Main Street Journal Issue 2 | Fall 2009 by Main Street Journal UD

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T Main H E Street Journal Editor Dave Brown Managing Editor Jillian Kuzma Short Story Lead Editor Maddie Thomas Assistant Editors Stephanie Bitterman, Sophie Blumenthal, Samantha Brix, Jessica McKnight, Courtney Olsen, Sean Ulman Selection Committee Corey Adwar, Laura Blagys, Sara Land, Zachary Liscio, Billy O’Regan, Matt Singer Poetry Lead Editor Casey Cohen Assistant Editors Stephanie Bitterman, Jessica McKnight, Stephanie Seabury Selection Committee Corey Adwar, Emily Arnold, Sara Land, Zachary Liscio, Paula Sosin, Sean Ulman Art Lead Editor Brittany Hayes Selection Committee Laura Blagys, Sarah Morgan, Collin Newman, Matt Singer, Paula Sosin, Natalie Villa Public Relations Managers Laura Blagys & Emily Arnold Public Relations Staff Stephanie Bitterman, Joe Marinelli, Kylie Poirier, Matt Singer Finance Manager Laura Szklarski Special Thanks Tim Spaulding, Allocations Board Cover photo of the Academy Building in Newark, DE by Dave Brown Layout by Dave Brown Copyright ©2009 MSJ

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Contents POETRY

ART

HUMOR 57 DANIEL BUHSE | A Scene from Jurassic Park 77 MATT SINGER | Ode to the Established Order

SHORT STORIES

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Forgetting Morning LauraHoffman our hands dangling between the arms of two plastic lawn chairs the snarled wood of the porch your father nailed together the memory of what we once were rising with the noon heat the shards of glass glittering in the pavement before us a humid sky wearing itself thin the curve of the bottleneck held by your slender fingers the trees swaying in 4/4 time the cool temperature of my wrist the conversation passed back and forth between us like a cigarette the nervous tap of my sandals my legs unsticking from the chair our lips, suddenly giving in to the taste of each other

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Madrugada Desesperada de la Noche más Corta RodrigoBocanegra El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta. Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla. La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo. Pablo Neruda, Poema 20 Quiero hacer contigo Lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos Pablo Neruda, Poema 14 Para Shoshi

Qué difícil es no arrepentirme de haberte tenido tan cerca, y de no haber entrado en un dialogo de brazos y labios. Que tan difícil fue haber sido bueno y no rozar mis delgados dedos por tus mejillas sonrojadas, tus hoyuelos faciales, reflejo de una semilla que cae desesperada en un riachuelo manso. Que delirante es pensar que te quise y no te tuve, que vos también me quisiste y no fui tuyo, que mi moral vulnerable durmió ante tu mirada vieja, ojos de trigo añejado, labios de Israel, grueso cabello oceánico. Que desesperante fue alejarme de vos en medio de aquel crepúsculo Junioano, la noche más corta del año, 8

RODRIGO BOCANEGRA

sabiendo que fuimos dos árboles cercanos y no dejamos que nuestras hojas se rosaran. Que ahogador es despertar con la garganta seca, saber que vas recorriendo algún camino viejo, pensar que no me llevas en mente. Que desconsolante es imaginar que jamás volveré a verte con esa sonrisa fluvial y tus ornamentas gitanas que nuestro próximo encuentro se regirá por el decoro, que estarás ausente, que ya no podré inhalar tu olor a caoba perfumada, aquel que se esconde en tu cabello espeso, que aunque quiera, nunca podré hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos.

León, Nicaragua Junio 25, 2009

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Desperate Dawn of the Shortest Night RodrigoBocanegra The night wind revolves in the sky and sings…. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is shattered and she is not with me. Pablo Neruda, Poem 20 I want to do with you What spring does to cherry trees. Pablo Neruda, Poem 14 For Shoshi

How hard it is not to regret having had you so close, to not have begun a dialogue of arms and lips. How hard it was to be good, to stop myself from brushing my thin hands across your flushed cheeks, your dimples, emulating the reaction of water as when a seed falls desperately disturbing its gentle surface. How delirious it is to think that I wanted you and didn’t have you, that you also wanted me and I wasn’t yours, that my vulnerable morals slept before your old gaze, your eyes of fermented wheat, Israel lips, and thick oceanic hair. How infuriating it was to leave your side amid the first light of June, 10 RODRIGO BOCANEGRA

the shortest night of the year, knowing we were two close trees that didn’t let their leaves touch. How suffocating it is to wake up with a dry throat, knowing you are traveling through an old road, and to think that I’m not on your mind. How miserable it is to imagine that I’ll never see you again with that fluvial smile and your Spanish ornaments, that our next encounter will be guided by decorum, that you’ll be absent, and I will no longer be able to inhale your scent of perfumed mahogany, which hides beneath your thick hair. And even if I want to, I will never be able to do with you what spring does to cherry trees.

León, Nicaragua June 25, 2009

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Doppio ZacharyLiscio “DOPPIO ESPRESSO?” “You know it. Even through my disguise you can tell is me?” Sergio is dressed as Zorro but his six and a half foot stature gives him away. Behind him is the regular crew. Not everyone is in costume. Adam pulls their shots automatically though he still asks each of them what they’ll have. Habit, havoc otherwise. Mochaccino, two macchiatos, a doppio espresso. Every day. Still have to ask. Bernie is last in line, his day to pay. He tips well and they all move away to wait for their drinks, eyeing an open table and edging slowly toward it as a single amorphous blob. Strategic moves, napkins sugar and spoons. Drifting, greeting, a check-like motion, then sweeping quickly. Up again, one for the chessboard and one for the demitasses, one to guard the table. Divide and conquer. Bernie’s sloppy mouth-flaps sway as he comes, cups in hand— clean-shaven he looks even fatter and sweatier. Jovial jowls he howls in amusement at the masked figure in front of the checkered board. You pick, picking up two pawns. No, you, you bought, says Sergio. Pace of carelessness, lackadaisical concentration, caffeine consecration. Adam rocks back on his heels, resting on the counter. He leans forward and transfers a neatly folded rag from back pocket to front. The acrid smells of coffee suds and spoiled cream cheese beneath the counter seep into the air. The trash needs to be changed. Amy’s in at two, she can. Early feeling afternoon, probably the autumn sun makes it warm and amber. Almost November, short days speeding up. I’ll have a headache on the first, he thought, a Monday. Not the way to start a week or a month. Same way we start the year, cloudy and dull in the cold. Last New Year eyes peeled on the carpet where we all slept in the mountains. So November begins with the squealing quiet of morning misery unless I end up working instead. She won’t like that, I told her a week ago I’d take the night off to masquerade around. He sees the night in montage and it’s better represented, faded bits of conversation trailing and overlapping as clever swirls of colors bury the boring under quick cuts and sounds… for her, with her for her. 12 ZACHARY LISCIO

Abruptly he returns as the door opens, another line forms, subduing imagined shrieks from the costume party. At the table they are laughing in their outfits. No mundane holidays abroad, sweaty palm grips a pawn for check, oh amused hah! yes, and, mate. The new group, all girls the same age and colors, moves without thinking, surprised by their subconscious something. Ten hard painted eyes. Princesses within these walls they spew giggles from beneath their brutal eyes. Yes, brutal—what Bukowski called them—those perfect faces, steely and vapid. They traverse the floor and face the counter like a firing squad, flirting with themselves using each other as props—all have the motion of stalks of corn, blond hair erupting from the tops, swaying in the air conditioned breeze. Flashes of teeth and eyes they skim the menu, study Adam, scanning, recognizing the notion of something alien without a counterpart in themselves. Of the several he knows one, maybe has seen another. Syrupy smelling they order their sugar with skim milk. He sees beyond their cluster a shape in yellow, loosely clinging to its frame. Finish trading swiping their cards exchanging cash and empty laughs and they move off to reveal sunflowers outside Florence waving their bulbous heads in the wind, behind and in front of them nothing but flowers, happy petals. Lumbering dance of seed-heavy heads, all for their own enjoyment. Do they have them inside the city walls, lining streets of excited and undecipherable speech, he wondered. I have to get across somehow. Yellow dress legs static eyes move up—down them. Look away. “hi”—uh, running backwards tripping on thick green torsos out of nowhere but yellow and back, suddenly conscious of his graying black t-shirt, unwashed and sweat in… “right, what you always get” … “Halloween, sure… wait, what” “Do you have a costume yet?” “Yeah, maybe, depends how things go.” Distance, familiar and far away, he imagines her drifting horizontally through the room, ducking his eyes behind the metal bulk of the espresso machine, deflecting her eyes. Refuge in the steam valves he coaxes steady streams of airy liquid like mud with flecks of ore. Nineteen… a foot placed tentatively on the air, scared to break it Twenty… step Twenty-one… down hair waving Twenty wild Two this mine? huh, yeah, sorry her Three… her eyes lock look away one more second enough Twenty Four he taps the switch gently and stops the flow, dumps the shot and pours the milk. THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 13

The surface rises slowly, molecular tension making it light and airy. “Thanks. I’m going to be a cat,” she drifts away into the paling throng of buzz junkies. Not like the others, her skin warmlooking and taut around brightness. Not a cat of all things, but still cute with ears and with all that warmth exposed she’ll need someone to keep it from dissipating into the air. Adam yawns clutching his stomach and arching his spine, pulling back on his ribcage. Bonecage, he thinks, fatalistic a term coined by a bunch of healers, a restrictive container for the heart and meaty mechanical parts. Not a shield, mere incarcerated functions serving a joint life sentence. Slow thuds. He swallows a warm sip. Jumpstart thump. Untrembling he holds the small ceramic cup between his fingers, raising small sips. There she’s laughing over whatever she’s reading, sending happiness outward to dissolve between the curtained windows and spackled walls. She has no idea how different she is, how organic, poised over her elbows to absorb. Who wrote her enjoyment without knowing the smirk she yields? Still she smiles not for show and no one sees the garden, window-box-eyes blooming for a second of spring, just as the sun passes its orange angle onto the yellow of day. Always we come back. To the day to the hour to our selves, shelves of whole beans artisan roasted. It is fully day. From this window there are only cars and leaves and sometimes clouds and sun, never grass or roots or even cement. Balcony to the sky, Adam walks out and pivots above the ground, still so low. Lumbering clouds. Not enough sleep. Seems always it would be better to cling to the covers. Warm folds legs run over each other unconsciously responsively warm. Now? He walks to her. Beneath the table are long legs, the other half of knots untied. “Finished?” Taking her plate traces of pleasure smeared on ceramic. “Thanks.” Single word exchange, stronger with flowers than paragraphs, discourse disenchanting. Yawwwn. Steam valves hiss tearing milk bubbles apart squealing and then subdued, audible tension and once again drips of coffee, jazz on the same twelve-track cycle. The minutes march on their slow circles kneading the time, usual drudgery. How ridiculous to place such significance on nothing. A moment she won’t even remember spent trying to siphon something real. From what? Nothing, again nothing. Fat man finishes his cup laboriously, dwarfing its tinyness with fat fingers wrapped around the rim, suffocating the delicate handle. Another, this time with a brownie, warmed and smothered in chocolate. 14 ZACHARY LISCIO

Adam sets it down, trying not to breathe in the dense sweetness. Feeling the sugar in his bloodstream, inhaling too much too rich he sips cold water feels caffeine-fast. Unshaking he delivers the dense brown square to the counter where it is munched. Falling crumbs from big lips, dainty napkin, big hands. The giant fashions his chocolate teeth into a smile. Smile back—tomorrow’s tip. Smile mask. Adam retreats to the back, dropping his face and plunging into a sink full of dishes. From here the individual conversations barely compete with the industrial banter of refrigeration. He runs the water, too hot to touch, leaning over rising steam and feeling for the first time cool since getting to work. Dawn had looked so quiet, another morning promise as the headlights slinked down the streets. All the lights were green before the sun came up and he watched no one stopping, off to work. Full sink, opaque with a surface of crumbs swirling. Sterile vortex, sanitizer hose working to kill so we can live. A beep from the door announces the next wave of interactions. They pass and Adam turns to see Her again, catching before he can the smile of pure and shallow happiness. She the other She. Hi, of course, how are you? Yes, I said yes, I’ll take it off. She begs his eyes to meet hers as he scans the room still, bouncing between commitment and impossibility. The room falls back into its flowerless blandness. He surrenders his gaze, the sparkles of his stare evaporated. Unmoist eyes take tight strafing steps and are subdued. It is too soon for winter. She asks for attention only, force without passion, lending interaction the cold sterility of funeral parlor functions. Performing habitually, motion unmotivated and unthought, Adam steps around the counter and surrenders his arms to a ribless hug. He withdraws as quickly as She does, breath drawn. Love, luck, elemental and timely, blooms from the opening door of the bathroom as he draws away. Bright-bloom-She moves breaking columns of low light, sunbeams on honey. Yellow flowers with dancing petals—lean on the counter, look away. You seem tired the other-She says: he puts hand to head, away. No, I am, yes, but no, no more than usual. Walking now, a strolling may-pole in fall, one look, until She passes away! Tortured seconds split in two, two worlds two fantasies are both just neurons lumped together in the same soggy soup. The poles of desire exist as specters in a single skull, linked in thought as in this room, now, now—She doesn’t look and walks by. Gone now She is really just a sunspot bright blot in the THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 15

focal center leaving nothing but periphery. Sunken he digs deeper in the muddy bottom, down past where the last light is filtered out, to the roots of a submerged forest in the colorless oblivion just above emptiness. Muck. Adam feels the cold rumble in his stomach of caffeine without food. Looking pained he prompts her prying concern. Eat. Yes, eat, the only solace in the East, the furthest East. Nowhere further on foot and nowhere further for lack of shipwrights in the Garden. But there is a way across if there are sunflowers in Florence and here too. Must be connected or was at some point. Outside run the promised tar paths everywhere nameless and explored, through thick woods and mostly just through other nothings and featureless nowhere terrains. Adam looks longingly at the moving cars, jealous to be going somewhere, turns his back on them and returns to feasible at hand. She smiles, understanding the implications of his tranquility. To the left he sees a couple of hipsters snickering at Bernie and his crew. They don’t notice, absorbed in their chessgame and oblivious to the laughs. Behind the hipsters sit an old couple jabbering to each other about boys in sagging tight girls’ pants. Adam feels his mouth moving, still making the proper shapes and rounding out the sounds. In her face he finds approval for whatever he’s been saying. “You never told me,” he says looking away, “why you were acting so strange the other day.” She asks when, questioning the abruptness. “The other day,” he pauses, picking up a dirty cup. “You kept asking me if there was someone else. What gave you that idea?” “I don’t know when you’re talking about.” Particulate memory. Adam shrugs, pouring the residue down the drain. There are grinds stuck to the porcelain wall. Overlapping schema, one each she, affixed to each other, one to this conversation and another to a flower parade. “You still love me.” “Yes,” washing out the cup and setting it on a rack to dry. Adam reaches for another, repetition yielding proficiency, our efficient zeitgeist, amen. She smiles, extends a warm hand and goes—both gone now and the day slips on, landscape of unbroken time. Affection is a most easy habit, he thinks, better a life with a skeleton. Easier anyway.

16 ZACHARY LISCIO

America the Beautiful

AndresCerpa

N EMPTY STREETS they walk as street lamps flicker and cars roll by. Their minds altered, their feet heavy. On the way home not a word is said, there is only silence. No joking, not even talk of the fists thrown earlier in the night. The others are gone, their rage is not. Decisions are contemplated as cigarettes are finished and tossed to the ground. Scabs begin to form and the street lights change. The flask is passed from one hand to the next. The liquid can’t suppress their feelings, so hood ornaments are broken and tossed aside. Garbage cans are knocked down just to break the silence. It’s a long walk home to go home to nothing. What do they have? Their brothers are fighting in wars or returning broken. Their fathers are gone or dying slowly in steel mills. And they’re just lonely boys on cold, lifeless streets, destroying to release.

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Your Daughter Will Know Her Father JamieLevin To you my dear, we raise a glass And whisper that this too shall pass: Our fallen soldier, pioneer. The pop of guns, a man in gear With honors earned, ribbons and brass: To you, my dear, we raise a glass. Your parents hang the ďŹ&#x201A;ag half mast They claim to hear your voice at last: Their fallen solider, pioneer. Your imprint haunts the bathroom mirror The lives you saved commence in mass: To you, my dear, we raise a glass. Annie grips your army sash She sings to you beneath the grass: Her fallen soldier, pioneer. I use your ďŹ&#x201A;ask to drink you near And whisper that this too shall pass. My fallen soldier, pioneer, To you, my dear, we raise a glass.

18 JAMIE LEVIN

March 24, 2009

Maps ColinSchmidt

My father has his maps, old folded things, whole worlds collapsing in, hidden in drawers held shut by the gravity of his will. A universe worth of interstate lines gathered thin as blades of memory, so razor thin, those time-cut shadows on his hands, cruel as the memory of scent; ﬁngers that lust for root in the wheel, his thick limbs settled, wanting to make pace with the arc of the sun, that endless arc. Horizons always escaped that wide blue room of youth—its cracking roads mazing among the cosmos of his ﬁngerprints, ink-stained from sweat on maps he wanted back. We could hear the murmur of the road through the warm windows of our home. His hands, they held me, heavy as old globes and i felt that cold, smooth ring; that gold anchor.

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After Care NinaBennett

We held my sister’s wake in the townie bar of the Deer Park tavern, my brother and I drinking as though we were still in college. Later there was a band, and the singer’s familiar voice startled me sober. In high school I did my homework during band practice, sprawled on the basement ﬂoor of the bass player’s house. Forty years later you tell me you spent band practice staring at my ass as I lay on my stomach studying. I don’t tell you that your voice still haunts my nights.

20 NINA BENNETT

Terrace EmilyArnold

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The Marching Man CoreyAdwar

HE DAY AHEAD OF ME was going to be a special one. Or so said my father. I hugged my mother at the front door and then stood there briefly on the doormat as my father kissed her quickly before whispering something in her ear. Whatever it was that he said, it seemed to be in an effort at reassurance, for my mother’s face both before and after seemed somewhat twisted in its expression, as if to hold back an outpour of emotion. “Do you know what war is, son?” asked my father once we were on our way in the car. There was a slight pause, but I discovered that he didn’t expect me to answer. “The world is an extraordinary place. I want you to know all about it, and to take everything into consideration.” Suddenly the rearview mirror showed his face and his eyes that peered straight into mine, and I nodded from the backseat. The city was all around me. The towering skyscrapers leaned on my shoulders, and the swarming masses of busy people drowned me into the concrete at my feet. But my father pushed through it all and held my hand the whole way. When we came to a wall, a wall of people that now stood still, my father stopped and we entered that wall slowly, permeating through it ever so slightly. That wall was paradoxically my gateway, leading me to the mystery that lay waiting on the other side. “What is this, Daddy?” “It’s a parade, son. It’s a parade in honor of something very important, and also someone very special. I want you to see all of this.” The people were everywhere, gathered close together, and more continued to arrive. They were all so loud – some in conversation, but many others cheering and bellowing out passionate cries of zealous pride. Some waved signs and banners and flags as they did this. “What are we waiting for?” “We’re waiting for the parade. It’s on its way.” A low, sustained roar could be heard somewhere far down the line of the crowd. People were screaming and cheering and wailing for their lives somewhere down there to a degree that made the crowd on my end seem comparably silent. “What is it Daddy? What is it?” 22 COREY ADWAR

“It’s the parade, son. The parade has reached them.” In a few moments I was hoisted onto my father’s shoulders, and now I could see the end of the wall of people in front of me. There was an empty street, and strewn all about were flower petals and confetti and litter around its edges. The street was like a valley, for on the far side of it stood another mountainous wall of people just like ourselves, waiting in patient anticipation for the same thing as we were. Suddenly the faint sound of beating drums became just barely audible over the noise of the crowd. Within minutes the full procession of a decorated marching band in strict formation came and went. The last I saw of them was their capes lazily trailing amidst the soft, city wind. Within its wake came a group of prancing and twirling women of glowing and glittering beauty. Batons filled the air above them in ceaseless parabolic fashion, and yet the women with their red cheeks and slick knotted hair only gazed joyously at us, smiling wide without a care in the world. Next came a float dedicated to a gallant display of the American flag, waving proudly on a towering metal pole with the stoic bronze statue of an eagle perched atop. Surrounding the flag pole were small firecrackers, some that sizzled where they stood and others that popped sprightly into the air. There was yet more to this parade. Now there was a singer of the national anthem with a raspy, country voice that hit all the right notes. Here there were troops of young boy scouts, policemen, firefighters, and men in kilts with bagpipes. Then there were city officials who waved broadly, their forearms mechanically swinging side to side from the elbow like pendulums, all five fingers stretched neatly outward. They gazed gleefully all amongst the crowds, always grinning wide or chuckling pleasantly as they patted their ties and fiddled with the buttons of their long suit jackets. I witnessed local sports teams and tremendous, lumbering balloons on strings that blocked out the sun for moments at a time. There was more of everything that had already passed, and when they were through, there was even more after that. And yet through all of this, there remained a sense of distracted aloofness among the people gathered all around me. They seemed to bow forward or shuffle backward on the balls of their feet, twisting and turning their heads towards the same general direction. Those people appeared rather bored, or at least impatient with it all, my father included. Their cheers seemed laborious, as if obligated or done for the THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 23

sake of passing the time and filling the gaps of otherwise dull moments. It grew clear to me that the members of this vast crowd were all there for something else. They were all gathered there to see the same thing, which had not come yet. I tried to imagine to myself what it could be, pondering different possibilities and all the while failing to fathom a reasonable conclusion. It all stopped. I realized the street was now clear, and the masses were now silent. Before my bewildered eyes, everyone’s head was aimed at one focal point, and those that weren’t gazing far down the city avenue were told to do so by someone else. Arms were outstretched all about, all parallel, all pointing with steady index fingers at the same location. People squirmed and pushed and jumped in place to catch a better look. My father gently tugged my sleeve and I looked down from atop his shoulders to catch his eyes looking up into mine. He angled his head in that same direction, beckoning me to quit looking at him and look down the street. So I did. So I stared and stared, wondering what it was I was supposed to be seeing, until I had been staring for some time at a single, silhouetted mass of a figure. It was so far away that it seemed to be standing still, and yet it grew only more and more defined, its shape more apparent, its outline more prominent, its existence ever more real. One figure. Now, one man. Now, one peculiar man with a helmet and a rifle, for I could just barely distinguish such details in the distance, and not much more. One man. Who could this man be? There were no remnants of the parade in front or behind the approaching man. It was only him, alone on the city avenue, for as far as I could see. Suddenly, in one rapid, acrobatic maneuver, I was torn from my father’s shoulders and delivered into the depthless bottom of the crowd, standing unsteadily on the pavement. My father, whom I was now facing, kneeled before me to speak to me softly at my level, his hand gently running through my hair, playing ever so slightly with the locks. And yet I sensed a tinge of vulnerability in my father like I had never known before. It was apparent in the way his eyes couldn’t quite stay fixed on my puzzled face, or how his voice betrayed a slight quiver somewhere on the tips of his words. 24 COREY ADWAR

“Do you know what war is, son? I want you to understand this. Okay? There is one man…one man….” He was fading from me, becoming absent-minded, lost or struggling in his own thoughts. When he returned to me he paused again, this time urgently looking back over his shoulder in the same direction as the waiting crowd, as if to measure how much time remained in the approach of that single man. “There is one person,” he continued, now more hurriedly, but still vainly attempting the same soothing touch, “who we turn to in times of need.” He stopped again, seemed to search for the right words, and when his eyes lit up with a new fervor I knew that he had found them. And yet he hesitated for a moment more, gathering his composure and smiling uneasily at what appeared to be me. “That man out there was chosen a long time ago by the people all around you to serve us. He was chosen to represent us. There is a war, and we need him to represent us.” He stopped, his expression consumed with desperation, pleading and begging with me to understand. “Don’t you get it, son?” He screeched and I noticed that his free hand, hanging at his knee, couldn’t remain quite still. I don’t know if he was aware that it was shaking. “Our country is threatened now, and so he must fight on our behalf.” I was back on my father’s shoulders, once more staring at the lone approaching man. He marched at a careful, steady pace, his shiny shoes clapping the pavement at perfectly regular intervals. His rifle, supported by a hand at its bottom, leaned up against one shoulder, the barrel pointing to the sky. His steel, olive drab helmet seemed slightly too big for his head, and all its straps were fastened securely in place. The remainder of his wardrobe was comprised of a formal black and white dress suit – pants, jacket, tie, and all. A small pin of the American flag was neatly attached to the lapel of his suit jacket. His entire countenance was foreign and out of place, like snow in the tropics. Or rather, was it pathetic, like dirt on a sports car? For a few brief moments it was the crowd that I became more aware of. An unpleasant sound was rising amongst them. It was sobbing. Some grieved in tranquility, the tears streaming down their cheeks and their bottom lips trembling. Others cried out, bawling in surrender to their sorrowful languish. There were those who retreated from the crowd altogether, and those who clutched on to loved ones for solace, and yet more who sought to be closer to the lone, marching man. THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 25

People were praying. Some did so quite audibly in the hush around them. Some more silently. There were cheers too, somewhat hollow and not very aggressive, but there nonetheless to be heard and to voice respect, pride and approval. Some saluted. Others simply watched on in paralyzed awe. Occasionally people deliberately looked away, perhaps out of anger or protest or maybe just sheer pain. But their gazes always returned eventually. ‘Who is this man?’ I thought. ‘Who is this lone marching man who has stolen the hearts of this endless crowd? And how come it is only he who fights in this war that my father speaks of?’ The marching man was so close now that I could begin to make out his face. That’s when I knew. It was devoid of all expression, personality and humanity. I could recognize only the physical features, such as the jawline, the brow, the shape of his nose. Yet behind this revealing personage there was no true person. The man that I recognized from television was gone. No more animated gestures behind podiums or enthusiastic handshakes across coffee tables. The marching man looked nowhere but straight ahead of him. And then I was staring at his back. And then once more at the dark outline of his foreign figure. The crowd was already dispersing. My father and I remained a bit longer, still gazing at the vanishing image of the President of the United States of America.

26 COREY ADWAR

The Barn MollyMooney

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 27

Not a Dude

SeanUlman

UNNING TO THE Capitol Square to catch up and hurry through lights and be off this silly street and into the Paradise. Our spot, one of ‘em, $4 pitchers, and everybody is just back in town from break, and nobody’s got shit to do on Monday, not the first day of the semester. And stopping by Tom & G’s earlier, having talk like, “Plans for tonight?” “Get drunk.” “Yeah, sounds about right.” “No doubt.” The girls are coming and the lazy video gamers are out for once, and really wanting to be there already with everybody and with a couple put away, and laughing, being back out on the town. I’m walking, and I catch a light, and some bum does, too. We’re standing, waiting for it to blink, and he’s a black guy, which I mention since I’ve had a hundred of these interactions with bums white as me, and also because the different meanings we give to words shows up here, I think. He wants to talk to me, and he’s not a bum. I mean, he is. All the bums here are, but none of them are really; it’s just a college town, and kids will help them get on the bus or give whatever they got in their pockets, and sometimes you say, “No, I don’t have any change, but I got a job application.” Sometimes you say meaner stuff, because who cares and you’re drunk or itching to be drunk and dealing with this is bullshit - ‘I’m not bothering you.’ Because it’s the bothering and the fake desperation and, ‘get your own change,’ and I’m walking, and he’s about to stick words into this waiting, and I’m ready to throw him the usual, “Sorry man, nothing on me,” and he says, like all bums do, he says, “Excuse me. Do you think you could spare some change so I can ride the bus?” “Sorry, dude. Got nothing on me.” “It’s for the bus.” “Sorry, dude.” “Okay, but I’m not a dude.” “No. Okay.” But he wants more from me, and he is blocking me square, and I usually can’t stand that, so I’ll step around, but he looks right at me, and he takes his time. And he has it more together than a lot of the others, and he might really need it for the bus, or be very new at all of 28 SEAN ULMAN

this. He is older, too, and so he’s from a different time than me. And he is waiting for me to really look at him, and when I have for a while, he goes on real slow like he has a lesson. He goes on, “I’m a man… I’m not a dude…” “You’re a man,” I say, to give him his change and be done with this and closer to the bar, drunk with my friends. And even slower this time, one word at a time and like it’s something he’s still got and will have forever, the words drip out of his onyx eyes, so I’m sure of their arrival into audible space way before he says, “I’m a man.”

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Call Girl

MurielPalanca

Hit the digits. Hit and run. Hit me up; a call for one. He says he wants to have some fun. I’ll do my job until he comes. Stain the sheets, spread legs apart. This fool could never break my heart. A night for him that tops the charts, For me it’s over before it starts. He’s just like all the other guys. He trusts my smile and lipstick lies. There’s something money cannot buy, And I can’t ﬁnd it in his eyes. Would I want his sickly joy? I’m just a game to all these boys. A thing to touch, a mangled toy, Used too much and left destroyed. Going home to an empty room, A silent hollow that still consumes. The radio plays my favorite tune, “All the Same”. It ends too soon. I try to sleep in my own bed. Close my eyes because I’m seeing red. Moans and screams that wake the dead ‘Cause they never seem to leave my head. If I could have a heart to break, I’d make the love I love to fake, And in this world of give and take, Can someone save me for my own sake? 30 MURIEL PALANCA

Inside out, I’m bruised and sore. Do you think I’m worth ﬁghting for? Though I’m broken, can I be yours? To just be loved, I’d want nothing more. Time to make a call of my own. A sound of hope with the dial tone, A thousand rings but no one’s home. I guess I’m really all alone. Far from here I might forget This underworld I’d care for less. I’d ﬁnd some peace and happiness But my lifeline hasn’t answered yet.

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 31

The Oil Man’s Widow

JamesSmith

EAUX SIMONEAUX, the nightshift EMT on Marvin’s floating casino boat, could no longer keep the front half of his shirt tucked in on account his enormous belly. Each night before work, he would stand sideways before the mirror, the pink flab spewing over his belt like beer foam. At work Beaux strolled the boardwalk, waiting for the two-way radio on his belt to announce that someone got an arm jammed in the vending machine, or an elderly woman passed out at a slot machine, or someone over-snorted coke in the stalls. A few drunken gamblers stumbled onto the steamboat’s deck and yelled across to the pier, “Hey, fat man! Don’t fall in! The river’s not a bathtub.” He ignored them, just watching the dark water below, watching his reflection stretch out over the small waves as this humongous hollow figure. Then he turned and looked up at the casino’s hotel, which rose twenty or so stories with bright lights and a huge flashing sign which read: Marvin’s—Where Your Friends Are. He made his way over the boat’s dock where Bennie worked. Bennie’s job was to just stand there dressed a pirate and say, “Me name is Marvin. I be welcoming ye aboard, mateys!” When Beaux reached the dock, Marvin had two older women under his arms as Janice, the photographer, snapped a picture. “Arrrr. Ye been bad girls, now walk the plank.” After the women had reached the boat, Bennie lifted his eye patch. “Ahoy! Beaux. What brings ye to me part o’ the isle?” “Just scouting,” Beaux said. “Nothing much to do unless I get called.” Janice smiled and excused herself to the bathroom. She was young and a bit plump herself, such that the two men never took much notice of her. “So what’s new?” Beaux asked. “Just got Kamikaze Waitress in the mail yesterday.” “What’s that?” “This new Asian horror movie.” “What’s it about?” “See, this guy keeps leaving a waitress bad tips, so she starts 32 JAMES SMITH

stalking him after work, you know, leaving dead animals at his door. You find out the guy owns a counterfeit money press, and all the bills he’d been giving her were fake. So then the waitress and the guy end up in a fight at the press, I’m talking, chopping at each other, blood everywhere, and it shows the man falling into this big tub of red ink. Finally at the end, it cuts to this other guy leaving a tip on the table and the bill happens to be red.” “Well, I won’t have to watch it now.” “The idea’s good, but it just felt like the whole movie was building toward that one red dollar bill. I hate when they get artsy like that.” “What if I actually wanted to watch it?” “Oh, you shouldn’t bother. It’s not one you’d like. Believe me.” Just then a limousine pulled up to the front of the casino hotel, and Bennie and Beaux watched from the boardwalk. A tall man in a suit stepped out first followed by a woman. She had long dark hair and slender arms reaching from beneath the strings of her black dress. “She sure ain’t from here,” Beaux said. “Course she’s ain’t. You don’t know who that is?” “Well no.” “You seriously don’t know who she is? You don’t watch TV? That’s Mandy Mancini, the standup comedian? Can’t believe you, man. She came all the way from Los Angeles. She’s performing here tonight.” “Well, I didn’t know. She sure is pretty.” “She’s a goddess. And hilarious, too.” By then, Janice had made her way back down the stairs to the boardwalk, where Bennie and Beaux watched the woman smoke a cigarette outside the hotel. “Sorry about that,” Janice said. “Did anyone come by for photos?” “No,” said Bennie. “What are you guys looking at?” “Mandy Mancini’s here.” “Who’s that?” “Are you kidding me?” Bennie said. “I didn’t know either,” Beaux said. “She’s unbelievable,” Bennie said. “Look at her legs, so sexy and smooth.” “So thin,” Beaux said. THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 33

They all stood watching the famous woman enter the hotel, the tall man in a suit at her side. Suddenly the two-way radio beeped and Beaux, after telling the others goodbye, began to make his way onto the plank.

HEN BEAUX ARRIVED AT Ralph’s Buffet at the back end of the boat, the woman lay on the swirly-patterned carpet, her face giving off a reddish glow. She had halfswallowed a chunk of chicken teriyaki, the lump lodged in her throat. Beaux was used to this at Marvin’s—people taking advantage of the free drinks, stumbling into the buffet with their wallets open, carnivorously spading food down their throats. Everyone stood around as Beaux tried to kneel down and give her the Heimlich maneuver, but suddenly his belly flopped right out of the shirt, revealing this giant, veiny paunch. A few of the gamblers stepped back. “Hurry the hell up!” a man cried. Beaux hoisted the body over his belly, the woman limp like a puppet. Beaux tried to stretch his arms around her chest, but his arms were too short. They couldn’t reach all the way around, so he pulled back the sides of her rib cage, but his chubby fingers were slipping off and letting go. Then the body kind of bounced off the lard and fell to the floor. A slim man jumped over and grabbed the woman. “Jesus, you’re too damn fat,” he said, using his strong and normal-size man arms to pull back the woman’s chest. Suddenly the lump of gooey chicken launched across the room and landed on the carpet. The woman gasped for air, and the man held her up as another propped a chair for her to sit down. Beaux stepped back into the crowd with the others, the gamblers all staring at him in disgust. The EMT supervisor, a short man with a moustache, made his way into the restaurant. “What happened here?” A drunk, old woman pointed at Beaux. “Dat fatty almost kill her.” Beaux just stood there, his shirt undone, his round eyes on the woman and the husband who sat next to her. “Laverne, darlin’. Close one, darlin’. Get better cause I got forty mo’ bucks. We’re gonna hit your favorite slot, baby doll.” The supervisor stepped over to Beaux. “What the hell did you do?” “I just was trying to…” “Trying’s not good enough, you sorry ass. You can’t even do your job, you’re so damn fat.” 34 JAMES SMITH

“But I was just…” “You almost killed someone. You know what that means?” “Well, Jesus,” Beaux said. “I tried to, you know, everyone saw me, I was doing it, just doing what I was trained to do, everyone saw it.” “Don’t you get it Beaux?” the supervisor said. Beaux looked at the woman. “You saw me doing my best, didn’t you? You saw it.” The woman looked down at the carpet. “Can’t help ya’, there.” “This can’t happen,” the supervisor said. “This is going to cost your job, Beaux. You’re fired.” Beaux tried to hold back his tears, his big man tears. But just then, he decided to take off, bouncing through the crowds, making his way to the other end of the casino, trying not to cry. Weaving through the machines and tables and cigarette smoke, Beaux finally found a door with a sign, which read: Employees Only. He stepped in, quickly, shutting the door behind him, taking a moment to catch his breath. It was a hallway with several doors on each side. A few of the doors were open, light cutting across the concrete floor. Slowly, he wobbled over to the light of the first door, peeking in to see a chair, a desk and an open bag of potato chips below a stack of video screens, views of the cameras all over the casino. Beaux looked down the hall and back into the room. He reached over to grab the bag, shoveling the chips into his mouth, his teeth clamping down on them in whopping crunch noises. He continued to cry. “I’m worthless,” he said, turning the empty bag upside down. “Just a fat nobody.” Finally, he looked up at the stack of cameras. He could see all the main rooms of the casino, the people scurrying around the slots and tables like ants. On another screen, he could see people moving into the dining tables at the casino’s performance theater. The bag was empty, so he stood up and peeked down the hall and began trying to tiptoe, unsuccessfully. Finally, he reached the dressing rooms, and noticed an open door. He peeked inside, and saw a vanity and a recliner. He stepped in and shut the door behind him. He made his way to the vanity, on which sat a bucket of fresh ice with a bottle of Puriste vodka, next to several tumblers. He picked up the bottle and twisted the cap off. He took a swig, and held it in his hand, looking at himself in the mirror. He heard footsteps. “Shit.” He put the bottle back down, and tried to twist the THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 35

cap back on, but his fingers were shaking and the cap fell off. He didn’t have time to put it back on, so he leapt across the room, and squeezed himself into a closet, but he was too big, and the door wouldn’t close all the way. So he watched the room through the small crack. The dressing room door swung open and suddenly the slender legs stepped in. “No,” the female voice said. “Just let me warm up.” A man’s voice broke in. “Are you sure I can’t get you nothing?” “Yes, I’m sure. Now please leave me alone, thank you.” She closed the door behind her, and Beaux could see most of her body, her legs, so slim, so perfect. Mandy Mancini. “God!” she said. “What a bunch of fucking rednecks.” She sat at the vanity and held her chin up, staring at herself in the mirror. “Uh, is this even worth it? You’re better than this, and you know it. But you just need the money right now. Besides, they love you.” She reached over and took one of the tumblers, dropped two ice cubes and stopped at the sight of the open bottle. “Are you fucking kidding me?” She slammed down the glass, reopened the door and yelled down the hallway. “Rickey! Get back here! Rickey!” But there was no answer. “Okay, Mandy, let’s not waste your voice because some redneck retard drank your Puriste.” She closed the door and locked it. She sat back down, sighed, and poured the vodka in the glass. “Cheers to the mundane,” she said, drinking the whole glass in one gulp. “Now let’s start from the top. Okay, okay. Hey you guys, wow. You know what? This is actually not only my first time in the South, but my first time in a red state. I seriously could feel the IQ level just nosedive. And I have to admit; I didn’t realize you had airports. So yeah, I thought that would nosedive, too. Anyways, long trip here, and, you know, I was terrified of alligators. I had to ask my driver if there was some kind of repellent for that kind of thing. No, actually I did some research before I came, because we actually read where I come from. Yeah, I know right? Well, I read that this is actually one of America’s fattest states? Yeah, that’s right. Clap if I’m talking about you, because it’s okay if you like your fried mayonnaise. Just please, for god’s sake, buy two seats when you fly on an airplane…” Just then Beaux exhaled and the closet door bobbed off his belly, 36 JAMES SMITH

swinging open. Now he was just standing there, facing Mandy’s back, Mandy just gaping at him in the mirror. Suddenly, she turned around and hurled the bottle of vodka at him, the bottle ramming his stomach, vodka soaking his shirt. “What the fuck are you doing in my room!?” she screamed. “You fucking rednecks! You fucking fat rednecks! I hate this place!” “I don’t mean nothing.” Mandy ran out of the room screaming, and Beaux stood there for a moment, his clothes wet with vodka, watching the mirror. Then he stumbled out of the room, charging to the end of the hallway, the “EXIT” sign glowing in green.

ENNIE WAS STILL STANDING by the plank when Beaux got outside. “Arr. Ye fall in the deep waters?” “No, I didn’t.” Beaux, said wiping his hand over the damp part of his shirt. “Well, why ye all wet?” “Cut the accent. You don’t even sound like a pirate, you know that?” “Well Jesus, what’s with you?” “Not the best night, okay?” “Fine, but no need to be an ass. Oh, by the way, have you seen Janice?” “No, I haven’t..” “Well, I need her here, whether she’s gonna work or not. She took the camera.” “When did you last see her?” “I just went to the bathroom and came back and she was gone.” “Look. I don’t have time to go finding her. I’m gonna go home.” “Beaux, come on. Just go in the hotel and see if she’s there. How am I supposed to do my job without a camera? She always takes the pictures and they go on Marvin’s web site, but she’s been strange lately. I don’t get that girl.” “Okay, okay. I’ll just walk into the lobby, and if she’s ain’t there, well, she’s your problem.”

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 37

HE LOBBY SEEMED LIKE a shopping mall with a large atrium and a few gift shops and restaurants. Beaux cut through the families with suitcases and stepped up to the front desk. “Just a question, you see a girl come in here with a camera? She got on an employee tag, too.” The woman was typing on a computer. “What’s she look like?” “A little big, you know, plump.” The woman pulled her glasses down over her nose and looked at Beaux. The man at the next computer said, “Oh, I think I saw her. Like blonde hair, kind of big?” “Yeah, that’s her,” Beaux said. “Oh, saw her step in the elevator a while ago,” the man said.

FTER BEAUX HAD REACHED THE top floor and climbed the stairs to the roof, he finally found Janice sitting on the edge right next to the “Marvin’s” sign. He could only make out the large shadow of her figure from yards away. He didn’t call her name. Rather he just approached her, not too silent to go unnoticed. He stood next to her. “Nice view,” he said. “How’d you find me?” “I didn’t. I always wanted to come here, so I just did.” “People don’t realize how pretty this town can be. You just gotta see her from above.” “Her?” “She’s a woman, yes. An old woman now, though, a widow.” “Why you say that?” “Just look down there. All those crumbling buildings. Used to be oil money here, now they’re tearing it all down. Putting in casino money. “Here,” she said. “Hold this.” Beaux took the camera. “It ain’t much,” she said. “Just a point-and-shoot, but something about looking through a camera. World just looks more real that way. Have a look.” Beaux looked through the camera and could only make out the bright casino lights. “Yeah, I think I see it,” he said. “You can have it.” 38 JAMES SMITH

“The camera?” “Yeah, I don’t want it anymore. See, if I had a real camera, see, I’d take me some real photos. Then people could see what was left from her first husband, the oil man. All those old buildings before they get knocked down.” “Why don’t you?” “That’s why I been working, here. Saving up the money for it. But I can’t take much more of this job. Gonna find something else, I guess.” “Like what?” “No idea.” Beaux sat near the edge, but not as close as Janice, and they looked down through the casino’s lights and tried to make out the old town, and the buildings, but other than lit windows, it was all too dark too see. Beaux peeked his head over the edge and could see the boat below and the boardwalk. “Seems so small from up here,” he said “Or we seem bigger.”

EVERAL HOURS LATER, the two finally took the elevator down, and Beaux slipped the camera into the first aid pouch on his belt. Then he reached over and held Janice’s hand. They watched each other in the reflection of the metal doors as the elevator made its way down. When the doors opened in the lobby, Beaux and Janice stepped out, and suddenly the man from the desk hurried to Beaux. “I was looking for you!” he said. “You’re the EMT, right?” “Well…” “Look, we got an emergency call from one of the rooms, but they don’t want the police to come. It’s kind of personal. So, look, I don’t know, just go up there and see what’s wrong. Let’s just say it’s a very important customer?” When the man said “important customer,” he made bunny ears with his fingers for quotation marks. Beaux looked at the man and then at Janice. “Janice, I should take this. Can you wait?” “I can wait.” The man led Beaux to the elevator. “The room is 2018,” he said, winking his right eye. “The honeymoon suite.” THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 39

Beaux stood in the elevator and watched the metal doors close.

HEN HE KNOCKED on the door of 2018, an old man in a white bathrobe answered. His eyebrows were trimmed and his face glowed a spay-on orange. He looked familiar. “Come in!” he said. “Hurry! This way.” The man led him to the living room of the suite. “What’s the problem here?” Beaux asked. “It’s hard to explain, just come into the bedroom.” “Hey,” Beaux said, ain’t you…” “Yes, yes. I’m Marvin. The guy on the commercials. Now, before we go in, you have to promise you won’t say anything about this.” “Got it,” Beaux said. As Beaux passed the mini bar, he noticed an open bottle of Puriste vodka. Marvin opened the bedroom door, and Beaux could see her lying on the bed, stark naked, with her mouth open. Mandy Mancini. When she saw Beaux walk in, she cried, “Mwraahh mwraaaahhh!!!” “It’s okay, babe. This man will help you.” “Mwraahhh!” “What’s wrong with her? Why can’t she talk?” Beaux asked. “Are you dumb? Her jaw’s stuck open.” “Well how’d she get her jaw stuck open?” “Well, how do you think a girl gets her jaw stuck open?” “I really don’t know,” Beaux said. “God, you people stupid? Man, she was, you know.” Marvin raised his trimmed eyebrows and pointed to his crotch. Mandy sat up from the bed and kept making frantic signals with her hands. “Mwrahhhh!” she cried. “Mandy,” Marvin said. “You got to be quiet.” He looked at Beaux. “So you have all the proper training, I mean, you know how to pop it back into place?” “Yeah, I know what to do.” Mandy tried to get up and run out of the room, but Marvin grabbed her. “Don’t be scared, now,” Marvin said. “This man’s gonna fix the problem. Last thing we need is you runnin’ down the halls like this. Now, just sit on the bed and be still.” 40 JAMES SMITH

“Mrwaahh!” she cried, pointing at Beaux in horror. “Marvin, you mind holdin’ her on the bed?” Beaux said. “It’d just make this a hell of lot easier.” “Ah, no problem,” he said, sitting down on the bed, his arms holding the naked comedian down. “Now just be still, Mandy baby.” The two-way radio on Beaux’s belt suddenly beeped, but he turned the knob to off position. From where he stood by the bed, he could see the window, the casino lights from the Marvin’s sign flooding the room. He took a breath and reached into the first aid pouch, running his pudgy fingers over the camera. Quickly, his hand rose from the pouch and he held the camera to his eye. “Why you got a camera?” Marvin cried, letting go of the girl. “Whoa! Wait a fucking minute. You come back here! Get back here, fatty!” Beaux had already pressed down the button, sprinting out of the suite and making his down the hall, the camera held tight in his hand. Standing in the elevator, he could see the old man hobbling toward him. “You bastard!” he cried with a fist in the air. “Come back with that camera!” The doors closed and Beaux watched himself in the metal doors, looking bigger than he ever had before. At first, he could hear the old man pounding his fist and shouting from the other side, but it all faded away as the elevator began to make its way back down to earth.

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 41

East or West River Drive is Right for You AnneYoncha

42 ANNE YONCHA

Mother Should I Trust the Government

AndresCerpa

All that’s on my mind is Revolution reefer and raid. My mind wanders but it’s trapped in a cage, A cage called language Because words cant express The anger in my soul Or the pounding in my chest, As these old men in Congress make my neighborhood a mess. With their lies of no child left behind. Teachers don’t give a fuck and it plagues my mind And then the world wonders why our crime is so high Mommies and daddies can’t even get jobs that are part time. So it makes sense to Rob and steal Rape and pillage The U.S. has bred their children to hate their own village. So we slowly destroy it with – MTV – BET – Handguns – and – 40’s of OE Grown men sleep on streets and smoke methamphetamine But the mass of men refuse to open their eyes, They focus on blue screens And silently hate their lives Fuck 9 to 5. They simply live to earn money. Their lives now reduced to dull pleasantries, Politicians promise change But we will always be subjected to the power of the powers that be. That’s why I scream fuck this government it was never for me. Thousands of promises That have all been broken Yet I’m hoping THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 43

On election day voting For another republican democrat independent this that or the other People who for power would disown their own mother. Yet I put them in power, Say this man will speak for me. I want my voice I need to be free. This nation fueled by real estate, oil and guns Greed, envy and hedge funds. Where is my voice? Where is democracy? They throw us Obama But cant you see, He is only one man although an inspiration he may be. But what happens to my brother, my sister, my neighbor? Were still in this city No one gives us a favor. So what can I do with revolution on my mind? Write another poem and hope everything will be ďŹ ne? Your sons are dying Your daughters are giving birth Education is not valued Healthcare is a mess You canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see a doctor for the pain in your chest The television shows nothing but death. But yet I have no answers Only questions I wake up put my pants on one leg at a time, Step in line With contempt for the system And revolution on my mind.

44 ANDRES CERPA

Fashionista

SamanthaMancuso

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 45

Before the Storm MaddieThomas

46 MADDIE THOMAS

If Thy Right Eye Offend Thee JamesSmith

HE GILFRY FAMILY THERAPIST thought it strange that it was Rupert and not Sophie who wanted to stop having sex. One day he told her, without warning, that he’d be better off without sex, that sex was a waste of his time. And so he moved into the guest bedroom, and Sophie called her friends to find a good therapist. Together, they came to the therapist three times a week. Apart, they came once a week. “Someone isn’t being honest here,” the therapist said. “We are being honest,” Sophie said. “At least I’m being honest.” “I just don’t want this,” Rupert said. “Things aren’t this simple,” the therapist said. “You’re not being honest.” In the car, on the way home from the therapist, Sophie looked at Rupert. Rupert looked out the window. Sophie said, “Are you being honest?” Rupert said, “Will you keep your eyes on the road?” Rupert and Sophie didn’t talk about this to their friends. They didn’t want to be that couple who doesn’t have sex. Sophie worried their friends would have a way of noticing these things, the slight distance and tension between them. Especially the Waltzman’s, she thought. The Waltzman’s will surely know that we are that couple who doesn’t have sex. The Gilfry’s dined often with the Waltzman’s, and Mr. and Mrs. Waltzman, both having Ph.D’s in cognitive psychology, knew all sorts of things about people. “Why do you cross your legs away from Sophie, Rupert?” Mr. Waltzman said. “Do you have any idea what that means?” Mrs. Waltzman said. “I’m sorry,” Rupert said. “And never apologize,” Mr. Waltzman said. Rupert and Sophie also had their daughter to worry about. “She’s eleven years old,” Sophie said. “What will she think about this?” “Eleven years old,” Rupert said. “She doesn’t know what sex is.” THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 47

“She wants a little brother,” Sophie said. “Well, Christ, Sophie. We’ll go to the adoption agency tomorrow.” “Why are you doing this to me?” Sophie said. “I’m doing nothing to you, Sophie.” “I wish you would do something,” Sophie said. On the way home from work, Rupert sat alone in the driver’s seat and he turned off the radio at the stoplight. He watched his palm grip the steering wheel and he slid it back and forth. The light turned back to the green and the cars in front of him moved through the intersection, but Rupert didn’t follow. He watched the green light over the tip of the wheel, and a car behind him honked. He looked in the rearview mirror and then the car passed his car. He waited a while longer and then he pressed the gas pedal and kept going. “Why are you late?” Sophie said. “Where did you go?” “Nowhere,” Rupert said. “I think you went somewhere. You smell like soap. Where did you go?” “I went nowhere,” Rupert said. “There’s not a woman, is there? You wouldn’t cheat, would you?” “I wouldn’t,” Rupert said. “You know I wouldn’t.” “I hope I do.” Alone, at therapy, Sophie said she needed to be touched. She couldn’t handle the silence and the distance. She said she no longer knew the man living in the guest bedroom. Alone, at therapy, Rupert said he couldn’t take being touched. He needed time and he needed space. He said he didn’t know who he was anymore, that he needed to figure it out. Together, at therapy, they both were fairly quiet and they both had trouble looking at each other. The therapist picked up on this and wrote this down. She wrote down many things and she spoke while she wrote. “Are you masturbating?” she said. “I am,” Sophie said. “Are you, Rupert?” the therapist said. Rupert looked at the ground. “Rupert, you need to talk about this,” Sophie said. “I don’t need anything,” he said. 48 JAMES SMITH

“Are you having erectile problems, Rupert? There are medicines for this.” Rupert pushed his chair back and stood up and left the room. He sat in the passenger seat of the car for a half hour, until Sophie came out of the building and got in the driver’s seat. “Is she right? Do you need medicine?” she said. “I don’t have a problem,” he said. “It’s alright, Rupert. We can get you medicine,” she said. “That’s not my problem,” he said. “What is your problem?” she said. “I don’t have a problem,” he said. “Men just don’t stop wanting sex, Rupert,” she said. “I do.” They pulled in the driveway and Sophie paid the babysitter, while Rupert picked up his daughter, who had fallen asleep on the couch. He carried her upstairs to her bedroom and pulled back the sheets and laid her in bed. He patted her forehead and stood over her bed for a while. Sophie softly came in behind him. She rested her arms around Rupert’s thighs, and he pulled away. For a moment, they stood facing each other in the dark. Then Rupert left the room. In the bathroom that they still shared, Sophie took off her shirt and looked in the mirror at the small amounts of flab hanging over her bra. Rupert brushed his teeth. “Am I not sexual?” Sophie said. Rupert spit out the toothpaste. “You are sexual,” Rupert said. “I just can’t find anything to wear anymore,” Sophie said. “You look fine.” She stood behind him at the sink. She eased her hand over his slacks, over his crotch. Rupert waited for a moment and then turned away and went back downstairs to the guest room and tried to fall asleep. At work, Rupert locked the door to his office. He looked out the window and then he walked across the room and got a water bottle from the small fridge. He set his briefcase on his desk and pulled out a small medicine bottle and took a swig of water followed by a pill. Then he unlocked the door to the office and returned to his standing position by the window. Again, he arrived home late. Sophie wasn’t downstairs, so THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 49

Rupert went upstairs and the bedroom door was closed. He cracked the door open and the room was dark and candlelit. He stepped in and looked at Sophie, who was nude, lying on the bed with her legs spread open. She began to massage herself, her breasts and her genitals, and she signaled for Rupert to come over to her. Rupert stood for a moment and watched her do this and then he left the room and closed the door. Alone, at therapy, Sophie said she couldn’t take it anymore. She said she needed touch and she needed sex. Alone, at therapy, Sophie said she couldn’t talk Rupert into therapy anymore. She said he’s broken and she can’t find out why. He’s hiding something. The therapist said, “You need to find out what it is.” The therapist said, “You need to break a few rules.” At home, Sophie used the time Rupert spent being late. She went through his closets. She opened the drawers to his desk. She rummaged through the guest bedroom, finding nothing. Rupert arrived home and took off his shoes and set his briefcase in the foyer. In the kitchen, he peeled a banana and ate it while he sat at the breakfast nook. Then he approached the mini-bar and poured bourbon into a glass and took a sip. He got up and cupped his hand under the icemaker, until two cubes dropped out and then he plopped them in the glass and swirled the bourbon and ice together and took another sip. With the glass of bourbon in his hand, he returned to the foyer and picked up his shoes with his other hand and then stopped to look at the space where his briefcase was missing. Then he dropped the glass and the bourbon spilled over the tiles. Then he banged his bedroom door open and looked at Sophie sitting on the bed with the small medicine bottle in her hand. Rupert said, “Why are you going through my stuff?” Sophie said, “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” He clumped over to the bed and snatched the bottle from her hand and threw it in the briefcase. He slammed the door shut and went back to the guest bedroom, where he locked the door. He took the briefcase and he stepped into the small bathroom, where he locked the door. Then Sophie knocked. “What are you hiding from me?” she said. “What are you sick with?” Sophie sat outside the door, crying. Rupert sat in the bathroom 50 JAMES SMITH

looking in the mirror and looking at the bottle. He put it back in the briefcase and opened the bathroom door. He opened the bedroom door. “Come in and sit down,” he said. “I can’t Rupert,” she said. “Just come in,” he said. “Sit down.” “I’m thinking right now,” she said. “Don’t think,” he said. “Nothing is worth thinking about.” “I can’t take this anymore,” she said. “I can’t take not knowing.” Rupert was quiet. “I’ve been thinking, Rupert,” she said. “Thinking you’re not honest with me. Thinking lots of things. I think I’m leaving you, Rupert.” Then Rupert heard her footsteps above as she walked between the dresser and the suitcase on the bed. Then he went upstairs and waited outside her door. She stepped out of the bedroom with the suitcase in her hand and stopped at the sight of her husband and they stared at each other for a moment. Rupert kissed her. She said, “Why are you doing this me?” He said, “Don’t talk.” He said, “Get on the bed.” The next morning, Rupert and Sophie lay in the bed together. She lay facing him, her arm on his waist. He lay facing the wall, his eyes open. She yawned. “You didn’t finish it,” she said. “Why couldn’t you finish it?” “I was tired,” he said. “I’m trying.” He got up and stepped over the suitcase on the floor. He put on his suit and tied the laces to his shoes. He drove toward work. Alone, at therapy, Sophie said she knew he didn’t go to work. He left his suitcase. He left his medicine. The therapist said, “I know this medicine. I know what it’s for.” The therapist said, “I know why he didn’t have sex with you.” Alone, Rupert drove. He knew where it was. The park where it happened, the men standing around their cars and smoking cigarettes. Alone, Rupert would go there, he would find the man that gave it to him, the man to blame, but the park would have other men, men moving away from their cars, men walking back into the trees. Gripping the steering wheel, he would press the brake pedal. He would watch a man drop a cigarette and crush it below his boot. He would watch the THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 51

man move away from his car in front of Rupertâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s car. They would look at each other through the windshield. Rupert would wait for a moment, and then lift his foot, letting go of the brake, pressing down the gas, just letting go.

52 JAMES SMITH

Magnum Opus MikeMekailek

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 53

A Sydney Portrait

AndrewTauro

54 ANDREW TAURO

Dandelions

JustinSadegh

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 55

Half of Me is Ocean, Half of Me is Sky AnneYoncha

56 ANNE YONCHA

A Scene from Jurassic Park DanielBuhse (As told through the eyes of a student at UD)

HE COURSE LOAD AND long hours of studying for biomechanics and microbiology never consume me whole, for I looked to the weekend for my release. My release does not come rolled in a joint, encased in a pill nor is it tucked away in the deep recesses of a bottle. No my friend, my release comes in the form of people watching. Although I may be inebriated at the time of my people watching, it is not always necessary. It is a funny thing going to UD, for everyone is normal during the day but come 10:30 when the pregame ends and people clamor towards the bars, a peculiar transformation occurs. No longer are we in the twenty-first century… we are relocated to the Cretaceous. Distant screams of pterodactyls taking wing and the silent swish of velociraptors consume the midnight air. Hunched over with a lust for blood, these wretched creatures emit terrifying, ear-piercing shrills and make their way towards Kate’s, the exalted altar to which these creatures sacrifice their souls in exchange for a drink. I’ve once heard of a man who entered that place and was torn to shreds by pterodactyls before he could even hand the tender a dollar. When Kate’s ends their rituals and everyone must go home, the hordes take wing once again. Within the comfort of my screened-in porch, I am able to safely observe these animals make their way home. In drunken stupor, pterodactyls bicker amongst themselves and it is not uncommon to see the gnashing of teeth and clawing of faces. Most common though is the expectoration of toxic sludge from the beasts’ mouths. Come morning, the horrid creatures return to from whence they came. And it is not rare to see a wounded pterodactyl limping back after being taken by a t-rex the night before. The locals call it “the walk of shame”. And thus my story has come to a close, but fear not little one for next weekend will be another adventure at the University of Delaware.

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This Is It MikeDeMarco If this isn’t love, then why do I feel so much? And what is it that makes my head go round and round while my heart just stands still so much? -Jack Lawrence The radio faded as I took the last drag on a fading cigarette and heaved the butt out the open window. She looked at me from the passenger seat with disdain and closed the visor mirror. “That’ll kill you, you know.” She muttered as the mirror snapped shut. I took a rigid right turn, slowing to an excruciating pace in the process. The bobble-headed Jesus on the dash looked like he agreed with her. The sun setting, I felt like saying something snide, but it would only start something. “Pick your battles,” the counselor said. It didn’t matter whether I said something or not. She knew I would never stop smoking. She didn’t even really care that I did. She would be distraught if I stopped. She needed something to hold over me. “It’s a disgusting habit,” she said, ignoring all the times she told me she loved how I smelled after coming in from a smoke. She was full of contradictions, and maybe that’s why I found it easy to hate her and love her at the same damned time. We arrived at her parents’ house and the cavalcade of thuds from car doors closing began, followed quickly by the high-pitched and familiar, “Oh, look who’s here!” I stood a step behind her during greetings and held a ten-cent smile on my face. “At least it’s downhill from here,” I thought to myself as I shook the hands of ten people I was meeting for the first time, just like every year. I knew I had seen them all before and I knew I should remember who was married to Joan and whose wife killed herself but we don’t talk about it, but I didn’t care enough to take the refresher course in the car and now I felt worse for it. 58 MIKE DEMARCO

After an hour of, “How’s Stan’s new job?” and “Does Rachel like the university?” I was able to escape for another smoke. I stood on the rotting wood deck with my sweater on and shivered. Lighting one of my last Marlboros, I sighed as I heard the deck door snap open. It was her. “I thought I would find you out here,” she said. I wasn’t sure if the comment held malice or a knowing smile. She embraced me while I smoked in the dark backyard punctuated by the lone ember on the deck. As the cigarette burned down I wished it would never finish. “It’s gotta be dinner time,” I thought to myself wishing I was anywhere else. Dinner time would mean more schmoozing and I was approaching capacity. I opened my mouth to speak, but didn’t say anything as I took another drag off the cigarette. I couldn’t say it to her. I couldn’t say it to myself. I didn’t want to bring it up here. Every time I got close to bringing it up, something got in the way and now this cigarette was dead. She removed herself from me and said, “I guess we should go back inside.” I sighed silently and flicked the dead butt into a wet pile of leaves. “I don’t want to set the yard on fire…” I thought to myself and almost laughed at my own inside joke. We went back through the sliding glass door into the living room where everything seemed blurred and tinged with soft yellow, like a Campbell’s soup commercial. It was a cloyingly sweet image of her family sitting on leather arm chairs and sofas raucously retelling stories everyone had heard a hundred times and laughed at a hundred times. I tried to stay out of it in the fifteen minutes before dinner, but found it impossible to remain a bystander. I was constantly dragged in with the “But you don’t know what happened AFTER that!” and the “But did he tell you what he said THEN?” Of course I had heard what happened after that and what he said then, but it didn’t matter. They weren’t telling the stories to me, they were speaking for the sake of speaking. Dinner was no different: loud, stale stories that reminded me too much of the breadsticks on my plate. I sat at the corner of the table THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 59

next to her and shot tentative glances around at the familiar band of players who enjoyed the familiarity of their roles a bit too much. I ate little and needed a cigarette halfway through dinner. I felt like I was sitting on aluminum stands watching a horde tear itself apart. Sitting quietly in the tumult herself, she shot me a wry glance. A glance that shouted “Why don’t you ever socialize?!” I flinched slightly and tried to smile back. At least we were alone together. Maybe that’s all that counts. As soon as the first plate was cleared I was out of the dining room. Back on the deck, standing in the dark, I sparked another cigarette. My last pack really was running low. Taking a comforting drag, the deck door opened behind me again. I didn’t have to look to know who it was. She leaned on me again, arms around my waist. I put my free hand around her shoulder and tried to say it. I tried so hard. At this point she had noticed my attempt to speak, but didn’t move. I audibly sighed and said, “Honey…” The following pause was more unbearable than the uproar inside. “Honey?” I thought to myself. “Where the fuck did that come from?” “Honey…” I repeated, touching her hair softly. It pained me to say it. I felt a tear almost come to my eye. I knew it would happen eventually. I knew what we had couldn’t last as it was. “People grow,” the counselor said. I almost said “honey” a third time, but in the century-long silence as we stood on the rotting-wood deck as the cigarette flared, lighting our vision, I blurted out “I love you.”

60 MIKE DEMARCO

Exit 13

OlgaDmytrenko

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 61

Home Visit

NinaBennett

Alone with David in his eighth floor apartment, door double-locked with chain and deadbolt, we complete his intake, sign forms, develop a care plan. He answers my questions in raspy, staccato bursts, checks his watch frequently. The packet from social services arrives the following day, and in the security of my compact cubicle I discover he served fifteen years for manslaughter. When the electric hole punch slams through his packet, I flinch. Did he use a knife or a gun?

62 NINA BENNETT

The Floor Below

Jane M.Chandlee

HAVE YOUR LAUNDRY, read the note someone had slid under the door. This was one day after she had returned to the Soapy Suds Laundromat downstairs to find her basket gone from the top of the machine and the machine empty. How many times had Connor warned her not to leave her clothes down there, that the smart thing was to stay and wait. But she had preferred the gamble, not willing to spend two hours in those cracked plastic chairs bolted in a row, listening to the incessant hum of the spin cycle, inhaling the scent of fabric softener. And then the inevitable static cling shock when someone too cheap to buy dryer sheets brushed against her. For years she’d been risking it with no problem, but now she had spent the last twenty-four hours bemoaning the loss of her clothes: the faded San Francisco t-shirt she’d had since high school, the perfect-fitting khaki shorts it’d taken her years to find, and the halter sundress she’d bought on clearance in December. She’d only just worn the dress for the first time last week, when the nascent spring finally granted a day of warmth. Men on the street paused to watch her pass that day. Connor, when she stepped out of the bedroom that morning, had only noted that she’d forgotten to cut off the tag. Now she wondered, standing in the doorway with the note in hand, if Connor had written it as a joke. But she didn’t recognize the handwriting, or the takeout menu for a barbeque restaurant across town that served as paper. Connor hated barbeque. Looking again, she noticed that the y in laundry curved into an arrow, and she unfolded the menu to find the rest of the note on the other side: If you want to see your laundry again, be at O’Leary’s tonight at 7.

T’S NOT DARK YET, she told herself as she approached the pub. Bad things don’t happen in daylight. This is fine. Had they really never been to this place? She’d always wanted to try it, but Connor refused, said the place was trying too hard. She entered with confidence, but found inside that her safety light would not be permitted to accompany her. Thick curtains shut out every trace of the sun. The only light was the dank glimmer of electric candles mounted on the walls. Men, only men, leaned over their pints at the bar; later they would emerge THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 63

from the pub to blink at the bright sky as though waking from a restless sleep. She scanned the room and spotted him instantly. Not because she knew him, but because he sat alone at a two-person table in the middle of the room, the empty chair pulled out and one of her socks sitting on the placemat. She would have laughed at the sight of it, one of those ugly Christmas socks her mother had sent her last year, the red ones with reindeer heads that she only wore when nothing else was clean, when she’d open the drawer to find that smiling reindeer gazing up at her with its stuck-on googly eye. But his own eyes – his beady, close-together blue eyes with their fine, translucent lashes. And the softness of his ashen skin – spongy and gathered about the folded collar of his gray polo shirt. She didn’t laugh at her reindeer sock. She wanted Connor to be there, his guiding hand on the small of her back as she weaved around the tables toward the thief. Hello Lena, he said with a nod. It should not have surprised her that he knew her name, since he obviously knew where she lived and had somehow seen which washer she used. Still it alarmed her, the realization that she had been watched without sensing it. Had that been the first time? A random opportunity? Or had he planned it for months? Aren’t you going to sit down, he asked. No, of course I’m not. She snatched the sock from the table. Where are the rest of my clothes? That’s all you get for today. What does that mean? You have to come back again. She looked around. The other patrons weren’t paying them any attention, and this annoyed her. She wanted something from them all – maybe protection, maybe a grand announcement of this practical joke. But she knew if she went up to any of them and described the situation, they would only look at her as though she were the crazy one. She looked back at the man, sitting with his hands folded on the placemat and watching her with patient eyes. The patience annoyed her. Seven again will be fine, he said. Oh good, she sneered, but he had stopped looking at her. His eyes were raised to the baseball game playing on the television mounted behind her. She was dismissed. On unsteady feet she turned and left the bar. 64 JANE M. CHANDLEE

HIS MAKES NO SENSE, Connor said later. What the hell does he want with your laundry? He didn’t explain anything. He just said to come back. To the same place? Yeah. And then what? I don’t know. Guess he’ll give me the rest. Did you have to buy him a drink or something? No. I was there for all of two minutes. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not making this up. The note dangled from his hand over the table, where he had been about to sit down to reheated pizza, their ancient microwave no doubt searing the cheese on the edges while leaving the middle bites frosty beneath deceptive pools of grease. Two years and neither of them have told maintenance about the useless appliance. The guy sounds like a nut job, Connor said. I can’t believe you went there. I wanted my stuff! I still do. He sucked in his breath and pulled his lips back away from the burning tip of the pizza. She shook her head. He does that every time, can never just wait for it to cool. You’re not going there again, he said, trying to chew without letting the food touch the roof of his mouth. It’s a public place. What could happen? She knew how stupid that sounded. Don’t be stupid. This isn’t someone you want to associate with. Connor sniffed. I hate that Laundromat. What kind of suds aren’t soapy? These are my things! My clothes. I can’t just buy a whole new wardrobe. You’re not going to that bar alone again. Then come with me. HE MAN SAT AT THE SAME TABLE as last time. She glanced at Connor behind him, seated at the bar out of his view, stool swiveled around to face them. She was glad he was there. You should have come alone, he said as she sat down. What? They had entered separately, Connor a few minutes before her. It took them twenty minutes to decide on the strategy.

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Your boyfriend at the bar. He shouldn’t be here. Of course. This man knew things. Of course he’d recognize Connor. You never said to come alone. It stands to reason. What reason? How does reason fit into any of this? This is not normal. This is not a situation in which common sense applies. Just give me my stuff, you freak. Anger doesn’t belong here either, Lena. Her skin prickled at the slight grate of his voice around her name. She realized then that Connor couldn’t hear a word they were saying in the surrounding din of chatter and pool cues striking balls. You stole from me. I have a right to be angry. Is it still a right when you don’t know how to use it? What the hell does that mean? What do you want from me? I want you to talk to me. That’s what we’re doing. There’s no talking in anger. Ah, I see, she said. You work for one of those quote-a-day calendar publishers, don’t you. She sighed and slumped in the chair, swinging her legs to the side and crossing them away from him. She tried to calculate the minimum cost to just replace her clothes. How much would it take to survive? The bartender put a Guinness in front of Connor. Of course. When in Rome, he would have said. She fixed her eyes on his finger smearing the condensation on the glass. Don’t wave him over here, the man said. Tomorrow, you’ll come to my apartment instead. Fuck no. He opened one side of his jacket, revealing a piece of fabric hanging out of his inside pocket. He pulled it out and set it on the table between them. Her bikini top. She wore it to the gym when she ran out of sports bras. She snatched it and balled it in her hands. One piece at a time, he said, and rose from the table. He dropped some cash onto the placemat. Connor got off his barstool and took a few steps toward them. Apartment 5, the man said. In my building? In our building. Tomorrow at seven. He left without another 66 JANE M. CHANDLEE

word. She met Connor’s eyes as he came the rest of the way over and sat down in the chair the man had just vacated. She almost stopped him, as if the chair had something disgusting spilled on it. What’d he say? Is that your bathing suit? Yeah. He said to come to his apartment tomorrow night. He said one piece at a time. Fucking psychopath. Should we call the police or something? I mean this is technically theft, isn’t it? I guess. But I doubt they’ll prioritize my t-shirts over solving murders and finding missing children. Should still file the report, Connor said. He lives in our building. Right underneath us. Seriously? That’s even better. We know where the stuff is, we tell the police, they show up with a warrant or whatever, then go in and get it for us. Don’t you think they might just laugh and hang up? Stop worrying what people will think. He sighed. All right, fine, we’ll go in and get it ourselves. Pretend to be the UPS man or something. He looked pretty out of shape. If I can get one foot in the door, I can get in, hold him off while you look for your stuff. You watch too much television. Think he wears your bras? She got up from the table and walked away, slowly enough to hear Connor’s chair scrape the floor, then his empty glass set on the table. Inside their foyer, Connor paused at the row of locked mailboxes by the door. His name’s Griffen, he said. What does that tell you? Only serial killers and dog kickers have names like Griffen. Probably a last name, Lena replied, glancing at the label on their own box: Wickfield-Orson, crammed in her tiny print, the metal window edges cutting off both ends. Doesn’t make it any less true, Connor replied, mounting the stairs. ENA HAD BEEN HERE BEFORE, this moment of realizing she was about to do something stupid. Every time, one part of her mind recognized the truth of the stupidity, while the part meant to draw that realization out to the realm of consequence just didn’t kick

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 67

in. So now, as she headed down the staircase, she knew she was leaving logic behind, yet still found her foot going on to the next step. Sure, something terrible could happen: murder, rape, torture, awkward conversation. But none of that would happen. Not really. Connor, of course, wasn’t home, gone to Sidecar as he always did on Tuesdays to meet the other staff reporters and vent over half-price pints. She had at least three hours. Last night they argued in bed until he finally turned off the light and said she either had to go to the police or drop it entirely. In the morning he’d left a message with the landlord, asking if they did background checks on new tenants. Lena promised she’d call the police. You promise? he’d asked. You have a lot of clothes - it could go on forever. Why start something, you know? But that’s precisely what she was about to do, alone. Start something. She stood on the second floor landing and moved toward door number five. The path was familiar, but just being one floor below changed everything. The view through the window at the end of the hall, the angle of the intersection stoplight she glimpsed through it – all together it made her feel as though the floor slanted away from her feet, and she had to focus to walk straight. Because of the view, she thought. Nothing else. She tapped on the door and glanced over her shoulder for a sign that someone down the hall was home. The rolled-up sleeves of Connor’s blue Oxford shirt kept sliding past her elbows; she shoved them higher, those extra covered inches making her too warm. Along with the shirt she wore her only pair of clean shorts – the khaki ones that were a little too tight around the thigh and reminded her that she loathed her hips. When the door opened she jumped, the doctor’s office reflex, waiting in silence for someone to burst into the room with bad news. Griffen looked shorter than she remembered. Not shorter than her, but not as tall as Connor. Somehow that comforted her. You came, Lena, he said, as if revealing a fact she had somehow missed. It’s short for Helena, right? Yeah. She was becoming less surprised by the things he knew. Did you think I wouldn’t come? One can never be sure. One? She decided right then that there could be little danger with someone so unbelievably out of it. Please, come in. He backed away from the door and held out an 68 JANE M. CHANDLEE

arm in welcome. Her stomach roiled. She had counted on this, not supposing for a moment that he would be content just speaking to her in the hallway. But now she drew back from the doorway as though a guillotine blade were embedded in the jamb. He stretched his arm further in encouragement, and she complied. The layout of his apartment was the same as her and Connor’s, of course, but Griffen had a lot more furniture. Putting together their apartment had been the one thing she and Connor had completely agreed upon – she wanted a minimalist décor, nothing unnecessary or redundant and as much open space as possible. Cleared off shelf tops and end tables, the smooth, shiny surfaces more beautiful than any knickknack. And a hell of a lot easier to dust. Connor had approved, never one to waste money. Griffen, however, was a pack rat. That’s the word that came to mind and made Lena’s lip twitch in disapproval. What do you need all this for? She wanted to ask him of the stacks of movies around the television. There were stacks everywhere: stacks of books and magazines, stacks of mail, folded paper grocery bags, coupon circulars. And for just one man he had way too many options for sitting: three recliners plus the large sofa, a dining room table with six chairs, four stools lining one wall. Every seat surrounded by piles. You must entertain a lot, she gibed, then pinched her lips. She stood just inside the doorway, going any further would mean turning her back to him. The place smelled so foreign – not exactly bad, or even unclean, but stuffy, as if the very air knew how overcrowded the space had become with objects. Leave it open, she said when he started to close the door. We need privacy. No. All right then. He left it open and gestured further into the apartment. She shook her head. Why did you ask me to come here? She tried to stare him down to keep him from moving, but she couldn’t help scanning the room for her clothes, hoping to find them neatly folded in one of those stacks. I hear you talking upstairs, he replied with a nod toward the ceiling. These walls are so thin. People forget how thin they are. You take it for granted, don’t you? Having someone to talk to. He paused, his face wistful, almost pitying. Lena paused. Was she supposed to THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 69

apologize? Explain? Forgive? So thin, he went on. I hear a lot through these walls. His eyes lowered then, down her body. Her limbs itched. She had never been a screamer, but Connor had become more inventive lately. Her face flushed. Anger, she told herself. Not shame. I don’t understand, she said. You just want someone to talk to? It’s really not asking much, is it? Do you realize how completely weird that is? Then why are you here? He didn’t wait for an answer, just left her standing there by the open door, sat on the couch, looked out the window. A breeze lifted the heavy blinds away from the glass, letting them hover a moment before releasing them to slap against the sash. Connor didn’t mind the lingering cool weather, not using their air conditioner kept the electricity bills down. He was waiting for her to sit down. Aren’t you going to offer me a drink first? She quipped. Griffen didn’t react, which only made her regret the comment more. Though a drink did sound good right about now. She made sure the door was still open, then eased over to a chair opposite the couch and sat on its very edge, placing her hands on her knees and leaning forward to put as little weight as possible on the chair. So what do you want to talk about, she asked. Maybe this was fine, just an indirect and unintentional form of community service. Keeping a lonely man company had to be worth something – some karma points, some step toward redemption. Is that how you normally start a conversation? No, she wanted to say, but nothing about this is normal. The word normal doesn’t even belong in the building at this point. I’ll play along, but you’re in charge, you fucking psycho. Instead she said, I guess I’m still a bit confused. It’s not that complicated, Lena. Not everything has to be. I have something you want and you can provide something I want. It’s a simple exchange. Supply and demand. Lena had failed economics in college. Connor aced it. How long do I have to talk to you before I get my laundry back? One piece at a time, he said. From behind the couch cushion he pulled a patterned piece of fabric that she instantly recognized as one of her tank tops, the floral one with a tiny bow at the middle of the neckline. She eyed it, her desire to snatch it at war with her reluctance to get any closer to him. 70 JANE M. CHANDLEE

Remember? I already told you that. You are going to have to listen better, Lena. One hour at a time. He picked at the tiny bow and Lena clenched her jaw. So do you enjoy working at the wine shop? he asked. Are you kidding me, she nearly shouted. That’ll take forever. What am I supposed to wear in the meantime?

NE HOUR LATER SHE EASED her key into the apartment lock, listening for a sign of Connor’s presence. Met by silence, she opened the door. She pitched the balled-up tank top onto the couch, then thought again, stripped off Connor’s shirt, and put it on. She was too hot for all that fabric. The Oxford dropped to the floor and she kicked it down the hall just as Connor walked in behind her. Hey, he half laughed. She knew he was a bit annoyed that she had treated his shirt so poorly, after he had been so nice to lend it to her. But the pub left him in a good enough mood to let it slide. Hi. You found your shirt? It was only partially a question, really just the first step toward figuring out what she had done. Kind of, she said. You’re home early? I can’t believe you. You went down there? It’s fine. Nothing happened. That makes it fine? What the hell kind of logic is that? What did he say? Did he give you everything back? No, just this. He paused. So he expects you to keep going back then. You got it. You’re so smart. She looked away, hating how he could make her feel like that. No one else could do that, except her mother. You’re unbelievable. What does that mean? They’re just clothes! They’re my clothes! I bought them. They belong to me. I don’t want them in this creepy nasty guy’s smelly apartment for the rest of time. Right there, you admit he’s creepy. In a harmless way. Oh, you know this. In all of two days, a collective, what, two hours, you can be so sure he’s harmless. Was it even that long? How THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 71

long were you down there? One hour. One hour for one piece of clothing. Un-fucking-believable. You’re overreacting. One hour of what? Go to hell. The next night, she could tell he wanted to stay in to keep her from going downstairs. But he wouldn’t admit to it, and they both knew he was a shitty liar, so he gave up and went out, his eyes locking onto hers just before he pulled the door closed behind him, daring her, trying to read her calm. Without him there, she felt how quiet the building could really be, its occupants doing nothing to shatter her sense of isolation. But then, out of nowhere, came a rhythmic tapping from the floor, the bass line of a music track pulsing like a beating heart. Griffen had never played music before. He had heard Connor leave. He was summoning her. Until that moment, she hadn’t really known whether she would go, hadn’t really allowed herself to think about it. Even as she stood and pushed in the dining room chair, she knew it would be an act of defiance, urged on by an itch existing somewhere between her stomach and her chest. She’d felt it before, when Connor laughed at her for not understanding something, and then refused to explain it to her. Or when her mother interrupted her attempts to justify living with a man out of wedlock. It was a sudden need to punch a wall, one she always defeated. Connor would kill her if they lost the security deposit. How disappointed he’d be, seeing her now, the look on his face melding disbelief, worry, and disgust that someone could be so irrational. And above all, shock that he could have fallen in love with someone who acts with so little intelligence. And he did love her, she knew he did, because he never wasted time on anything that did not suit him. He would not put it off if he no longer wanted to be with her, would not spare her feelings in that way. This is not a problem, she told herself on the way downstairs. It is no more than a simple means to the end of getting my clothes back. Surely she could trust her judgment. Without a pause this time, she banged on Griffen’s door. He opened it and smiled with such genuine gratitude that she almost felt good about what she was doing. And riding on the heels of that benevolence was a recognition that the power 72 JANE M. CHANDLEE

had shifted. He may have her belongings, but she could make him happy. If only for an hour. I don’t even know your first name, she said, calmer. His face changed, the joy giving way to caution. You don’t need to know that, Lena. A scolding, disappointment in her for not understanding. Her smile fell and he backed up to let her in. As she stepped past him, spiders of doubt crawled up her spine as though she anticipated a knife in the back or a blow to the head. She spun around to face him as soon as she was through the door. Please don’t be nervous, he said. She scoffed. Or rude, he added. There’s no need to be rude. He guided her to the same chair as last time before sitting on the couch again. How was your day? Are you kidding me? How was my day? If you want to talk, let’s talk. About something real. Go on. Ask me something real. All right. Do you love him? She paused. Connor. I know who you mean. Ah, he said, nodding. Well, then. It’s really none of your business. Now Lena, don’t resist. If we don’t get personal, there’s really no point to this. Jesus Christ, she muttered. What was that? Nothing. Now she was the shamed child in a classroom. Nothing sir, she thought. She pressed her foot into the floor, imagining her heel going all the way through. What would their home look like from here? Yes, I love him. Enough? What? Do you love him enough? It’s just a lease, not a marriage. Her face flushed, and then, as if summoned, a breeze streamed through the window to cool her fiery skin. Why don’t we talk about you? Because I’m doing just fine. She snorted. Like hell you are. I’m not the one blackmailing people to have a conversation with me. People actually want to talk to me. THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 73

Like your mother? You always fight with her. You hear my phone calls? You know how thin these walls are Lena. We’ve already covered that. Please keep up. She doesn’t approve, does she? Your mother. It doesn’t matter. To whom? To whom doesn’t it matter? Don’t fuck with me, she said. I thought you just wanted some company. This is what company does. It’s what it’s for. This isn’t about me, Lena. This is for you. She leapt up from the chair toward the door, but he mirrored her movements and blocked her way. It surprised her, how fast he moved. Instinct turned her in the other direction, even though it meant going deeper into his apartment, down the hall and toward the bedroom. She stopped short by the kitchen and thought of Connor complaining about apartment living. There’s nowhere to go, he always said. You have no options when you decide you want to be somewhere else. No substantial change of scenery. A thought struck her then, a new plan, and she charged down the hall into the bedroom. Where is it, she demanded. Where’s my stuff? She ripped open his closet doors, pausing at the sight of his precisely lined rows of shoes, all equidistant from each other. She kicked a few out of place and then grabbed the laundry basket. She knew it wasn’t hers, it was the wrong shape and color, and the clothes inside were clearly his. But still she dumped it out onto the floor, cringing at the thought that her clothes might be hidden beneath his dirty ones. Don’t do that, he said. Stop scolding me. She rushed at his dresser, yanking open the drawers and throwing clothes everywhere, strewing them across the room and burying the pile of laundry she’d left on the floor. He watched, saddened, as she searched under his bed. What did you do with them? She hollered. Did you sell it all? She pushed past him to the kitchen and pulled open the cupboard doors, the oven, the refrigerator. Well? You’re being ridiculous, he said. Why would I keep them in there? So where then, she shouted, the only calm corner of her mind wondering what the neighbors would think of her noise. If Connor were 74 JANE M. CHANDLEE

home right now, he could hear her. Griffen stepped out of the kitchen and went down the hall. Lena followed him, her eyes wide, into the bathroom where he bent down to the sink cupboard, blocking her view with his bulky form. He turned, the cupboard door slamming behind him, and held out her favorite bra, the one Connor had picked out, the one that never failed to get his attention, no matter how busy his day or how fragile their interest in each other. She snatched it, feeling more exposed than if she had actually been wearing it in front of this man. She squeezed around him, elbowing his soft upper arm to move him aside and holding her breath against his moldy scent. Ripping open the cupboard, she found only rolls of toilet paper and cleaner products. She straightened and kicked the door closed, then spun around to face him again. Damn you, she thought, realizing she’d have to throw the bra away; the very sight of it would only bring back this moment, and the question of what Griffen had done with it. Connor’s smooth fingers on her skin as he went for the clasp would feel like the crusty steel wool she saw at the bottom of Griffen’s cupboard. Where’s the rest? You know the arrangement. One piece at a She screamed then, the sound loud but clipped, her breath leaving her when she saw his face change, his features relax, the wrinkles around his eyes disappearing as his confidence returned. He had her penned in now. Connor would be home soon, she reminded herself. He never stayed out later than he promised, always came home to her. Rare flattery, only occasional affection, but there was clockwork. The walls were thin. He might hear, when he walked into their apartment and found it empty, he might figure out where she was. He could get here in time, she thought. She thought it, as the man took another step forward.

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 75

Bubbles

MollyMooney

76 MOLLY MOONEY

Ode to the Established Order

MattSinger

In the midst of great anguish What stands; But Mother Corporationâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;Tall and majestic Your leaflets and procedures hum the tune of awe-inspiring structure From your Towering buildings to your industrious migrant work force Who knows better Than Mother Corporation; Modestly priced goods, excel spreadsheets, moderately attractive secretaries; Oh what a feeling! You give us water, fire, love (in the form of greeting cards), and life Mother Earth, the wind, Jesus---mere obstacles for Mother Corporation to vanquish God speed MC--you have captured my heart, my mind, and my $23.50 for those sweet tempurpedic slippers. Without you, the earth would

C R U M B L E

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 77

Hunting Teeth

DanielLevine

I bet that gold tasted Like rust inside that Jewish mouth. They kept their lips Pressed ﬂat to hide that shine, man If you knew them when those teeth Were gilded by the sun, you might forget grey. But before ash fell in clouds of grey Smoke, I walked in bodies with distaste. I bore my pliers and took those teeth That shown bright inside that stinking mouth. A cold thing for men To live part gold and die just lips. My ﬁnger tip that parts cracked lips Soon turned grey, Like blues eyes ashing, living too long in heads of men. If they could only taste How delicate I open their mouth, And feel the bite gone from their teeth. I remember when they fought nail and tooth And when they left they used their lips To kiss their wives, and feel their red mouths For when they forget all colors but grey. They might have noted how it tastes To have a woman love a man. With the eyes of that German Guard on me, I cry hot tears and beg for teeth, But they never knew how my tears tasted. Not like tears fell onto lips Of daughters whose sky went grey. Mine are salted in disgust, not tart with “hate!” they scream with 78 DANIEL LEVINE

mouths Some bodies lie splayed like wings of moths, Jaws wide open, shivering at the touch of men. A father hid his gold mouth with lips of grey. It was their teeth! That I had tasted With that gold cross pressed to my lips. I used to taste just with my mouth But the metal to my lips smelled just like man, After they are burned white teeth turn grey.

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 79

Liked the Cook; Liked Who the Cook Liked SeanUlman

HE DINER GIRL IS ON Irving Park Road. It is the size and shape of one train car and inside there are twelve stools at a counter. The place is open twenty-four hours. Becca has a year of school and a season of volleyball to go in Madison. Chicago is where we want to be. “A rich city. Two cities, really,” I told her. “A place we won’t tire of in two lifetimes.” I moved here because a man must advance. Madison is a small pond. And this way, with me scouting and settling in advance, we’ll be dug in when she joins me. I’ve been up to school three times in this first month and I don’t know how I ever left. But I’m here on the north side of Chicago, paying rent, and when I’m not in bed, sick with being apart from my girl, my life, I’ve tried to poke my head in places and introduce myself to the neighborhood. I found the Diner Grill yesterday on my walk to the Brown Line. I was hungry so I went in. It was almost full with customers, and the cook was cooking when I entered and sat at the stool on the end, closest to the door. But he scraped the eggs together, banged the spatula and turned to ask me, “Set you up with something to drink?” I told him, “Coffee.” He asked, “Cream?” I said, “Yes,” and he said, “Okay,” poured the coffee, and served it to me. Back on the grill, he turned the eggs over and slapped down bacon, which sizzled upon contact. Once I knew what I wanted I stopped looking above the grill at the menu on the wall and opened my Sun Times. He heard the paper folding, walked over, and asked, “Okay, what are you doing?” “Two eggs and hash browns,” I told him. He said, “Okay,” and fetched eggs out of the fridge, and before cracking them said, “eggs over…?” “Yeah, eggs over hard,” I answered. He said, “Okay,” broke the eggs and sprinkled a handful of white, thinly sliced potatoes on a corner of the grill. He put butter on top of them. I looked down the counter. Everyone was eating, and seeing their food made me hungry. The man next to me had a lot of hair on his 80 SEAN ULMAN

head and his face. His beard covered up his neck and his large, square sunglasses blocked out the rest of his face. I watched him break a yolk with his fork and let yellow goo spill over his plate. He glanced my way and I looked back at my paper. The cook worked fast and never seemed to fall behind. He had time to talk and catch up with his customers. I got the feeling that he really enjoyed doing this service. A bald man with a ruddy face came in, and pegging him as a loudmouth regular was easy. The cook gave him a cup of coffee before he could order it and he announced, “Best coffee in the city.” The cook said, “Thank you,” and went back to cooking. Then the bald man got going on a hot chance on property not far from here. He was jabbering away like it was some deal. The guys at the end of the counter hadn’t chosen to be his audience, but they turned an ear and grumbled to appear like they were listening. While moving food around on the grill, shook his head and said, “Don’t listen to that guy.” He didn’t say it to anyone, but I caught it. Then I heard the bald man say he had something to show and that he’d be right back. He walked past me out the door. The hairy man was finished and he had a twenty in his hand. The cook peaked over his shoulder and asked him, “All set?” He nodded. The cook said, “I’ll take a little and you can leave a little.” The man smiled and said, “Take a little, leave a lot,” as he handed over the crisp bill. The cook gave him back four ones and change and said, “Okay, thank you very much.” The hairy man picked up the money and told him that he’d paid with a twenty. The cook opened the drawer and said, “Yep, you sure did, sir. Here it is, right on top of the wrong slot.” The man smiled and said, “I’m a working man. I need that dollar.” The cook gave him a ten and said that he was happy to be corrected. He was happy. The man slid two dollars onto the counter and ambled out like all that hair was weighing him down. A tall man came in and stood at the end next to me. The cook saw him and smiled. The cook knew him. “What is it? A burger?” the cook asked. “Two burgers. A coffee.” The cook put the patties next to my eggs on the grill. My eggs were almost done. The cook gave me a small circular plate with toast, a grape jelly packet and pads of butter on it. I buttered the toast and started eating it. Then an oval plate slid in front of me. The cook said, THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 81

“Okay. Here we go.” The plate was hot, but I dug right in. The bald man came back in and walked to the end of the counter. He had a computer bag around his shoulder that he was showing off. He explained that the price was twenty-five ninety-nine, but he could set a friend up for fifteen if they wanted one. He opened the top of the bag. “You can put your money in there, papers, groceries. It’s a big bag. You can put Mike in there.” He slapped a bigger guy’s shoulder and the group gave up a laugh. The cook shook his head and again to no one said, “Don’t listen to that guy.” A man with white hair and red-veined eyes like a drunk walked in and sat next to me. He flipped his paper over and read the sports. He marked up the paper with a red pen. He didn’t order anything, but the cook gave him his cup of coffee then asked me, “More coffee?” I nodded and the cook topped off my mug. The cook gave the man by the door a Styrofoam cup with coffee in it and laid buns down on the grill. Then he said something about the Bears to the old man next to me. He told the cook, “Of course I won. Anyone that picked the Bears doesn’t know a thing.” The cook took the buns off the grill, dressed them with pickles and onions, and laid beef patties on the buns. He put the burgers in a white paper bag and gave it to the tall man waiting by the door. The cook rang him up, made change and said, “Okay, see ya,” and then returned to the grill. The tall man grabbed the salt shaker by my plate and put it on top of his dollar. He walked out as quietly as he had come in. The bald man was still standing up, being loud, and showing off his bag. I could tell that none of the guys he was talking to cared much for the crappy bag. They were all busy eating, but a couple of them would turn around and ask something that would send the bald man off talking for a while. Sometimes when you are around people who don’t know you, you think of something to say that might be real funny or out of line or both, and you say it in your head for amusement. Around friends you don’t have to check comments, so you can just say it. Well it’s easy for me to feel like my friends are around and I would prefer to have every thought released on the world instead of held back. Everything else about the diner was so warm and correct and then here’s this loudmouth. I wanted him removed and suspended a week or two from 82 SEAN ULMAN

eating there. I wanted to make it right for the quick-handed gentleman cooking our food and all his appreciative customers. Without passing my true thought through my mind’s censor, I leaned back off my stool and calmly said, “Hey, shut it up pal, nobody wants to listen to you.” The bald guy stopped laughing. His face got serious for a moment before he started laughing again. “You’re kidding me, right, kid?” Then he said to the other guys, “This kid thinks he’s funny coming in here…” The bald guy walked over to me, slid out a stool, and sat down. I was eating the last of my food real slow and looking ahead while he waited and then he finally leaned in close to my ear. “Do I know you, coach?” “Don’t think so,” I said. “But you were talking to me there - that was me you wanted quiet?” I carried my laugh above a snicker. “Yeah, no doubt, it’s you. You see another jerk shouting while we eat our breakfast?” The stool screeched back and the bald guy was standing. “Okay. We got a tough kid here. I just had to make sure you had it in you. I can’t be wasting my time, mixing up with kids.” He circled his head and tipped it left and right until each side cracked faintly. “How many years I’ve been coming here, Charlie?” The cook wiped down the counter and slapped the rag on his shoulder. He shook his head slightly as he cleared my plate. “You don’t know. Of course you don’t. Well, it’s a lot longer than you’ve been cooking here. You got anything else to say, kid. Last ups for talking.” He shuffled his feet and raised his fists to look at them. I dabbed around my mouth with a napkin and nodded at the cook as I put down two bills. I swiveled around and lifted off the stool. I didn’t say, “Try me,” or “Bring it on,” like my buddy Al does when there’s going to be a fight. Instead, I stepped up, not sickly close to him with our noses touching, but a pace away so there was room to breathe. Since it’s a fight I’ve got to be ready for now, I did the only thing I could do. With my eyes set dead on his, I imagined that it’s my Becca he was after. I have to do it all the time at school to guys at parties or dudes on the street that are checking her out and don’t know how to respect a couple walking along holding hands. I pull the look on creeps that haggle over her in THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 83

my dreams, and I had to use it once on her ex-boyfriend who played ball. He thought the whole campus was his and that it was his right to put his hands on her. The look is fierce. It is the way someone appears a moment before going berserk. There’s that element of madness, but it’s just a simple, hard, unwavering stare. In no words, it says all this: “I will rip your eyes out. I’m not a fighter, but you’re after my whole world and so I will fight like a bruiser. I may appear a little goofy, as though I might burst out laughing, but make no mistake, that silliness showing through is the terror a man is capable of when there’s a threat on his girl. It’s bigger for me. To you, it’s a matter of words, but you can see that I’ll keep bashing after you’re subdued. You really want this? Don’t you know that she’s mine? That I will rip your eyes out?” “She’s mine,” I said, because in order to summon the look I must transform all the way and convince myself that Becca is actually involved. “What?” The bald guy said. He dropped his fists and twitched his arm so it pointed at me briefly. “He’s crazy. Relax, everybody. Nothing doing. Just a wahoo kid here.” “Try me,” I said. Those two words were in my head, and I had to say something now that I had made a bit of a fool of myself. And they’re good words. Al has used them and gone on to pound guys. The bald man pretended to walk away and then shuffled quickly back with a fake head butt. I didn’t blink. “Kid’s scared,” he said. “He don’t look scared,” the cook said. God bless you, cook, I thought. I knew he and everybody in the place were on my side, but to say it aloud - that’s a much different thing. To wave a flag for the kid like that and oppose the regular. I wanted to drop it all then and walk up to the cook and shake his hand, but I had this bald guy’s strawberry nose in my face. No longer fuming with thoughts of protecting Becca, I held my stare. The cook’s show of support for me had frozen my imminent opponent. His face washed right out, blank as his head. I stepped to the side and walked backwards to the door. The bald guy turned, but he was still out of it. “Don’t let me catch you in here again,” I said to him. That jostled him back and he slowly raised his fists and shook them as if he was trying to remember why they were balled up. He would return all the way in a few seconds and surely charge at me. I will bite and claw when I have to, but I’m not a fighter. I nodded at the cook as sincerely 84 SEAN ULMAN

as I could and slipped out. I called Becca on my walk to the train and told her that there is a diner we can go to next year, and about how I broke the place in for us.

THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 85

Peter Rabbit

MollyMooney

86 MOLLY MOONEY

Wireless Communication OlgaDmytrenko

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When Mr. Marshall Came to Dinner BrianSmith Completed on 8/19/09 between 4 and 9 pm. Dedicated to Faye Reardon, my muse. “Seize the day, the one that you left behind. It seems so strange that you don’t move. Frozen still in front of your own lights. Win or lose, it’s time to choose.” -Lostprophets “WELCOME TO SUNDAY’S, MR. MARSHALL. It’s a pleasure to have you here tonight. Mr. Wallace has informed me that you’d prefer a corner booth, so if you will please follow me, I will take you to your seat.” The host was cordial, but his kindness was obviously forced. A pathetic attempt to create a high-class dining atmosphere in a hole-inthe-wall restaurant. Aiden Marshall scribbled these words down onto his notepad before following the man in the black tux to his booth. The restaurant was dimly lit, and violin music floated through the air, wafting from table to table like the scent of a mother’s home cooking after coming in from a long day out in the snow. The tables were small and circular with floral centerpieces placed slightly off-center, so the lovers could hold hands and gaze longingly into each other’s eyes and so family members could catch up on lost time. Red drapery hung from the walls, slightly clashing with the maroon-ish paint, yet it was still comforting somehow. The restaurant was full to capacity, except for a lone table near the back of the restaurant with a discrete “Reserved” sign gently nestled in a fragile, wire frame. The host directed Aiden into his booth with a subtle hand gesture, a slight wave of the wrist, and he gladly took his seat, knowing that once he did so, the man and his pretentious façade would leave him be. Once he was settled, the host handed him a menu, a heavy, red, 88 BRIAN SMITH

leather-bound monstrosity, and a waiter immediately followed behind the host and poured him a glass of ice water in an expensive wine glass, unlike those that the rest of the customers were drinking from. The menu itself was printed on two pieces of high-quality paper, held into the folder by their corners. Overly gaudy and unnecessary, he thought. Mr. Marshall opened and closed the menu, barely glancing at it, and handed it back to the host almost immediately. Looking him straight in the eyes, Aiden said, “Your chef knows how this works. Go tell him that I’m here and that I’m waiting.” It was no mystery how things worked when Mr. Marshall came to dinner. Aiden Marshall was the crème de la crème of Philadelphia food critics, and his ways were known by all of the top chefs. When Mr. Marshall arrives, the head chef must prepare three courses—an appetizer, an entrée, and a dessert. Aiden will only eat food prepared solely by the head chef, and as he samples each course, the chef must stand behind him, never making eye contact. Aiden likes the food to speak for itself. The chef must then explain the dish and its ingredients, describing how it was prepared. Aiden then reviews the dishes while taking notes, scrutinizing every aspect of each dish, and the chef is forbidden from speaking out against any of his critiques. If he or she does, then the review is over and a negative write-up is guaranteed. The host quickly made his way through the swinging doors and into the kitchen. His calm and professional demeanor quickly turned frantic, realizing that this man meant business and that no pleasantries would be exchanged. Moments later, the waiter returned again with a basket of fresh baked baguette, another item that did not appear on any other table in the restaurant. Mr. Marshall replied, “Thank you,” but the words were cold and lifeless. He was used to this type of special treatment after years of food critiquing, but it never had any effect on him. Tonight would be no different. His small, brown leather notepad lay in front of him on top of the white tablecloth, red ink staining the yellow pages. He picked up the pen and began to write once again. The atmosphere grows on you after a few moments, yet the staff is still forcing themselves upon the customers. The two work against each other. The table settings are simplistic, yet appropriate, but the small table size still leads the diner to feel crowded. The music is a nice touch, although the quiet violins clash with the restaurant’s reputation for bold flavors. Sunday’s is known for its authentic, Italian cuisine and excellent THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 89

staff. Aiden felt that it was his job to remove the veil from the eyes of the uninformed public, exposing the heart of the beast. Aiden had been raised in a proud, Italian family, and if you know anything about Italian families, you know that the food is always homemade and always plentiful. Whenever he is asked about how he became a food critic, his reply is that he really isn’t sure, although he knows that it was his mother’s cooking that inspired his love for food. He also knew that it was her food that spoiled him. Aiden had even tried his hand at the restaurant business once, years ago. There is a saying in the teaching profession that goes those who can’t do, teach. Well, that saying applies to cooking and critiquing as well. Aiden knew that Sunday’s was nothing more than a fraud, and in a matter of moments he would expose the food for what it really was. Aiden Marshall usually avoided Italian restaurants, subconsciously accepting his bias. He still wasn’t quite sure what led him to Sunday’s, but whatever it was, he felt like he should be here. Before him lay an elaborate place-setting. Three forks of varying sizes, two spoons, and two knives extended outwardly from either side the glossy plate, a floral pattern ran around the rim inside of a gold-plated edge. A smaller, matching plate sat in front of this spread, next to the crystallike water/wine glasses and a full bottle of red wine. Nice try, but this is ridiculous, he thought to himself before jotting down his observations. A small smile spread across his face at this thought. He spent some time observing other patrons and their reaction to their dining experience until the swinging doors creaked open behind him. The head chef casually made his way out of the kitchen and onto the dining room floor. In front of him was a small metal cart, delicately draped with a creaseless, white tablecloth. Atop it rested three freshly polished, metal dome lids. It was no secret to any of the diners that something fabulous laid beneath those domes, but the excitement still buzzed around the room like the most recent celebrity gossip amongst teenagers in a high school hallway. For the first time tonight, the customers were aware that someone of importance was in their presence, and something amazing would be revealed on this mystery cart in just a few moments. The chef was a tall man and rather built for his stature. He towered so high over the cart he was pushing that he could not see his own face in the reflection on the metal domes. Dressed in the usual white of a chef, he donned a fresh apron in order to appear more pre90 BRIAN SMITH

sentable not only to Aiden, but to all of the customers. He stopped the cart slightly behind Mr. Marshall, abiding by his rules just as he was expected to. Mr. Wallace had made these rules well known to all of his staff prior to Aiden’s arrival. As the cart approached the booth, Aiden took out a small, manila folder from the brown, leather bag that he had carried in with him. Inside was a photo of the chef and a short bio about his culinary background and fortes. Each restaurant is required to submit such a file to him prior to his visit if they wanted the opportunity to have their restaurant reviewed in the paper. Without the folder, Aiden would not step foot in the restaurant. He was a firm believer that you can judge a cook, or anyone for that matter, by his or her appearance. He has supported this opinion by picking the top three finalists from Hell’s Kitchen on the first episode each season. He scanned over the file once more as he heard the quiet ping of the first dome being removed from the appetizer. The aroma was unmistakable and unimpressive: Clams Casino. A great dish, but too predictable. Just because seafood is expensive does not mean it will be an automatic winner with a critic. As he expected, a large, well-garnished bowl of Clams Casino was placed in front of him from over his shoulder. Several clams were nestled on a small bed of pasta along with some bacon, the flavors seeping their way to the surface only to be lost in the tangle of linguine. The chef remained out of view and faced away from the table after delivering his first creation. Aiden sighed, and after a brief pause asked, “What is it, and how did you prepare it?” The tone of his voice hinted that he had asked that exact question way too many times in his short life. At the age of thirty-two, he had written hundreds of reviews and ruined a lot of reputations. The fact that he was currently writing a book about Philadelphia restaurants and cuisine didn’t do much to suppress his ego either. “It is a classic Clams Casino,” the chef answered in his calm, raspy voice. “I broiled the clams for several minutes, and unlike other chefs, I added in some of my own garlic butter sauce before they had fully cooked. I also slow cooked the bacon at the same time, keeping it tender and preserving the flavor of the meat.” The chef’s voice sounded very serious, but somehow almost apathetic at the same time. This surprised Aiden. Almost all of the chefs that he had reviewed were so nervous when he arrived that they could barely stutter out the name of the dishes that they presented to him, let alone describe how they prepared those dishes. He knew there was THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 91

something about the chef’s voice that intrigued him, something that made him different from the rest of the chefs that he had met in his life, but that didn’t matter. What mattered right now was the food that sat in front of him, steam still rising from the bowl. “I also chose to serve it over a small bed of linguine to make the dish a little more substantial,” added the chef, trying not to leave out any of the details. Mr. Marshall spun a few strands of pasta around his fork, and then he stabbed at the largest clam he saw, but not before a piece of bacon had managed to come between its companion and its assailant. The juice of the clam oozed out around the four, circular wounds as he did so, always a good sign when it comes to clams. The danger of cooking clams is letting them sit too long. They become dry, and when that happens they lose their flavor. Then you might as well be chewing on a piece of old shoe leather. The flavors of the bacon stuck out first, being the first ingredient to reveal itself to Aiden’s taste buds. “The bacon is flavorful, but slightly greasy…could be crisper,” he said as he chewed. Next was the clam. “The clam is cooked exceptionally well. Very juicy, very flavorful, and not too chewy.” And lastly, the pasta. “…But the pasta is far too overcooked.” His voice contained a hint of disgust, but he ate a few more bites anyway, almost finishing the dish… just to be sure. Aiden’s voice was very stern and very serious throughout the review. His face, however, did not match his tone. His face did not share in the disapproval that his words seemed to be loaded with (yet another reason for his “no peeking” rule). He was faking, he knew it, and he knew that if anyone saw his face when he gave his reviews that they would know too. “The dish is mediocre at best,” he rattled out after a brief pause to swallow the last bit of food in his mouth. “The clams were supurb, and the bacon was acceptable, but you need to learn how to cook the pasta, or lose the linguine altogether.” Come on, Aiden. Of all things, you chose the pasta? Of course he knows how to cook linguine…. The truth, however, was irrelevant. His verdict had been handed down, his gavel slammed, and his pen drew blood from his jaundiced notebook. “Very good, sir. I’m sorry to have disappointed you,” replied the chef apologetically, clearing the bowl from the tabletop. Mr. Marshall noticed something in his voice. At first Aiden couldn’t figure out what it was that caught his attention. Is he…. The second dish promptly arrived from the cart as Mr. Marshall 92 BRIAN SMITH

made this inquiry, severing his train of thought. It seemed to Aiden that the chef was just as anxious to get down to business as he was. As the dome was removed from the plate, he felt the heat of the entrée rising against his face. Flushed, he played with the collar of his shirt with his right index finger, loosening it ever so slightly. Before him sat a generous portion of Pollo Ai Lamponi, also known as Raspberry Chicken. Two, slightly blackened chicken breasts rested in the middle of the large plate, covered in large, plump raspberries with some rice as well as some veggies garnishing the dish off to the side. At first it seemed to be a fluke so he thought nothing of it, but now Aiden’s interest had been peaked. He quickly noticed, much to his surprise, that two of his favorite dishes had been presented to him tonight. The first had been prepared just the way he liked it, and now the aroma of the second was ascending into his nostrils, triggering sensory memories about life back in the country where he enjoyed his favorite meals nightly. “What you have now is a dish I rarely prepare, but I figured that I might mix it up for someone as well known as Mr. Aiden Marshall. In fact, it is not even on our menu. This is Pollo Ai Lamponi, one of my favorite dishes from childhood. I mixed the chicken in with some flour, butter, onions, and some wine. And, of course, there are lots of raspberries, just the way I like it. I won’t bore you with the details, knowing your vast knowledge of the culinary arts, but basically the dish cooks in a pan, the raspberries being added last. I served it with a little rice, and I hope that you enjoy this meal more than the last. Bon appetit!” There it was again, Aiden whispered below his breath, referring to chef’s overwhelming sense of confidence. What is it with this guy? While his brow encroached upon his eyes, Mr. Marshall tentatively cut into the chicken, raspberry juices pouring over the edges of the succulent meat like little, red waterfalls. The flavors mixed and exploded in his mouth, stimulating his taste buds. As they did so, Aiden narrated a version of his experience to the chef awaiting his opinion behind him. “The meat is well prepared,” he shared, “and it is blackened just enough, but the berries are overpowering. I think you could have added a bit more salt and pepper to offset the sweetness of the fruit.” Too blunt, he thought. “The rice is alright. The seasoning is a little peppery, but it lends itself nicely with the berries. As for the garnish, I’d prefer a crunchier vegetable. Maybe a green bean or broccoli? Spinach was a poor choice for this dish both for the mixing of flavors and aesthetic purposes.” His advice was as nonchalant as a teacher assigning THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 93

homework at the end of class on a long day, but his eyes rolled heavenward as he swallowed yet another bite of raspberry-glazed excellence. “You are definitely right, sir. I had the same thought in the kitchen, but I did not want to keep you waiting long. I know that you don’t like to be kept waiting,” he said, removing the second plate from Mr. Marshall’s presence. Mr. Marshall once again took his pen to his notebook, Macbeth wielding his sword in the midst of battle, jotting down his review in poetic detail. The chef’s last sentence, however, caused his pen to shoot astray. He was different. He was confident. Is he smiling? He wondered. That must be it. As he continued his write-up once again, dessert was placed in front of him, and the dome was carefully removed. “Here it is, sir,” the chef announced. “A perfect dessert to celebrate the end to a perfect evening.” Death by Chocolate?!? How could he know? Aiden’s mind was racing, his eyes darting from plate to plate to plate. Aiden continued to play with his collar, and then he decided to do something that he had never done before. Something that he had sworn to himself that he would never do, no matter what. “Before I eat this, there is something that I have to ask you,” he asked, his fork delayed on the runway. “Anything you like, sir,” replied the chef in his raspy voice, standing closely behind Aiden’s right shoulder. “Did you do this on purpose?” “What do you mean, Mr. Marshall?” Although he couldn’t see him, Aiden knew that the chef had cocked his head to the side as he said this, much like a dog does when sitting at the feet of his owner after a long day. Cocking his head in a way that asks “what’s the matter?” “You have served me several of my favorite meals tonight, and I am just wondering if you know that you have done this.” His voice was calm, and his diction was overly formal, as usual. He had a reputation to live up to after all. Aiden sat in his booth, facing forward, awaiting the chef’s reply. His fists were clenched around his silverware in anticipation. His knuckles were turning white. The vanilla ice cream was melting before him. Aiden heard the chef release a quick chuckle. “Of course I knew that. In my line of work, Mr. Marshall, you have to do your research. I am in the business of pleasing people, you know.” Concerned both by his tone and his words, Aiden began to turn towards the chef, but stopped himself. He would not break his rules. 94 BRIAN SMITH

He could not. Instead he took a bite of the gooey, molten chocolate cake that towered before him. A thick, chocolate fudge sauce poured out of the center. The deluge sent powdered sugar avalanching down the steep slopes of the cake, coating the bottom of his plate in sweet delight. He loosened the tie around his neck and undid the top button, attempting to overcome that uncomfortable feeling one gets after eating a rich, hot, chocolate dessert, and then he continued with his probing. “How did you manage to find out what my favorite meals are?” he asked, his mouth still full of cake. “Well, Mr. Marshall, to tell you the truth, I asked your mother,” the chef shared rather matter-of-factly. Aiden had just put another generous bite of the cake into his mouth, but he dropped the fork as soon as he heard these words. “My mother? How did you…what the hell were you doing talking to my mother?” Aiden had not had a substantial conversation with his mother in months. They had gotten into a fight over what he had been writing about some of the restaurants he had eaten at recently. “I raised you better than that, Aiden!” she screamed through the receiver. Those were the last words she had said before she hung up the phone. Over the past few weeks she had attempted to call again, but Aiden had been screening her calls. Known for his short temper and ability to hold grudges far past their prime, he was not ready to reconcile quite yet. His mother knew he would react this way. Aiden was very sensitive about his writing, as most writers are. “Like I said, Mr. Marshall, I am paid a lot of money to make people happy, and in order to do that tonight, I needed to know what you like to eat. I didn’t want her to get the feeling that I was attempting to cheat my way into a good review, so I told her I was a friend and needed to know what your favorite foods are for a party we were throwing for you at the office. She was glad to help me out.” Aiden sat straight up in his seat, stiff as a board. How did he find my mother, he thought, caught completely by surprise. She doesn’t even live in the city… He quickly picked up his pen and began scribbling down his observations about the cake, attempting to hide his concern from the chef, while forgetting to share his comments with the chef. Unaware of his approaching proximity to him, Aiden was snapped out of his daze by the sound of two, small clicks on the table. Before him sat two thin, unmarked glass bottles with black dropper lids screwed on the tops of them. THE MAIN STREET JOURNAL 95

A strong, heavy hand fell upon Aiden’s shoulder as the raspy voice scratched its way through the air. “I really want to thank you for your visit tonight, Mr. Marshall. And I’ve got to say, your rules made this very easy for me.” Aiden squirmed in his seat under the powerful hand. Something was wrong. The smile was changing. He could hear it. “What you have in front of you, Mr. Marshall, are vials of two different, odorless chemicals. Separate, they would only cause some discomfort. They might make you feel a bit queasy or a little hot under the collar, but when combined they are quite lethal in a matter of minutes.” It was at this point that tears began to make their way down Aiden’s blushing cheeks. The judge now sat before his own jury, his neck lying beneath the guillotine. In quiet subservience, he sat and he listened, just as he was expected to. “If you can still remember, I told you that I had cooked my clams in my own garlic butter sauce. Well, that sauce contained Chemical A. I assume you know where I’m heading with this, Mr. Marshall. I think it goes without saying, but the cake that you just ate, the Death by Chocolate cake, contained Chemical B. I’m sure a man of your literary prowess can appreciate the irony in the name. I am in the business of making people happy, and I can sleep well tonight knowing that I have done just that. Tonight I am making all of the chefs at Sunday’s, especially the one that you think that I am, very happy. You see, Mr. Marshall, they all want you dead, and I hate to tell you this, but you already are.” Those final words rang in Aiden’s ears, stuck on a loop. His face was flushed completely red, his breath was short, and his hands were shaking. Sweat poured down his forehead, mixing with his tears, as his heart charged along at breakneck speed. I brought this upon myself. Slowly, he rose from the table, his arms trembling as he lifted himself up, and made his way toward the door. He never looked back at the chef. Aiden stumbled through the restaurant, desperately supporting himself on other peoples’ tables. During this trek he made eye contact with a young couple, likely out on one of their first dates. He was still coherent enough to notice this. They had been holding hands, smiling from ear to ear. Their voices were barely loud enough to be heard over the soothing hum of the violins. As his elbows crashed down on their table, their red wine was spilt, staining the tablecloth. Small droplets 96 BRIAN SMITH

of blood trickled down his face from the corners of his eyes, and the couple cringed at the sight of this man, if you could even call him that anymore. He managed to stagger his way out of the front door before collapsing on the sidewalk. Facing up at the night sky, there were no stars to be seen. Not beneath the bright, city lights. High overhead, the soft, blinking lights of a jetliner slowly made their way through the thick clouds of late October, but Aiden hadn’t noticed. He lay on the sidewalk unable to move, yet the world continued on around him, just like it always does. The cars flew by, the conversations carried on, and the street vendors continued to push their knock-off merchandise. As Aiden began to seize, a tall, muscular man appeared, hunched over him, looking directly into his eyes only inches from his face. Although no longer able to see a thing, Aiden knew he was there, smiling. In his hand, the chef held Aiden’s notebook gently between his burly fingers. The chef spoke in his hushed, raspy voice, the exact voice Aiden had expected to hear. “I have to say, Mr. Marshall, I am very impressed. Even at the brink of your own destruction, you never broke your rules.” As he said this, he placed the notebook carefully on the sidewalk next to Aiden, sliding it slightly under his convulsing body. “I can respect that kind of conviction, Mr. Marshall.” The chef then rose to his feet, turned his back on his most recent creation (which could only be described as a soufflé that had collapsed upon itself), and walked down the sidewalk. Aiden never saw him go. As he continued to seize and as the spectators began to gather around his doomed body, all Aiden could think about was the last thing that he would ever write in his notebook. Tonight, I had the best cake I have ever eaten.

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Contributors Corey Adwar is a junior at the University of Delaware where he double majors in history and political science. His hometown is Saint James, New York. Emily Arnold is currently a Junior at the University of Delaware and is majoring in English and Art History. She hopes to someday exhibit her photography in a gallery. Nina Bennett is a Delaware native and author of Forgotten Tears A Grandmother’s Journey Through Grief. In 2006, she was chosen by the poet laureate of Delaware to participate in a writers’ retreat sponsored by the Delaware Division of the Arts. Her articles and poetry have appeared in The Smoking Poet, Oranges & Sardines, Philadelphia Stories, Pirene’s Fountain, the anthology Mourning Sickness, The Broadkill Review, Slow Trains Literary Journal, Grief Digest, the News Journal, Different Kind of Parenting, M.I.S.S.ing Angels, and Living Well Journal. Rodrigo Bocanegra is a Nicaraguan Poet who lives in Western Honduras. He typically writes political poetry and works with indigenous youth doing poetry and painting workshops. He is currently working with a small group of poets in Western Honduras collecting traditional/folkloric poetry and preparing a publication. He only writes in Spanish and his work has been translated by Fredy Rodriguez. Daniel Buhse is currently a senior exercise scientist and will be forcibly removed from the University come May time Andres Cerpa was born and raised in Staten Island, New York. He attends the University of Delaware as English Education major and hopes to eventually get paid for the scribbles in his notebooks. Jane M. Chandlee received an MFA in fiction writing from Penn State University and is now at the University of Delaware pursuing a PhD in Linguistics. She has previously been published in The Tenth Floor Review. Mike DeMarco is a freshman at the University of Delaware, majoring in English, who has enjoyed writing short stories, poems, and plays for years. His favourite authors include George Orwell, Samuel Beckett, and Kurt Vonnegut. Olga Dmytrenko was born in Ukraine. Her love of the visual arts and science was cultivated at a young age. After graduating from the Republican School of Physics and Mathematics at Kiev State University, she entered the Department of Physics, and got her M.Sc. in 1986. In 1990 she gained a Ph.D. in Physical Chemistry at the Institute of Surface Chemistry of Ukrainian National Academy of Sciences. Since 1998, she has lived in Newark, DE and works as a research associate professional at the University of Delaware. 98

Laura Hoffman is a senior English major who is graduating this December. Her only plan for now is to keep writing. Jamie Levin is a senior at Michigan State University’s Residential College in the Arts and Humanities. She is originally from Chicago and works in conjunction with other student poets at the Michigan State University’s Center for Poetry. Zachary Liscio is one the last great impostors of the eighteenth century and spends a plurality of his time daydreaming. He will be leaving the University of Delaware this Spring to pursue a career in professional hopscotch. Samantha Mancuso is a sophomore Art major at the University of Delaware hoping to concentrate in photography. Originally from New Jersey, she gained an interest in photography as a freshman in high school. Mike Mekailek is a junior at UD, double majoring in Art History and Music. Molly Mooney is a sophomore cognitive science major. Her interests include playing guitar, song writing, and art. Muriel Palanca is currently a Communications Interest Major at the University of Delaware. Her favorite things in life include writing poetry, Breaking Benjamin, eating delicious food, and starting random conversations with strangers. Justin Sadegh is a sophomore HRIM major. He draws cartoons and is interested in working in the hotel industry. Colin Schmidt is a senior at the University of Delaware, studying History. He’s from Maplewood, NJ. Matt Singer is a homeless gentleman who was told that if he submitted something to the journal, he would be given one can of Cambell’s Chunky soup. He has yet to receive his soup. Brian Smith is a 2009 University of Delaware English Education graduate. Born and raised in rural New Jersey, he is currently teaching High School English at Hopewell Valley Central High School and is planning to pursue a MFA in Fiction Writing in the near future.

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James Adams Smith is a native of the American Deep South and has lived in a Texas trailer park, a Baptist church, a dormitory with Hurricane Katrina victims, and a brandy farm in rural Romania. He is currently writing a memoir. Andrew Tauro descended from the grape vine known as Thore. After being knighted into the temple of Solomon, he joined the Dave Matthews Band in Virginia, United States of America. After becoming the most well accomplished stage hand in the world, he exploited the New World in 1492 and invented what is commonly known today as table sugar in a drunken attempt to make a grilled cheese. Maddie Thomas is a senior English major concentrating in Journalism. Sean Ulman received an MFA from the Stonecoast program. His work has appeared in Willows Wept Review, Tuesday Shorts and Six Sentences. He is working on his third novel. Anne Yoncha is from Delaware and wants to travel everywhere. She also likes haikus.

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