doesn’t seem to change his mind. He splashes along the edge of the muddied winter water with a large stick clenched between his teeth. Jim stands on the bank of the pond begging the mutt one more time.

“Come on, get in here!”

Blue finally runs inside, unaware that he had been holding Jim up. Satisfied that the dog is now safely put away, Jim grabs a box full of supplies, a tape measure and a pencil before climbing into his dusty old Ford.

Jim has a meeting just over the hill, the problem being that there’s no road just over the hill. He must take a roundabout way to travel less than a mile or two. He makes a brief stop at the Slaterville Springs Post Office to send an application for an upcoming art show in Rochester. He climbs back into the driver’s seat, pops the shifter into drive and continues on. An empty Pure Life iced tea bottle sits in the cup holder, a pair of tattered work gloves rest on the dash and an unopened package of brown shoelaces sits on the armrest.

He turns down another county road that leads to the jobsite he’s seeking.

All sounds of work stop abruptly at noon. The radio takes over in the absence, playing “Stairway to Heaven,” which can be heard from every nook and cranny of the jobsite. The men leave their tools at their posts to take their lunch break.

“Hey!” “Where you guys eatin’?”

“Oh, over on the side there.”

“I’m not gonna eat out here, that’s damn for sure. It’s

wayyy too cold.”

Through the bare-bones entry, the doorway opens up into a vast great room. Intricate hardwood arches intersect at the center, framing a cathedral-esque ceiling. Scaffolding is set precariously for workers to reach even the highest points, but it is not without danger. One man scales the side cautiously, placing his paint-stained work boots with tentative purpose as he goes.

This isn’t new construction; it’s an add-on, more than doubling the original space of the property. The owners are sparing no cost in making this place sustainable; geothermal heating and two enormous solar panels are visible just beyond view from the upstairs bathroom window.

“Hi, Zoe.” The homeowner stands in the entrance removing her coat.

She wears faded gray jeans, a sweater and a floral scarf. She adjusts her auburn hair as her Pandora bracelet charms collide making a little jingle.

“Hey, Jim, how are you?”

“I’m well. Did you have a good trip to England?” Jim responds.

“Oh yeah, a little bit too short, but you know …”

As the introduction fades, Jim struggles to unroll the cumbersome blueprint he’s brought with him. Jim has been contracted to create an elaborate storage cabinet feature for the foyer of the home. This will be the primary point of entry, and Zoe wants to heighten the functionality of the space.

“Careful, it’s really bright! Don’t blind yourself. It’s happened to me before, and it’s like whoa!”

Zoe warns Jim as he attempts to plug in and turn on a construction lamp that’s been set up haphazardly in the dark foyer. The light comes on, filling the space with the clinical glow of a hospital emergency room. Zoe begins the discussion.

“From the drawings I saw on the computer …”

“OK.” Jim makes direct eye contact with Zoe as she speaks, nodding his head in understanding.

“The only problem I’m seeing with it is on the interior …”

“Mhmm.”

He’s kneeling with his butt resting on his heels, his back arched over top of the plans before him.

“It doesn’t seem these closets are the right proportions.”

Zoe points with her polished finger to the drawing of two rectangular shapes before her.

“Alright.”

Jim takes his No. 2 pencil from behind his ear and uses it to trace what has already been drawn on the prints, pointing out the details that Zoe has come to appreciate.

“The wall looks nice. I like the wall.”

“Uh huh.”

“As you know, my husband had some extreme sticker shock after seeing the quotes from you.”

“Oh yeah.”

“You can just imagine what this place is costing us, twice

Lit

spring 2015

HANDSOME, NOT FANCY as much as we originally thought.”

“And it’s the end of the job.”

This is the part that Jim is familiar with; when all the little costs start to add up. It’s finishing work, but this is what his job is all about. The details.

“I hate to go all discount on you because I can see this is extremely beautiful work.”

Jim pauses, not upset by the request, but in thought about how he can simplify the design. He suggests removing the storage above the cabinets and using basic hardware instead of the custom that the homeowners had intended.

Zoe breaks the silence to share her vision for the space.

“You come in the door, you’re standing on a mat, you’re dripping with stuff. You open this door, you take your muddy boots off and there’s like slatted shelves right there to put them on. You take off your coat and there’s a drip tray below that you can take out and dump in the sink once it’s full. Then you close the door, and it’s like there’s nothing.”

Jim reassures her that what she wants will get done.

They discuss the way in which the door should open and the finishing of the white oak door Jim will be constructing.

“It can be simpler. It can be just an angle; there can be a little chamfering. We can try to relate it more to the architecture; communicate the language of the beams.”

Zoe settles on a descriptor of the space, and Jim agrees.

“Handsome, not fancy.”

“I fully expected to be here full-time,” Liz says honestly.

“I just took a civil service test and scored well, and I said to Jim ‘Health insurance, what do you think?’”

In 2001, Liz began work for the Department of Social Services. Since then, her presence in the shop has been restricted to nights and weekends. Now she works full-time with Cornell Cooperative Extension as a parenting educator, limiting her shop time even further.

“Depending on what’s going on, I’m less present with my current job than ever just because my job is getting bigger and bigger,” she notes.

Jim has taken the reigns for all of their contracted business. He is busy producing beds for Home Green Home, a sustainable home furnishings shop on The Commons, repurposing furniture for many of Cornell University’s fraternities and sororities and creating custom design work for clients throughout the greater Ithaca area.

“The problem with one big project is you lose your contact with others, and you can’t keep all your customers happy,” Jim says. “That’s what got us through the recession, being diverse.”

Liz says the challenge for her has become figuring out how she can reclaim her participation in the craft she loves.

Jim marks a line with a flimsy piece of contact board acting as a makeshift straightedge. He’s tapering a solid cherry leg for a bed.

He turns the bandsaw on. It runs without making contact for a few seconds as he gives the leg one more look up and down, placing it at eyelevel and closing one eye to get an upclose and personal view. He places the wood steadily onto the base of the saw as a high-pitched churning sound begins to resonate within the room. A fine dust shoots every which way as Jim continues to feed the piece into the blade.

His pressure is constant and focused until, finally, the excess wood breaks free of the leg and hits the floor with a clatter.

He moves to the jointer. He turns it on and runs the edge he has just cut through. He does this five times, the rhythmic sound on the clank of the wood against the base, the buzz of the machine as the wood passes through and the knock of the safety guard sliding into place as he lifts the piece up.

Clank.

Buzz.

Knock.

He examines the pieces again. He moves back to the band saw, which he uses to finely scrape and smooth the edge. Jim holds the piece studying it, making sure he hasn’t missed any unnecessary bumps.

He looks up, content with his work, walks over to a table and places the finished product on it. He grabs another leg and moves back to the band saw; he still has three more to go.

16

welcome WRITTEN BY Jodi Silberstein COURTESY ART BY IHS Y earbook Staff

to the

monkey house

Sam Heimbecker Twenty-six high school students stand in a circle. Noah places himself in the center and calls for a shake down. Doing their best to keep their voices low, the students shake each limb one at a time counting down 10 to one, then starting over from nine to one, eight to one, and so on. Next they do Energy – an exercise that has everyone repeating the word ‘energy’ increasing in volume each time. “Places,” says Jiji, assistant stage manager. “Is everyone in places?”

A few kids clutch their stomachs as if they can actually feel the flutter of butterflies. Lights dim to black over the audience, several cast members find their place on stage, April motions to Talia for a spotlight on Mitchel, and the show begins.

“It was Valentine’s Day last year, I called her up, I was like ‘Look, here’s the thing, I liked you, but I don’t like you anymore because you’re really bitchy, and I just need to get that out there because this is way too much.’ She’s like, ‘Oh,

I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I was bitchy to you, I didn’t mean to be bitchy to you.’ And then she was incredibly bitchy to me the next day.”

“OK, well here is, like, the epitome of a horrible person.

She victimizes herself like no other, making me seem like the bully —” “Well, you have been pretty mean to her …”

“OK, but not in public!”

Cali sits in the hallway with Noah, Christian and April, phones in hand, backs against the cold cinder block walls.

It’s day two of tech week, but that means little to these four who have been in the amateur theater game for years and fully trust that on opening night, it’ll all just come together.

“Honestly, I flip back and forth between hating the theater kid group because like I —” “Well, you also have another group of friends.”

“Yeah, but like I see it too, they’re all about like ‘I’m going to the best college, I’m going to the best musical theater

Lit

spring 2015

WELCOME TO THE MONKEY HOUSE program, I’m going to do the best, I’m going to get the best grades, take the most APs.’ They’re very competitive, and I don’t like it.”

“It’s all about competition all the time.”

“When it comes down to it, all these people by themselves are —” “They’re so sweet.”

“How many are there now?”

“Well, who’s in the group chat?”

“Yeah, check the group chat.”

The Core, a self-titled clique, consists of a talented group of boys and girls who push and shove for the lead roles in all the musicals. They claim to all be friends, but as the saying goes, keep your enemies closer.

Cali taps the Facebook app on her phone and pulls up the group chat. She lists off names, and Noah, who got kicked out of The Core a couple years ago, shares his blunt opinions, knowing quite well that Cali is still very much in The Core even though she also has another group of friends.

Cali is a senior at Ithaca High School. She doesn’t really remember her natural hair color and gives off a vibe of smug apathy common among big fish in small ponds. For years, Cali wanted to be Christina Aguilera, but now, she’d settle for anything outside of this town.

April checks the time on her phone. “We should probably go back in.”

April has a cheerful smile and long, blue-streaked braids running down her back. Like Noah, she too had once been in The Core. But when she decided to try her hand at stage-managing, The Core turned its back on her. She didn’t absolutely obsess over being in the spotlight, so really, they had nothing in common.

It’s opening night and the house is packed. Five weeks of rehearsal ends at this moment. All eyes lock onto Mitchel.

He stands up from the love seat placed downstage center where Hazel (Claire) sits with her legs curled under her.

Her face is blank and her eyes are focused on the imaginary television when suddenly a loud crash of thunder blares through the speakers. Mitchel grabs his ears and throws himself back down on the couch. This happens several more times, before finally — George: (meekly; with a wry smile) Gave me a whole series that time. Brought it on myself — I was starting to think again. I was thinking about my son, Harrison. My son is way above normal — in fact a genius. And I was thinking that instead of putting him in jail for being above average, they should allow him to — (He is stopped by a sudden loud burst of machine gun fire, the sounds of each shot battering his brain. Defeated again, he has difficulty collecting himself.)

This play is called “Welcome to the Monkey House.” It’s an adaptation of a short story collection by Kurt Vonnegut created in 1968 and is about a theater company who puts on different mini-plays. It is largely satirical and has the poten-

18

tial to be funny, but this is a school play in a school where everyone makes the team, even if they have no idea what satire is.

According to SparkNotes - a necessary tool in the art of just getting by - “one of Vonnegut’s most important short stories. Set in a dystopian America in 2081, it is often interpreted as a blistering critique of authoritarian governments.

In its blend of satire and science fiction, ‘Harrison Bergeron’ typifies Vonnegut’s work.”

Claire and Mitchel sit cozy on the small couch together watching ballerinas dance on the imaginary TV, when Claire turns to Mitchel and suggests he takes off his handicap bag, which prevents him from having thoughts against the government because he should be safe to do so in his own home.

George: If I tried to get away with it, then other people’d get away with it, and pretty soon we’d be right back in the dark ages again with everybody competing against everybody else. Pretty soon we’d be back to all that inequality.

George, whose brain power is only slightly above average, needs to wear the handicaps, whereas his son, the genius, had to be jailed for his intelligence. Hazel is average.

George: (giving her shoulders a little squeeze) Be glad you’re average.

Hazel: (pleased) You’re always complimenting.

Hazel is so not Core material.

It’s the Tuesday before tech week and the stage is finally up. Aside from the permanent rows of seating, the black box theater for a while had been, well, a black box. All is black — walls, floors, doors, chairs. Stages and sets are built as needed here.

Black box simply refers to a space for actors to practice and perform their craft. This could be an empty warehouse, an abandoned storefront or a small room in a high school’s performing arts department. They are typically used for experimental plays with minimal tech design. It’s where an actor becomes an Actor.

The proscenium theatre, on the other hand, is what most people think of when they think of theater. It’s where The Core can stand tall above the audience and perform their sparkling dance numbers.

Cali is the only Core member in the play. A few others had auditioned, but dropped out when the cast list went up and their names weren’t at the top. The lead was given to Noah.

“It’s not cool coming to rehearsal unprepared,” says Mrs. Tino, former actress, slash director, slash high school English teacher.

April attempts the more emphatic approach: “This is insane! We have a week before tech and nobody knows their lines!”

“This always happens,” says Noah under his breath, placing his head into his hands.

Today’s rehearsal called for full cast so everyone could

WELCOME TO THE MONKEY HOUSE reblock scenes with the set in place, but three kids showed up late: Sam, who definitely needed the rehearsal time; Adam, who has the word YOLO permanently tattooed on his shoulder; and Teddy, who had football practice. One didn’t show up at all. Mrs. Tino kicked her out by the end of the week.

It’s something no director, coach, teacher, mentor, likes to do. Mrs. Tino waited and waited and gave Albanique one chance after another to show up to rehearsal, but as a rule, after five unexcused absences, it’s goodbye.

April called Albanique countless times on her cellphone.

No answer. Mrs. Tino called the home phone. Voicemail full. So in the middle of the school day, Mrs. Tino pulled Albanique out of her math class.

Albanique stepped out into the hall, but by this point, the rumor mill had clued her in as to what this impromptu meeting was all about. “I’m going to be replaced. I know. I understand. It’s OK. I understand.”

But there was a lot Mrs. Tino didn’t understand. She drove Albanique home once, an illegal move for a teacher, but she felt better knowing that this young girl got home safe. It’s just Albanique and her mom living in that small apartment in the rundown part of town. And with Mom always working, Albanique’s on her own.

“You’re welcome to — please — come back, when you can. I think you’re really fantastic.” And Mrs. Tino was genuine about that, too. Albanique had a presence on stage all her own. Mrs. Tino left the conversation at that and walked back to her office making a mental note to contact Albanique’s counselor.

Noah also lives with just his mom. He hasn’t seen or heard from his dad in years even though the man lives just an hour north in Syracuse. Noah suffers from sleep apnea, insomnia, and just about everything else that comes with being 17. He has poor grades, a dwindling social life and some girl from Connecticut. But there are no signs of this boy on stage.

Underneath the hot fluorescent lights, Noah becomes Newt — a man of cool confidence, a man always one step ahead of the rest. As theater company director, Newt mostly addresses the audience as opposed to the other players on stage. He explains to them his plans for each mini-play and gives them more insight into each character’s motive and backstory.

The second short play after “Harrison Burgeron” is “Miss Julie,” a short piece written by August Strindberg in 1888. This play however is not performed for the audience.

They see the auditioning process but then Newt talks them through the rest. The two leads in this mini-play are Cali and Christian.

Newt: And when we cast them we found the most exciting part of our show was taking place off stage, backstage in the wings, and during rehearsal. I wouldn’t want you to miss that. Strindberg’s bitter battle between the sexes

became the background for something else entirely. We discovered we had a drama developing within our production.

Telegraphing is a term used in theater that means letting the audience know a mistake has been made. It’s frowned upon in the theater world, but luckily when Crystal and Ana missed lines and mixed up cues, they were able to play it off.

But when they went backstage, nervous and blushing, Sam was waiting with a smirk on his face. He playfully addressed Crystal in third person and sneered, “She’s especially nervous because her boyfriend’s here.”

Perhaps this comment was to distract everyone else from the fact that not even 10 minutes prior, Sam had his own blunder in front of the audience. It was a wardrobe malfunction and couldn’t be played off so smoothly.

He stormed off stage, cheeks burning, eyes wide, searching for a face to blame. The costume designer? Was somebody touching the props who shouldn’t have been?

It was still Act I, and maybe exhaustion was the only thing to blame.

Act I, nearly twice the length of Act II, ends with a miniplay called, “The Euphio Question.”

Nancy: Meaning “euphoria”?

Newt: The obvious meaning.

Susanna: Is there a less obvious?

Newt: If you want relevance, let’s say “euphemism.”

Nancy: Euphemism for what?

Susanna: Relevant to what?

Newt: Let’s do the show.

Noah runs offstage and into the center aisle dividing the rows of seating. This wasn’t a stage direction, but a decision he made based on how he saw his character in this moment.

It’s what separates the ones who do this for the love of it and those who do it as an after-school activity.

Mrs. Tino favors the more talented kids and when rehearsals ran smooth because of it, Mrs. Tino would say in a not-so-subtle sing-songy voice, “Because that’s what happens when you work with experienced actors, and they can make decisions.”

From that position, standing in the middle of the audience, Newt directs his theater company to set up the stage for “The Euphio Question.” Three chairs downstage center.

Small couch kitty-cornered stage left, side table next to it.

Coffee table stage right.

Newt: Off — everyone offstage.

Noah runs back down from his spot among the audience and runs around to the control booth raised up just behind the last row of seats. His heavy feet sprint the five steps and from there, though the audience can’t see him, he extends his arms out, admires his handy work and says, “The Euphio Question.”

The lights dim real low, and Adam takes his place on stage, alone. Adam’s the one with the YOLO tattoo, the one who ordered Chinese food in the middle of rehearsal one night. He’s very nervous about this monologue, but the

Lit

spring 2015

WELCOME TO THE MONKEY HOUSE audience can’t tell. At a young age, Adam mastered the Act II is a half-hour long mini-play called “The Kid art of masking weaker emotions in front of watching eyes. Nobody Could Handle.” It’s the music teacher, George, who April cues for a spotlight, and Adam becomes Arthur. shows the kid the power and beauty of music and turns the Arthur: Ladies and Gentlemen of the Federal kid’s angsty, rebellious behavior around.

Communications Commission. I appreciate the opportunity George: Just — love yourself — and make your instruto testify on the subject ment sing about it. before us …

A-one a-two a-three …

Adam flows through Twenty-six high the monologue flawschool students crowd lessly. His diction is the small makeshift clear, and his character is stage. The audience, believable and by the a mix of supportive middle of it, the audience friends and family, clap has some idea of what their hands together, this whole thing is about. their faces beaming Arthur: Lew, Fred and with pride. Noah steps I found peace of mind by up and takes a bow by turning on a gadget the himself. He clasps his size of a table radio. No hands together, his herbs, no golden rule, eyes gleam with satno sticking our noses in isfaction and a hint of other people’s troubles arrogance. to forget our own, or contemplation of a lotus.

At home, Noah is The gadget is an electronthe man of the house. ic something-or-other, He walks with his back easily mass-produced, straight and shakes his that can — at the flick head at stupid jokes, of a switch — provide but Saturday night, afOwen Hartman, Adam Thompson, Ana Maria Arroyo and Maddi Carroll ter the second showing instant tranquility.

The mini-play verges of the play, Noah heads on absurd when one straight to Purity Ice of the characters turns Cream with fellow cast on the “euphiophone” members Owen and and they all spend two James. days in a state of hyperThe boys walk up euphoria, so high they to the counter all grins wreck the house without and giggles. Noah a care and forget about throws his arms around consuming food and wathe boys’ shoulders and ter. When the apparent orders The Expedition. storm outside shuts off This 8-scoop ice cream the power, the euphiosundae topped with phone shuts off too, and any candies and sauces the high becomes a low of your choice is meant equally as low as the high was high. to be shared among eight people, but these three boys are And on the first night of tech week, after four prior going for it alone. They did it last year after the play, which weeks of rehearsal, Maddie finally asked Mrs. Tino, “What makes it a tradition now. does that mean?”

On top of the eight eclectic scoops of ice cream is hot “Euphoria means extreme happiness.” She smiled to her- fudge, caramel, strawberries, M&Ms, Oreos, Butterfingers self and with a dismissal wave of her hand and said, “Your and Gummy Bears. The boys each grab a spoon and a small parents will know that.” cup of water. Other cast members are waiting for them outside on the picnic tables. Noah, Owen and James pick a table George: Think of it this way. Our aim is to make the for themselves. The kids crowd around, each picking a difworld more beautiful than it was when we came into it. ferent social media app to document this expedition.

(With conviction) It can be done. You can do it.

“The key is the Gummy Bears.” Noah nods at his accomJim: (Bursting out of him) How? plices and digs in.

is the

Gummy

Bears – Noah

20

“

“ The key

no headliner

Tom paces under the stage light with an air of fear. His posture tense, his eyes searching. His left arm is set stiffly in his pocket, his right arm juts out unnaturally, holding the microphone, like he doesn’t remember how he’s supposed to position his limbs.

Words are tumbling out of his mouth. “The worst thing you want in the world is people who give a fuck about you, you know?” He pauses. “The last thing you want,” he corrects himself, “the last thing you want is people, uh, is people who are gonna be ...”

He trails off.

“Now …”

Silence.

Eleven seconds of silence.

Eleven seconds that feel like an hour.

Not even two minutes into his set and he loses all momentum. He’s the only one that night who didn’t bring notes on stage.

With pleading eyes, Tom searches through his mind for something, anything to say. He brings his voice back awkwardly, fumbling through a childhood memory about

WRITTEN BY Kellen Beck PHOTOS BY Amanda Den Hartog

being made fun of for his last name, Hand.

A heckle shoots out from one of the drunker attendees in the back of the dark room.

“Give me some hand!” he slurs with enthusiasm, laughing at his wit.

“Yeah, that’s right, that’s right, I haven’t heard that one before,” Tom shoots back timidly. “Why don’t you come up here and—” Cut off by an uproar from the heckler and others, as if a fight is about to break out in the dark club.

“He’s on next!” shouts someone else.

A group in the back starts another round of pool, the sharp percussion of cues on balls, balls clacking against one another.

Tom regains his footing after a few seconds of clatter and continues rambling through stories with no real direction or punchlines, dotted by a few scattered heckles and occasional laughs.

He cuts off a story that’s going nowhere, waving his white flag.

“Well that’s about my time,” he says with no enthusiasm

Lit

spring 2015

NO HEADLINER and a look of defeat, “‘Cause, uh, well that’s as close as I’ve come without bombing, so thank you very much.”

Applause and cheers shimmer around the room. Regardless of success, regardless of quality, regardless of laughs, heckles or silence, everyone at the Ithaca Stand-Up Comedy Open Mic claps.

One-handedly, Tom attempts to finagle the mic into its stand to no avail, until the host Ruben saves him the trouble, gliding to the stage area with a Pabst Blue Ribbon draft and small spiral notebook in hand.

“Keep it going for Tom H. everybody!” he says into the mic, putting down his notebook.

He brings up his left hand and starts speaking: “You know, um,” quickly realizing his hand is occupied by a beer and not a microphone.

He rolls with it, bringing the crowd around and earning some honest laughs.

“You know guys, comedy is more of an art than a science.”

A group of comedy stage regulars mingle by the bar, waiting for Ruben to arrive, while the gray-haired members of the band that just finished playing pack up their drums and guitars.

Ruben Arce, the short-haired and always-animated producer, has kept the Ithaca stand-up comedy scene alive for almost three years. He hosts shows every second and fourth Wednesday of the month on the second floor of the club Lot 10.

There isn’t a bad seat in the house because the house is about the same size as a standard public school classroom, although the chairs are a little more comfortable and the people doing the speaking are more obvious about their drinking habits.

As Ruben arrives, moving up the ramp to the bar area, he talks amiably with fellow comic Eric Turner, who

22

helped establish the Ithaca Stand-Up Comedy Open Mic back when it started at the Pixel Lounge in 2012, just a 20-minute walk away.

On a white piece of paper, Ruben scrawls out the numbers one through 15, leaving it on the bar with his pen. With drinks in hand, comics gather, to one by one, write their names next to the numbers — the order for the night.

On the other end of the short, glossy bartop, a tattooed man sits in a leather jacket, his back turned to the group. Bridging his shoulders in sewed-on red lettering: “Ithacunts.” He and his two bar buddies move to the back of the stage area and pick up pool cues.

The occasional crack of pool balls emanates from the bright corner adjacent to the stage. Three greenshaded lights hover above the impossibly green felt. Underneath is faux-wood paneling, its angularity and smudgy titanium moulding is reminiscent of the early ’90s.

The rest of the lights dim, creating a fight for attention between the pool table and the slightly raised stage. Framing the microphone stand, the number 10 is outlined in fat, white strokes on the two walls forming the corner. A Pacman/Galaga arcade cabinet in the corner opposite the stage blinks timidly with life, a brilliant array of yellows, blues and pinks from the ’80s left brooding in the dark shadows by the non-insulated windows.

The comics walk down to the seats in front, setting down drinks, notebooks, phones and pens on the small metallic tables. One has a small spiral notebook and a Long Island iced tea in a short, octagonal glass.

At the same table, Eric takes a drink from his Cascazilla

NO HEADLINER

Ruben Arce draft, brewed locally. He sets it down next to his large, blue notebook, stuffed with pages of material. To his disappointment, he’s up first tonight.

As the crowd begins to gather at the tables and along the back walls, Ruben steps up to the microphone in a plaid button-down, the stage lights glinting off his thickbut-small hoop earrings.

“Just checking to make sure the sound is good. Can you guys hear me OK?” The comics up front nod.

“Is the back OK? Ogusto, can you hear me back there?”

Ogusto, sitting on a couch against the windows, says yes.

“Great. We’re probably gonna start in about 10 minutes.”

Ruben steps out of the light and arranges himself and

several loose pieces of paper at one of the tables up front.

In 2012, Ruben did stand-up in New York City for the first time, just six months after he began producing the Ithaca Stand-Up Comedy Open Mic. He visited his sister in the Bronx, bunking down in her basement with her husband’s collection of nerdy knick knacks, “Dungeons & Dragons” books and high-end computer.

He performed at two open mics, the first at the New York Comedy Club, the next at the 99 Club. They were abysmal showings, with almost nobody but other comedians in the audience. His jokes went over well though.

Later that night on his brother-in-law’s computer, he was looking up different open mics to go to on BadSlava.com, the Craigslist of comedy. He received an email from Clayton Fletcher, director of new talent at the New York Comedy Club.

His friend and fellow comedian, Anna Phillips, managed to get him booked at a non-open mic comedy show on Saturday, just two days away. When Ruben received the email, he was overcome with weepy excitement.

Booked for a show in the Mecca of stand-up comedy.

He started inviting all eight friends and acquaintances he knew in New York City. But, in his teary-eyed joy, he missed a large section of the email, describing what he would come to learn was a bringer.

You will be asked to invite friends and family to see your performance.

Not an unreasonable request. But it continued.

You must have people in the audience in order to get onstage. If you have three people, you will receive 6–7 minutes of stage time. If you have more than that you will also be paid $5 for each person. If you have more than nine people in the crowd, you will receive a guaranteed ten-minute time slot as well as a free video of your performance.

To get 4 minutes on the mic, performers have to insure the club gets $30 plus the cost of four mandatory drinks. A bringer. Pay-to-play.

When Saturday night came around he took the subway down to the New York Comedy Club, situated on East 24th Street. It was four days after Christmas and snowing on and off. He joined Anna at an Irish pub around the corner. He ordered a double whiskey sour.

She ordered a bucket of miniature Bud Light Limes.

When they made their way to the bar area of the comedy club, Ruben nursed two more whiskey sours, his heart racing.

As people came through the glass door paying their $15 admittance, guys with clipboards asked them who they were there to see to make sure nobody snuck into the lineup without getting some money into the coffers.

Lit

spring 2015

NO HEADLINER Lucky for Ruben, Anna asked the clipboards to give him two of her attendees, which afforded him 4 minutes of stage time.

We ask that you prepare and memorize your set ahead of time. This is not an open mic, so notebooks, cue cards etc. are not appropriate for this show.

At other comedy shows in the city, the crowds are full of jaded comedians who just want to do their set and leave.

The same rules don’t apply in Ithaca.

On a night with a particularly long lineup, Geno Vicario signs up last on Ruben’s paper. For over a year he has been writing down funny things he thinks of, coming up with jokes and writing material. Comedy is something he has wanted to do since he was a teenager, and tonight he wants to scratch it off his bucket list.

As the night draws on past Tom and some regulars, and a couple strong drinks down the hatch, his mind gets a little slow.

I’m not gonna remember anything.

The longer the night goes, he loses more and more confidence in his material. Over a dozen comedians perform before it’s his turn. He can’t do it tonight. He leaves.

A few weeks later, Ruben announces a theme night on Facebook, the second theme night ever for the open mic.

Introvert vs. Extrovert, with comedians taking sides on “which personality type is supreme.”

As soon as Geno sees the theme, he knows he has to do it.

I have a lot of stuff for this.

After a week and a half he goes back to Lot 10 and orders a Jim Beam and Coke, tall. Not enough to get drunk, but enough to loosen up.

Sometimes, especially as the nights drag on, the crowd can be brutally unresponsive. Bits that landed just a few weeks ago are met with sparse chuckles. But tonight, the crowd is easy. Ruben, wearing an olive-green Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt, warms them up.

“Introverts aren’t born differently, they just never developed certain social skills. They’re not fully realized people,” Ruben says for a few chuckles. “If you’re an introvert, you’ve already decided, ‘Yeah, I’ve seen how most of the world operates, and I’m not into that.

Unless it’s a gathering made up exclusively of my favorite people, I’m just gonna stay in tonight.’”

“And it’s not like I don’t get that! I’ve had that exact same thought,” he pauses, “when I’ve been incredibly depressed.”

The laughter isn’t great but he knows how to turn it around. He describes an extrovert’s perfect date: going out to a bar, meeting a new person, having irresponsible sex. He gets one “woo!” from the drunk heckler.

“Introvert’s ideal first date: uhhhh, the other person cancels and you stay home and read a book.”

He wins the crowd and the laughter picks up.

24

Geno’s main fear is getting up there and choking, forgetting everything. He’s been on stage before in his old band. But performing music with a group and being alone with a microphone, trying to make people laugh, are two very different things. He’s nervous, but not shaky.

Geno sits through the first two performers, and Ruben comes back to grab the mic, riffing on some of the material he just heard — A Ruben staple.

He brings up the energy in his voice. “Up next is a guy that I’ve only really known via Facebook, which usually only happens with girls I’m trying to have sex with, but in this case it’s just a guy who really wanted to come out and do comedy.”

He looks for Geno in the audience. “There he is! He’s coming out for the first time and is participating in the debate format, so let’s give a really warm welcome to Geno everybody!”

Cheers and applause emanate from the crowd as Geno moves up to the stage with his glass half full, a hoodie on over a button down. The two shake hands and Ruben skips off.

“Thank you!” Geno starts. “So, until Ruben clarified this earlier —” he sets his drink down on the ground, “— introvert/extrovert was the topic of the night, and I was prepared to talk about innies and outties, but uh, so I had a really killer 5 minutes on belly buttons so I had to chop these down on notecards, so bear with me.”

Not many laughs, but openers are tough. He looks over his notecards. He’s not concerned about the laughs, he’s concerned about looking confident. His posture is relaxed, his voice strong.

“You know that feeling when you’re just not in the mood to talk to somebody sometimes? That’s the way I am every single day.”

Geno says the worst thing in the world is to be out somewhere when you run into someone you know.

The laughter starts picking up. He has a good pace and an excitable demeanor.

With faux happiness, he mimics seeing someone: “‘Hey! What’s up? How you doin’?’” “‘Hey, what’s up, how you doing’ is kind of a placefiller, until you figure out how the hell you’re gonna get out of this situation.”

The laughs get harder and he gets a few claps.

“I’m gonna start doing — when I run into someone I know — I’m just gonna say ‘OK then! I saw ya! Have a good one!’”

He hits his stride, getting his loudest laughter. He jokes about his Chinese barber not being able to speak English very well, and moves into a bit about introvertenabling technology.

“It’s all put us in better communication with each other, that’s the beautiful thing, but it’s really worked wonders for helping us avoid each other,” he sets it up, with a slight pause.

NO HEADLINER

Alex Ogle “I don’t think I’ve answered the phone in three years,” he says to laughs. “When the phone rings, I think, ‘This person is either a lunatic or there’s an emergency.’ Either way I’m not gonna answer that.”

He gets a small applause break. He feels good. The crowd is welcoming and his jokes are working. When he finishes and steps off, he continues to feel good. He’s shocked that he feels this way. He prepared himself for disaster, and it didn’t happen. He’s ready to go back up there and do it again.

For the most part, Geno’s material is clean, but there is no list of offlimits material in Ithaca, unlike some New York City shows, and the only thing needed to get up on mic is a vast supply of courage — typically aided by the liquid variety — and the ability to write your name on the signup sheet.

In Ithaca, Molly McDowell can lead off a set with “Welcome to the trigger-warning comedy show,” standing timidly, stone-faced under the light, her right hand in her pocket, “I’m your entertainment,” eyes fixed downward, “and possibly the topic of discussion at your next therapy session.”

A waiting silence. She shifts. Her short, brown hair gleams from the lights.

“

“And if you don’t laugh, you’ll be the topic of discussion at mine.” She grabs a few scattered laughs.

“So my rapist, um,” she’s cut by more laughs. “That’s not a punchline, guys,” her steely expression lets a smile slip briefly by, and her eyes move upward.

She says her rapist played hockey at Cornell about a decade ago.

“He was the guy, who on the power play, they would put in front of the net to knock in the rebounds from other players,” she moves her weight from one leg to the other, “because he’s really good at forcing things into places people don’t want them to go.”

Laughter fills the room.

“Now, I also have to be honest,” Molly continues. “I didn’t tell the whole truth to the police when I went to them and told them what – Molly happened, um, because I told them that the reason that I didn’t actually want to have consensual sex with him was because he’s married.

But the whole truth is that it’s also because he physically disgusts me.”

A few loud laughs and soft chuckles from the crowd.

“Because he’s gained a whole lot of weight since college. And you know that you’ve been reading too many, um, too many, uh, body-positive feminist blogs when you’re afraid of fat-shaming your rapist.”

Welcome to the trigger-warning comedy show, I’m your entertainment and possibly the topic of discussion at your next therapy session.

“

Lit

spring 2015

Lit

spring 2015