LETTERS + STROKES
ROOM EIGHTEEN
MILAN AUBREY - MARCUS BROWN - ELLIE COHEN BRIDGET DEASE - MAX FRESHOUR - LAURA FUNDERBURK \] LAYLA SHARAF - HELEN STEINECKE
LAURA FUNDERBURK
SEAT FIVE: MON / TUE Monday: Luane: 6.45 pm : Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination: Silver Spring Luane was exhausted and wished she didn't have to rise so early. Or rather, she wished she didn’t have to wake up so early in order to leave the house. She would snuggled if she had to. Snuggle for a living. She giggled at the thought. Everything on the other side of the bus window was a blur and her day would be without order until she soaked up at least one cup of coffee. She thought about the night before, and when exactly she went to sleep. She had a tendency to fall asleep wherever. At the kitchen table, on the sofa, even on the stairs. It was all in a bid to avoid routine. Routine, she feared, was the lifestyle of the spinster. She leaned her head on the window and a grease stain emerged. She grunted as she felt it, and moved her head away. She thought about traditional job listings. How they were becoming a thing of the past. She questioned if those that put the job listings together were losing their jobs. Give her an out and she would take it, she thought. A severance. Another choice available. In the meantime the early mornings, the five hour energy drinks and the greasy hair were hers. Now If only she could find Tuesday: Adam: 7:30 am: Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination: Silver Spring his keys. He had left his keys in the house again. Near the door this time. So close that they could be seen through the letter flap. He picked up his phone, moving aside the blue tie with the white boats away from his lap so that he could see into his bag. He searched inside, brushing the guy beside him on occasion and following up with an apology. Yes, he had definitely left them behind again. The number of times this had happened was embarrassing. He frowned, rubbed his tie with his fingertips, and looked at the stupid boats. He thought that a grown man shouldn't be wearing a tie like this at his age. It seemed like
2
ROOM EIGHTEEN - ISSUE II
CONTENTS LAURA FUNDERBURK -2 LAYLA SHARAF - 4 BRIDGET DEASE - 6 LAURA FUNDERBURK -10 HELEN STEINECKE - 11 MAX FRESHOUR -19 LAURA FUNDERBURK - 22 MARCUS BROWN - 23 MILAN AUBREY - 24 ELLIE COHEN - 26 COVER ART: AURIELLE CATRON
“Bore: one who has the power of speech but not the capacity for conversation.” -BENJAMIN DISRAELI
3
LAYLA SHARAF
PARENTING There are no virgins in the first or second row. However, there is one in the third. She is sitting behind me, and I’ve known her for three days. Riley is far too open for her own good, and I don’t particularly like it either. There is something obnoxious about someone who verbalizes things that should remain thoughts and memories. In the middle of a discussion about a typical Friday night she would put her two cents in by whispering, “Did you use condoms?” These barely audible and irrelevant comments were the foundation of my deep hatred for her. However, I had a much larger reason to dislike her, and this was because my closest friend, René, had taken a liking to her. I could never grasp why she would even look at Riley. For one, René lost her virginity before most guys knew what periods were; while Riley had to whisper the word condom. With René jealousy was inevitable. Self-conscious preteens used names like slut to describe her; a smile would be stamped on her face anytime she got that one. Her mother and grandmother were most likely aware of her promiscuity, but chose to ignore it throughout her time at middle school. The other moms took it upon themselves to obsess over her influence on their children. Even my elusive mother condemned me for our friendship. My training bras were overshadowed by her cupped ones, my brown eyes eclipsed by her new eyeliner. But all the additional attention didn’t make me jealous, I just began to idolize her. In stark contrast, Riley was the girl with an upturned nose that provided a constant annoyance for the next four years, each subsequent year proving more irritating. Riley moved in with us our second year. I began dreading my sophomore year in college the day she brought her possessions into our two-bedroom apartment. René and Riley shared a room, I preferred the single-bedroom anyway. Before Riley, René and I did whatever we wanted. Every day of the week was filled with bottles, bongs, and boys. There was an unattractive paranoia that came with Riley, and unfortunately René succumbed to her fears. One day René pulled me aside and told me I needed to lay off all of my “sinning”. I had the strongest urge to slap her. My aggression was only towards René; I never liked Riley anyway. My apartment was transformed into their sanctuary for the prim and proper, only suitable for parental visits. It was a tsunami that came into my life. It broke through the barricades, then a constant plummeting wave, destroying everything, getting everything wet, and dripping with the disgusting scent of a trespasser. René was the one who opened the door to the safe house letting the murky water pour in, killing what was. I didn’t hide the fact that I couldn’t swim and hated water.
4
5
I don’t think I said much to Riley for the first two months of her invasion but then her and René stopped being their usual giggly selves. I figured they had a little fight over a boy or something. Riley was never in the apartment anymore. René, on the other hand, never left the apartment. It was an extremely awkward combination which I tried to avoid by staying in my room. It worked until Riley started coming into my room and asking questions. I assumed she was bored but it became irritably frequent. I entertained her until it just got annoying, then I just kept telling her I was getting dressed. She was amazingly persistent, and her nature overpowered my resistance. She started inviting me to places I was already going. I didn’t mind the company. At that point I had no idea where René was; whether or not she even left the apartment, I wouldn’t know. Oddly enough though, this was the first time since the start of sophomore year that it felt like the usual Friday nights with René, but they were with Riley. Her church girl façade was more like the Catholic schoolgirls I grew up with; drunk sluts with drunk tattoos. Before I knew it Riley was sitting naked in a room with six frat boys. René was standing in line for some movie trilogy, alone. I was sitting next to Riley.
BRIDGET DEASE
THIS GIRL’S LIFE 1. There is a girl who at the age of five receives the biggest shock of her life. She is in recess, in both spirit and in school. Free of mind and of the classroom, while inside teachers rearrange both their rooms and their heads; they are oblivious to the real countenance of students, and the faces they share amongst each other. A boy approaches the girl. She does not know his name, he rarely ever shows up for school. He sits beside her on the bench and looks at her and then at her shoes, before standing up as if to leave. He asks her why she is so slow and when she does not respond, he rolls his eyes. And he runs towards the other kids, as if his aim was to rub the trail of his youthful energy in her face as a tire may kick up dirt behind as a car accelerates. She would be asked this very same question a number of times at school and will never know how to answer. She will never let up that the question almost always reduces her to tears. The girl begins to realize the differences between her and the other kids, and how those differences inform who she is, or rather the lack of what she is supposed to be. A child and what a child means; someone full of energy, full of joy and curiosity. She cannot articulate these feelings, but from when she was three, she seemed to have a good understanding of the world, and her place in it; a skill that others her age did not acquire. She has paid for this talent with her limbs. She is cumbersome, she has never been as active as the kids that she attended school with; a game of tag leaves her heart verging on the edge of a cardiac arrest. Most times, she sits down next to the teachers at recess and avoids activity. Fun is something she has to work at, to work at insuring that games of tag do not shudder to a halt whenever she is doing the chasing; as they almost always invariably did. She can hardly keep up and in the eyes of the other children she is condemned. She reads their messages clearly. She is lazy. She is disappointing.
6
2. It is her fifth birthday, the only party she ever recalls having. After cake, ice cream and the opening of presents, her friends want to play in the backyard. She insists that they go up to her room instead. Today, of all days, she does not feel like running, but doesn’t speak of the terrible pain she woke up to that morning. She relents to going outside, not wanting to seem as if she was ruining the fun. It takes but a few minutes before she is hit with extreme fatigue. The feeling of a ton of bricks being thrashed against her legs...
...There is a chair by the back door of her house and as she approaches it, she collapses. The terror in her scream scares her friends. They run to her, stand over her and panic in their places. Her mother emerges hurriedly from the kitchen and picks her up. The party is over. Half-an-hour later all of her friends have been picked up by their respective parents. Her mother having explained to each of them why she summoned them early; though their children might tell a different story in the car home. The parents nod sympathetically and one or two place a hand on her mother’s shoulder as if she was in need of additional support. She does not know what to think about that. She brings her knees to her chest; pain stricken, she puts her mouth to her left knee, the one that causes so much trouble, as though she could bite the pain off of it. 3. After taking her weight, height and blood pressure, Dr. Fisher calls her mother into another room. At this stage she does not mind these private conversations with Dr. Fisher. For a while she has had her suspicions that she is sick, but does not know how sick. While she waits, she plays with the stethoscope above the “Hazardous” bin even though she had been told not to. She pretends she is the doctor. Physician heal thyself. Her mother and Dr. Fisher return. It is in this moment that she learns of her disability. She has arthritis. The word keeps buzzing around in her head for the longest time. She asks her mom plenty of questions. For a while she believes that she will end up dying from arthritis. When she tells her mother this, her mother laughs and explains that it is a bone disease that is causing damage to her joints. She understands why she has lived in so much pain for so long now.
6. Seventh and Eighth grade seems to fly by. The children are required to wear the school’s white and blue uniform so it makes the girl feel a bit better about her scars. She can wear long sleeves and pants as much as she pleases without being asked any embarrassing questions. There were most days where the girl would limp down the hallways. Passersbys would ask her what was wrong. She’d tell them that it was nothing. She was not going to use the brown wooden cane for anything, except maybe to kill hard-to-reach insects. She despises her cane. The arthritis shows her no mercy, as if the pain is not enough it uses instruments, like the cane, to add further humiliation. She does not want the cane to be a symbol of all the things she can’t do. It was one thing to use it in elementary school, where ignorant kids didn’t know any better than to tease and mock. But middle school is a new kind of game for her. The girl refuses to be ridiculed and humiliated by kids that just won’t understand.
7. There is a young woman who realizes that she is no longer a disappointment to anyone. Not to her peers, or to her family. She is more confident in her appearance and wears clothing that flaunts the healing scars. She is full of energy and joy and actually doesn’t mind walking long distances. The young woman knows that she is not useless. She is cherished. She is cheerful. She is able.
9
LAURA FUNDERBURK
SEAT FIVE: WEDS / THURS Wednesday: Jamie: 1pm: Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination: Silver spring the bus was emptying out as it limped forward, shuffling mere yards every ten minutes or so. Jamie’s anxiety increased as the time slid by. The traffic was congested, glued together as it often was during the rush hour. There had been an accident up the street, car horns sounded incessantly and blood boiled beyond reason. She wrinkled her nose, it tinged as the stench from the guy beside her waifed towards us. She turned her face towards the window, resisting the urge to be blatantly rude and turn her whole body in disgust. She looked out the window and pretended as though she did not notice the Hispanic guy leering at her. It didn't make sense to her why they eyed her like that...she oftentimes wore baggy clothes and barely had any makeup on, she wasn't wearing anything
Thursday: Frank: 11pm: Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination Silver Spring. special. She was special to him. For all the wrong reasons. He wanted her more and more as the days went on. He had her in his mind, pinned down to a bed with him on top of her, showing her the man he could be. He had her dancing with him. He had her on his text messages, constantly blowing up his phone with god knows what. He had her as a wife, substituting his own. He craved her as he would an addiction, knowing she was unattainable, but even more than this, that she was dangerous. She was a darkness that he had longed for, a smear on his soul, and he hated
10
HELEN STEINECKE (ON DAVID SEDARIS)
SANTALAND DIARIES
11
12
13
14
18
15
16
17
18
MAX FRESHOUR
SATURDAYS
20
21
LAURA FUNDERBURK
SEAT FIVE: FRI / SAT / SUN Friday: Ariadne: 4pm: Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination Silver Spring listening to that stupid song, Ariadne couldn't get it out of her head. It was everywhere, like an apparition that had returned to haunt her, as though it sought retribution for earlier grievances. She rolled her eyes and turned towards the window, trying to ignore this latest source: the girl sat in front of her. The song was Rebecca Black's Friday. Just awful, Ariadne thought. She thought others on the bus shared in her disapproval as they, like her, shuffled uncomfortably. They all heard it, and there was nothing they could do about it. She hadn't had her own I-pod, there was no escape from it, she might as well Saturday: Malaine: 1pm: Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination Silver Spring swim in her sorrow, she was drowning in her own self -pity. Her hand was resting on her son's back. He was slumped over her lap, asleep now after what had been a long morning. She was all he had now. A mother. She started fidgeting with the coupon in her hand, reminding herself that apple sauce pacified him. She shook her head, closed her eyes, and tried to shut out the memories that attacked her mind. She didn't want to remember, she wanted to forget. Forgetting would keep her sane. She opened her eyes and shielded them from the sun, wishing she had picked a better Sunday: Dwight: 4:45 p.m: Row Two: Seat Five: Route 70: Destination Silver Spring seat. Dwight was pressed against the window, annoyed that the large frame of the girl beside him was threatening to crush him. He shook his head and then fidgeted in his seat, so as to send a message to her. He paused his I-pod and put it away for its own safety. The girl reached over him and pulled the yellow wire to request the next stop. When the vehicle came to a halt she rose and waddled off the bus. Dwight giggled and pulled the wire for the next stop, Silver Spring.
MARCUS BROWN
REAL ESTATE
The contents of the McNeil’s guest room closet consists of two comforters, three two-hundred thread count sheets unopened since the wedding day, an ironing board, and a twenty-eight year old man with a ski mask. The man sinks into the darkness of the closet. Both of his legs and his left arm have no feeling, but he dare not move. He has been in the closet for the better part of two hours after the eldest daughter’s untimely return from her track meet. His third hour of solitary confinement was administered by her boyfriend’s arrival. His name is Judas. He wears his sister’s jeans and drives his mom’s Corolla. After about an hour of negotiating, Judas gets to the third base with his girlfriend but the victory is short lived. The mood is severely impeded by the unexpected arrival of the patriarch of the McNeil household. Never before has a pair of size 26, 34 pants moved so fast. In good time he makes it up the stairs and into the guest room. He hides behind the door first, but his fear renders him indecisive. He ducks under the bed and even behind the curtains. The father’s heavy footsteps can be heard climbing the staircase. Judas is panicking now until he notices the closet. He darts in and crouches right in front of the man in the ski mask. The father enters the guest room and Judas instinctively backs up into the intruder. A scream escapes his lips before the man with the ski mask can cup his hands around Judas’ mouth. Despite the daughter’s pleading, the father goes for the kill and throws the closet door open. 23
MILAN AUBREY
I AM NOT WRONG
25
ELLIE COHEN
WINDOW The stool is wobbly and it hurts your back, but you still sit there. You sit and stare out the grimy window, green from mildew. The air is filled with the rancid smell of spoiled foods and uncleaned plates. When she was around this never happened. She’d been gone for two weeks. You wish you didn't know why. Wish you could forget the debt you owe. You'd much rather blame it on them. Them is anybody, so long as you have someone to complain about them to. You shut eyes that water all too often and rub a face you sometimes forget is there. Your legs hurt. They hurt real bad. You cannot reach the medicine cabinet. Not without her help. The braces on your legs don't allow for standing on tippy toes. So you wait. Wait for someone to feel bad and visit and do all the shit you had others do for you for so long. You stare at two people on the street. They are yelling. They are angry. It almost entertains you, makes you smile. You find it interesting, the way in which they bicker. Sudden flashbacks of the family, pre-polio, come to you; days when you could walk and yell at your loved ones as well as you pleased. Those days had passed long ago. And now, all you had was the woman. The past tense of had sits with you. She went by the name....what was it? Margaret? Margarita? It wasn’t important. She was there and you hated her. You had laid in bed and volleyed your spite at her, hurtful words as she prepared your overcooked eggs and burnt toast, the cold, clammy turkey sandwiches that made your stomach churn, laced with liquid medicine you refused to take like you should. She wasn’t good for conversation. Where was she from....Mexico? Uruguay? Somewhere where they spoke Spanish. She spoke little English. The only words she knew were ‘pain’, ‘hungry’, ‘thirsty’, ‘help’ and ‘meds’. ‘Bitch’ from the time she fell asleep on the job and you threw the coffee mug at her. ‘Stupid’ since that was generally her name in this household.
26
You notice you’ve been sitting here awhile, drooling into your own hand. It’s pathetic and you know you could be up and out there but you are accustomed to being babied. At twenty it was your mother caring for you, spoon feeding you food. At forty your mother gave up on you and you moved from sister to brother to cousins. Nobody wanted you. You wonder if Margarita wanted you, if she cared. You doubt it. One day you decided to test her boundaries, struggling with her on the braces clamped tight against your numbing legs. You stood and screamed at her as she cringed under you, and you threw everything that was in sight at her shuddering body. She didn’t understand the nasty words you said, but the language of anger was one she was accustomed to and understood. She didn’t fight back, didn’t do a damn thing. Was it because she cared? Or was she just stupid? God, you hated that woman. The two people on the street have left and all that remains are a bustle of black suits. Business men, always in a hurry. You hate them too. They have something. They might not have friends or family but there were people like them. There were about a billion businessmen in the world, all the same, spending weekends talking about stocks and real estate and all the things people skip over in the paper. They were detestable, but there were people just like them. You are you. And you are alone, a grown man who can barely live without the help of a woman whose name you will never quite remember. You wonder if Margarita was like you, alone. If she too watched people out the window and felt a burning desire to be them rather than herself. Did she have a family? Did she have a home away from the home she worked and slept in? A home like your home, with the pale yellow wallpaper peeling slowly and the creaking floors and a smell like death? You feel a sudden and unwanted sympathy towards her and, even worst, you feel as if there is enough pity left over for yourself. Awkwardly, you adjust yourself in your seat and look around your room. It’s ghostly quiet without the sound of her voice, sharp and jaunty in her accent. Who did she talk to when she was on the phone? Family? You haven’t called your family in decades, but the silence is making you uneasy. You slowly stand up, walk yourself over to the ivory phone. You grab it, clutching it in your hand tightly. And you dial. The voice on the other line calms you, reminds you someone is there. You say nothing and they hang up.
ROOM 18 - ISSUE #2- MAY 2011 PRODUCED BY THE LITERARY MEDIA & COMMUNICATIONS DEPARTMENT