Rind Literary Magazine Issue 4 by Rind Literary Magazine

Rind Literary Magazine

Issue 4

Rind Literary Magazine Issue 4 September 2013

rindliterarymagazine.com

All Works ÂŠ Respective Authors, 2013

Original Cover Art By: Ashley Williams

Editor in Chief: Stephen Williams

Fiction Editors: Johnathan Etchart Jenny Lin Melinda Smith Shaymaa Mahmoud

Nonfiction Editors: Collette Curran Owen Torres William Ellars Anastasia Zamora

Webmaster: Omar Masri

Blog Manager: Dylan Gascon

Contents Acknowledgements

Contributors

Fiction: Reptiles/ David Howard

Two Women/ Nomi Liron

Talos/ John Grochalski

Life Under the Sex Tree/ Marie curran

Esta Noche/ Kathleen Alcala

The Texas Range/ Adrian m. Ortiz

My Hundred Years/ Allen kopp

Nonfiction: On Taking Good hits/ Jeffrey Graessley

Cool 55: Passersby/ Kenneth Valencich

Acknowledgements Thank you to all of our contributors, past and present, for helping us get this thing moving. Thank you to the creative writing faculty of the University of California-Riverside, Mount San Antonio College, Rio Hondo College and Riverside Community College for your continued support of this magazine. Rind is proud to announce Stephen Williams is now Editor-in-Chief. We look forward to the great and boundless things to come. RLM is on the look out for original artwork and photography for our upcoming issues. If you or someone you know might be interested in contributing, send us an inquiry for more details. Please support the San Gabriel Valley Literary Festival; find them at www.sgvlitfest.com. We’ll be there, and so should you. Check out our listing on Duotrope. We’re also on Facebook and Twitter. Regular updates on RLM and other fun and interesting things can be found at our affiliated blog site: www.thegrovebyrind.wordpress.com. If you would like to contribute to Rind, send your manuscript to rindliterarymagazine@gmail.com.

Cheers! –The Rind Staff

Reptiles

David Howard

Cal turned from lying on his side facing Lori to his back, his better position to sleep. She adjusted her body to his and placed a hand on his soft penis, stroking it idly. Light was seeping through the cracks in the blinds, but he wanted a few more hours of sleep. He placed his hand on top of hers, as it reached the head of the shaft. “Am I hurting you?” she loosened her grip. “No. I need sleep.” “It’s Saturday. We haven’t stayed in bed all day for a while. I thought you liked that.” She moved closer and he could feel a breast against his arm. “You’re not going to work are you?” There were pre-sex questions (Do you love me?) and its variations and post sex ones, (You don’t have to get up early do you?) or the even tougher one Lori had just posed. The post sex questions were the most dangerous because of the fine line between sex and commitment. The wrong answer and the rest of the time in bed would either be over, or considerably strained. So you’ve either got to lie, and then back up that lie with a good hardon, or come up with an answer that allows her to still feel desirable and you to go to sleep, or get up and on with your day. “I have to go look at reptiles,” he said, turning back to face her and caress her shoulder, though he felt like a politician pressing the flesh of a potential voter. “What?” His hand was left as the only one on his cock. “You hate snakes, Cal.” Her body straightened out. “You told me you couldn’t have pets in this apartment. That’s why what’s her name, the blonde, had to take your cat.” She paused. “I hate snakes.” Wrong answer. Lightly squeezing his cock, he moved closer, but felt it shrinking. Muscles had been the cat. Donna, the blonde. They all had lived together for a year. Almost immediately after the split he’d missed Muscles more than Donna. The cat was special, especially since he had wanted to get a dog instead. “Thirty-eight years old it’s time to stop playing Frisbee with dogs,” Donna had said. They’d been in bed when she proposed getting Muscles. The question theory tested, but the right answer then: “Sure, I’d love a cat.” And he 6

had. “Come on, I’ll make you breakfast.” He rubbed Lori’s stomach, maybe the wrong thing to do and he thought about pulling his hand away, but that would be worse. Lori moved closer to him, placing his hand between her legs. “We can eat later,” she said. Not that much later, he realized as he rolled off her after a few minutes. “You just tired me out last night. Whew! I’m going to have to take some ginseng.” Isn’t that what Ruby, another ex-girlfriend had said to him when he couldn’t get it up. “Take ginseng” or was it Ginkgo biloba? He hoped he had the right herb. Ruby lived on the things. She even fed her golden retriever, Frank, B complex vitamins. This was another sign the relationship with Lori was headed for trouble. It’s usually harder to keep it up at the start of things, because you want to show off. You’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself. At the end of one it’s like a retirement party; you’re glad things are over, but you want to go out happy.” He was sure he didn’t want to get married again, which is likely why his relationships reached a point and then spiraled downhill. Like the impotence, splitting up was happening more frequently. The penis has a mind of its own, he’d read somewhere, though in this case he wasn’t sure he agreed. “It’s OK, hon,” she leaned close for a mouth-closed, avoid-morning-breath kiss. Returning it, he disengaged himself quickly, searching under the sheets for his underwear. “I’ll make us some French toast, or would you rather have eggs?” “Hmm, French toast sounds good,” she said, pulling the bed covers up to her breasts, but not covering them. The grocery store brochure advertising a half price subscription to the magazine Reptiles was on the counter near the sink. A scale-covered gecko dominated the cover. Did he really want a lizard? There were only five slices of bread left. He rummaged through the refrigerator and found an aging English muffin, hopefully not so hard that it wouldn’t soak up the egg mixture. Politeness dictated it would have to be for him. He tried to remember what Mora had told him about using the microwave to soften stale baked goods. She’d stand in her kitchen wearing his oxford blue dress shirt, unbuttoned, holding the little chihuahua he called a "rat dog" behind her back, long before Taco Bell made the breed famous. Mora felt he always favored the cat, Sophie, over the "rat dog", which was true. But when she left him, 7

she took them both, telling him that if pets were children, you wouldn’t separate them. “Fidel needs Sophie,” she’d added. Lori padded into the kitchen wearing his Red Sox T-shirt. It reached just below her navel. She stood there, almost posing. He thought the blue shirt coordinated nicely with her thick black pubic hair. “Lots of my friends shave real close,” she said the first time they’d had sex. “Not me. I like the way this feels.” When do women talk about these things? he’d wondered. Lori picked up the Reptiles ad. “Ugh. You’re not getting one of these?” She pointed to the lizard. He was stirring the egg mix, adding some cinnamon. “I’m thinking about it. They are supposed to be very clean and actually affectionate. I’ve heard they like to be held more than cats.” He had a hard time imagining himself cradling any lizard. “Who tells you these things? The blonde, I bet.” “I don’t talk to the blonde any more. I think I heard it on Pet Time, on the radio driving to work last week.” “Why don’t you get a cat. Go get Muscles. You said you loved him.” “I told you no dogs or cats allowed here. They are very serious about that.” She sat down at the table, waiting to be served, her bare bottom making a squishing sound on the vinyl chair covering. If this were The Egg Hut, there’d be no service for Lori. “No Panties, No Eggs”, the sign would read. Lori usually made breakfast when they had what she called sleepovers, enjoying waiting on him. That could be another sign. “But you knew that before you moved here,” she continued. He tested the frying pan with a dab of butter and placed the first slice of soaked bread in it. “I felt I needed a break from responsibility. I’ve had pets since I left home at seventeen. Even in college I had a dog. Ogo, a retired racing greyhound, the school mascot, stayed in my house until he had a heart attack running around the football field at half time. I always felt it was because he heard the crowd, thought he was chasing that stuffed rabbit again. The male cheerleader holding his leash didn’t know Ogo had died and he dragged him the last eighth of a mile. People in the stands were screaming in horror. I leaped from my seat and grabbed the leash from the guy and shoved him away, cradling the dog in my arms. It was awful.” He 8

turned the bread over. Lori was reading the Reptiles ad again. Mora had cried when she heard that lie. Maybe he’d already told it to Lori. “I don’t think I could be in the same room with a lizard. Certainly not a snake. I wouldn’t be able to sleep over with you, if I could be here at all. My cousin Allan was bitten by a snake at Boy Scout camp and I’ve been petrified of them ever since he told me about it.” He placed the first slice on her plate. “Go ahead and start so it doesn’t get cold. What kind of snake was it?” “Can I have some syrup?” He did a quick mental inventory of his cabinets even though he knew he used the last of the syrup two weeks ago. But he had to look, for effect. He made typical searching noises, rummaging, mumbling. Finally, “Lori, I’m sorry, I don’t have any. I thought I did. But I have butter.” “Sure.” She moved a bit back from the table as he approached with the butter dish. Like a magnet he felt his eyes drawn to her legs. There was something erotic about nakedness on vinyl and he started to wonder if he was hurrying this break-up along too fast. Maybe the penis does have a mind of its own. He placed a second piece of toast on her plate too, and went back to the stove to dip the split English muffin in the eggs. He felt a sudden sadness, perhaps thinking about the pets in his life – Muscles, Sophie, even the fictitious Ogo. Or it could be because this seemed the end of things with Lori. Not just the sex. The sameness of their times. He really needed a pet, just to serve as a buffer. People had children for the same reason. It was him, he knew. He enjoyed Lori’s round body, her full breasts, or at least he had up until last night when she suddenly seemed more chubby than lush. He heard a squish, combined with sort of sticking sound as Lori got up from the chair and came toward him. She looked over his shoulder at the frying pan. “I bet French muffins are good, too, or do you call them French English muffins?” She leaned against him, her hand brushing his thigh. Six months ago he would have willed such a scene to take place in his kitchen. Now he was more interested in the egg absorption properties of a stale English muffin or whether he wanted a gecko or not. He faced her, placing a quick kiss on her nose, then reached for the spatula. “Do you want the muffin?” he asked, testing its hardness. 9

“OK.” Lori was looking at the calendar on the back door. Three orange kittens were frolicking in a wicker basket. “They use stuffed cats for these pictures,” Donna had told him when he had brought home a cat calendar. “More work for the taxidermists of the world,” he’d cracked, a comment not appreciated, as the blonde hugged Muscles to her chest as if to ward off the same fate for him. That cat loved being held and had even been known to leap into the arms of strangers. The day Cal left, carrying a suitcase and portable radio on his last trip, the cat sat on the sofa the three of them had shared so many times over the past year, watching him parade by with possessions Muscles had surely felt were partly his. He swore he heard a soft meow as he walked out the door, but the sound could have come from his own throat as well. “These kitties are so cute.” “They are stuffed, you know. Here’s your muffin.” After breakfast he dressed and was in his spare bedroom connecting to the internet. Lori came in and sat on the bed. She was still in his Sox shirt, but was wearing the blue panties he’d removed last night as they watched a horror film on TBS. It seemed a long time ago. She didn’t say anything, which was one of her most endearing qualities. Lori could go for long periods of time without talking, content to watch TV, read or listen to music on her headphones. After the almost non-stop babble of Donna, it was a welcome trait. He called up a site dedicated to reptiles as pets, and a gecko, similar to the one in the advertisement, filled the screen. Maybe it was the same one, assuming all lizards looked alike. This one could probably be stuffed much more easily than a cat. “You know, Cal, they don’t stuff cats for calendars. They may use stuffed animals, but they are not real cats. They're stuffed. For someone who likes animals, that wasn’t a nice thing to say.” She stopped, as if winded from a long speech. “I hope you’re right. Donna told me they stuffed them. I didn’t want to believe it.” “The blonde.” Lori went into a defensive posture when Donna or any other part of his past was mentioned, crossing her legs, which was not always an easy job for her when sitting on a soft surface like the bed. “You’re serious about the lizard stuff, aren’t you?” Lying was always easier after a meal. You and the lie recipient are full. Part of your 10

body’s power is being used to digest the meal. Chemically, it’s the most relaxed time. More lies are accepted at mealtime than any other time. When you were a kid, you were always able to lie much more easily to your parents at the dinner table. “I don’t know what it is, Lori, but I have always wanted a lizard, but seemed to end up with dogs and cats. It seems the perfect pet for me right now.” “What about me?” The legs were uncrossed, a bit apart. Unconsciously, she pulled the Tshirt down. The team logo was almost dead center between her breasts. The Sox could sell a lot of tickets with that shot. “You said you don’t like them, but I’m sure you could learn to.” As much as he liked dogs, he’d never grown to like a rat dog. Mora would sit in her chair by the sliding glass door to her yard and say, in a high pitched voice, “Come here Fidel, look at all the little birdies outside.” And the dog would come mincing in and sit in front of the glass. Sophie, above it all, would sit with him on the sofa watching TV, out of loyalty, he was sure, because she loved to watch the birds too, much like a boa constrictor watched mice at play in his cage. “How about a bird? They are nice, pretty. Some even talk.” she said. There were times he wondered if Lori could read his mind. As soon as he remembered Fidel and the birds, he thought about having his own. Was the chemistry still right for telling lies? Was there a time limit? He pointed to the lizard on the monitor. “Birds are nice. I had one a while back, but they tend to smell a little.” There was no reaction from Lori. It had been right after college. Joannie and he both worked at the advertising agency, entry level copy writers, hitting it off pretty good, and deciding to save money by living together. “I have a bird,” she’d said. “Ringo. You know how I love the Beatles.” Ringo was a monk parakeet, almost as big as a parrot. He escaped out the window one day, and it was guessed he became part of a colony of the birds that lived in the wild, building condo-like nests in utility poles in a neighborhood near the bay. Joannie would often drive down to where the birds, over a hundred of them, lived, open the car window and call “Ringo. Oh, Ringo, Come here.” Neither Ringo nor any member of his new family ever came, though you could hear them chirping. “He probably can’t hear you with all that noise,” Cal’d say. “Besides, he’s free, with his own kind, now.” She’d drive home in tears. Cal clicked on an article called “Keeping Reptiles.” Lori, as she often did, looked at the 11

screen from over his shoulder. He didn’t feel her breasts against his back as he usually did. Maybe she was withdrawing too. It had been a nice feeling. The article talked about dishes and cages for various lizards and snakes, along with food: “Large snakes eat their food live, so a supply of small rodents is essential, along with the proper housing and food for their prey.” “Prey. Prey! Do you see that?” Lori bounced against him, then took a step back. “You want to have prey in your apartment!” “I’m not thinking of a snake, Lori. At least not a large one. I don’t think I could do the rodent thing. I’m thinking more about an iguana, or one of these cute little geckos.” A subhead: “The Dangers of Keeping Reptiles” leapt from the page. “Salmonella poisoning is a real concern for pet owners…” the paragraph began. He could feel Lori’s breath on his neck. “…use care in keeping turtles, lizards and snakes,” the article continued, “as they all carry salmonella bacteria, and it becomes part of their ecosystem. Make sure to clean their habitats each day and that whenever your pet is touched, to wash your hands promptly...” He wanted to click to the next page, but she was a fast reader. “Oh that’s just great. Salmonella. Do you know what that can do to a person?” Lori was a receptionist for a doctor. She knew. “Even the rodents you need to feed to your snake would be better than this.” “There are problems in caring for every kind of pet.” He clicked back to the gecko, staring at the salmonella breeding monster. “We need to study this more, but I’m not scared off. They have to warn you of these things, Lori. Product liability.” “If you are doing this because you don’t want me around Cal, just say so, because I don’t think I want to be here if I have to share space with that thing!” She pointed to the screen. “What? I can’t consider having a pet? Millions of people have lizards and I don’t recall hearing of any salmonella epidemic.” He leaned closer to the screen, wishing he could climb inside. This was always the crucial moment in a break-up. Like having ten feet left to reach the summit of a mountain, only to find it was solid ice on all sides. He wished he had a pet now. It would make things easier, because there would be something which had been shared between the two of them. Sometimes Muscles had hid in the closet when he and the blonde fought near the end. “I think I have a right to a lizard; I also think...” he had to be careful 12

here... “that you, we, could get to love this little guy...or gal.” He looked toward the screen. “For the past couple of weeks, Cal, I’ve felt something different. That’s OK, people change. Things change. Maybe it’s me. But you don’t have to get a lizard to get rid of me.” Lori took a breath and he thought she was going to cry, but all she did was move further away from him. “We aren’t living together. Heck, we aren’t even having that much sex.” “I don’t want this lizard thing to pull us apart.” He hit the back button on the menu to get rid of the gecko. “But I really want one...” “Cal you can get all the lizards you want. They aren’t going to make your life any better.” She moved closer to the door. “You don’t want to really share your life with anyone, not even your pets, as much as you say you love them. At least you never said you loved me. For that I thank you.” “Look, Lori...” It was time to climb the icy part. “No Cal, you look. Don’t bother with this lizard stuff. I know your heart’s not in it. Get yourself a ferret. Just one ferret, Cal. The perfect pet for you.” He felt the ice melting even before he took a step. But all he could think of saying was “Why a ferret?” She was in the doorway now, almost filling the space, hands on her hips. “Ferrets are usually kept in pairs because if they are alone, they usually die from sheer loneliness. So get one ferret. Maybe you can save each other’s life.” She pulled off his Red Sox T, folding it as she marched one steady step after another to the bed, where she placed it on the pillow, turning away from his last look at her beautiful breasts walk from the room. He stayed by the computer, listening to the sounds of her in the bathroom and his bedroom, and then, finally, the closing of the living room door, he clicked back to a search engine and typed in f-e-r-r-e-t.

TWO WOMEN Nomi Liron

"It’s time for you to find another doctor, Ms. Jacobs,” Dr. Burns said, trying to hide his impatience. "None of your skin infections have responded to the drugs I’ve prescribed. The fever, headaches, and nausea you report suggest that your illness is systemic. An internist should assess you." He paused as if a thought had just struck him. “Better yet, you should see Dr. Thompson. He's not an internist but he's a very understanding man." "What about NORD? Shouldn't I contact NORD?" Angela ran her hand through her limp hair and pulled at her split ends. Dr. Burns looked at her. She was a slender woman in her thirties who would have been pretty if not for her dull, lackluster hair and the yellow tone to her skin. "The National Organization for Rare Diseases is actually a clearing house," he said. "They gather information on rare diseases, but don’t treat patients.” Angela swallowed hard. "But these dripping scabs are so awful. I know people think I’m repulsive and worry that I might be contagious." “Dr. Thompson can help you with those feelings.” Angela's voice cracked. "I’m the only caretaker for my frail eighty-three year old mother. She has Alzheimer's and doesn’t recognize me anymore. Angela scratched at a scab on her upper arm. "It’s hard,” she whispered. Do you understand?" "Yes, I do," he nodded as he typed into his computer. 'Reoccurring lesions of unknown etiology. Psych consult.' He studied Angela. "Continue applying the anti-bacterial ointment I prescribed and leave your wounds open to air." Angela left, got in her car, and pushed her infected palms firmly against the steering wheel. She smiled. By the time she got home her lesions would be more inflamed then than when she first left to see the doctor. She drove up the driveway as quietly as she could, hoping to get to her computer before her mother saw her. There might be email from her chronic pain support group. She needed to tell them about her latest outbreak of painful lesions and get back to George and Nancy's introductory email. Both suffered from unpredictable, sporadic bouts of diarrhea 14

while driving. “Thank God you're finally home!" Angela’s mother called, hearing her. "My blood pressure shot up so high while you were gone I almost had a stroke. I could feel blood pounding in my temples and my vision got blurry. I wanted to call 911 but waited knowing you'd rather take care of me." She let go of her walker and tottered toward her daughter. "What are you doing?" Angela grabbed her mother by the shoulders. "Do you want to break your hip again? Don’t be so selfish. I can’t take care of you anymore, Mom. I’m sick. The doctor can’t find a cure for me.” Angela's mother started to cry. “You hate me, don’t you? You wouldn’t care if you came home one day to find me lying dead by the bird bath in the backyard.” Angela put her arm around her mother's waist and lowered her on to the sofa. She brushed her lips across her mother's cheek. "Of course I don’t hate you." She leaned forward and placing her foot across her mother’s toes, pushed down hard. Her mother screamed in pain. "I'm sorry! How clumsy of me. Did I break a bone?" "All of them! You know how easily my bones crack. Within an hour they’ll collapse and dissolve into powder.” Her mother's voice quavered and tears rolled her cheeks. "I don't see any swelling, cracking, or powder" Angela picked at a lesion on her chin. Her mother shrieked. “I haven’t hurt this bad since I spent twenty-three long, agonizing hours pushing you out of my womb. It was painful, Angela, like pushing a basketball through a paper straw. I did that for you.” Her shoulders shook and she began to cry bitterly. “You’d never suffer that much for me.” "At least you don’t have people see pus weeping out of every pore of your body,” Angela yelled. “You can stay home and count the quail in the backyard or pretend to be busy in the garden. I’m the one with the real problems. Call 911. They’ll take you to the ER and someone will look at your foot. It takes nine minutes and eight seconds for them to arrive.” Angela strode down the hallway, grabbed the syringes she had picked up at the medical supply store, and went into her bathroom. She pulled down two specimen cups she had filled that morning, drew urine and feces from them into her syringe, and slowly injected the concoction into several places under her skin. She looked in the mirror and practiced the 15

wan smile she would use with the new doctor. She felt powerful. Up to now she had only injected mucous and spit but these new injections would have a far greater effect. Some fledgling dermatologist would make his career off her. His research about her mysterious skin condition would be published in reputable medical journals, and Dr. Burns would regret passing her off to another doctor. He’d probably wish he had asked her out. The ring on his left hand had vanished six months ago. Angela had been in his office every week for emergency sessions but he never seemed interested in her. She flicked a drop of urine from her syringe. His loss. Angela mother’s pulled herself up from the sofa and pushed her walker toward the kitchen. She opened the cupboard below the sink, pulled out a bottle of Lysol, and swallowed half of it. She gasped and grabbing her stomach by both hands and screamed, “Angela! Help! My stomach is on fire!” she retched. "I’m dying!” In her room Angela stood at her closet, selecting the clothes she was going to wear to her next doctor’s appointment. She’d need an off white blouse to bring out the color of the pus to its fullest extent. “Angela! Help me!” Angela sighed, “Stop faking it mom. You’ll do anything to get attention.”

Feeding Ego Sweets By Jenna Mason

Talos

John Grochalski

I was sitting in the living room of my girl’s house reading Dostoevsky because I’d been told that all the great ones read Dostoevsky, and I was tired of being mediocre. I wanted to be a god. I wanted to be golden. I’d called off from the job because another day of hauling windows and doors with certifiable lunatics just wasn’t on the top of my list of things to do that day. I certainly didn’t want to haul anything after a night mixing whisky and wine, and watching another one of those doctor or drama shows that my girl loved, while intermittently telling her kid to go back to bed. I didn’t mind her kid so much. He had a bad name. Simon. But he was pretty well-behaved with his video games and comic books. Still, who named a kid Simon in twenty-first century America, unless you wanted to submit him to ritual torture? My girl said that it was a family name on his old man’s side, as if that were some kind of justification for the treachery of being named Simon. I tried with the kid. I’ve been trying with the kid for months. I took him out to throw the ball around even though he showed no interest in it and, to be honest, no promise. What I mean is he put the glove on the wrong hand, and put the wrong hand on top when he bats. I took him to art museums, and didn’t get mad when he found the gift shop more enlightening than those masters up on the wall. We went to movies and to lunch. I’d spent a lot of hardearned warehouse money trying to show Simon what a good guy old Rand Wyndham was for him and his mom. And while he might’ve accepted those movies, all of those greasy hamburgers, and even the awkward hours spent tossing the ball back and forth, I could tell that the kid didn’t like me very much. He was on to me, and he knew that I was most likely a freeloader who’d be taking up residency on his mom’s couch, until she became wise to my tired act. My act was tired. Women had been telling me that for years, and it explained why I dated so infrequently. But like anyone else who’d kicked around on this ball of gas for too long, I had no desire to change my ways. There was some screaming or something outside. This was screaming apart from the normal kind of screaming in this neighborhood, usually some asshole yelling at the neighborhood kids for dinging his car with a goddamned wiffleball of all things, or two 18

chuckleheads shouting back and forth over every mundane detail of their day while the rest of us sat inside, a movie on pause, some Dostoyevsky on hold, waiting for the fuckers to shut the hell up. No, this was a different kind of noise, a different kind of screaming. There was a hunger to it; a desperation. I took a look out the window but I couldn’t see anything. Well, I needed another beer anyway, so I got my fat ass off the couch. I went outside and stood on the porch in the way that I’d seen many of my girl’s hapless neighbors do when they had nothing else going on. It really didn’t do much for me just standing there. I didn’t like the neighborhood and I didn’t like nature. But the screaming got louder, and I was curious. Then Simon came racing up the street faster than I’d ever seen the boy run. He was being chased by four kids in torn jeans and black t-shirts. They all had long hair, which made them look like a renegade hair-band that had somehow traveled forward in time. “What the hell?” I asked Simon as he darted passed me. “Talos,” he said, before running upstairs and slamming his bedroom door. “What in the hell is a Talo?” I shot back. No answer. But the word made the pack of long-hairs stop at the edge of my girl’s driveway. We glared back and forth. I wished I’d gotten that beer before I came outside. “Help you kids with something?” The longhairs all looked amongst themselves, before the taller one stepped forward to speak. Dude looked like a lost member of the Ramones, only he was a tad bit more oliveskinned. In my head I started calling him Joey Ramone. “Tell your faggot kid to come outside and do that to us now.” “He ain’t my kid,” I said. I always liked to establish that fact whenever I was out with my girl and Simon. For whatever reason I wanted the world to know that I, Rand Wyndham, was in no way responsible for the upbringing of the child that they were looking at, or hopefully, one-half of the parentage of any child walking the cold confines of this planet earth. Call it my contribution to the environment by not having a kid. Call it what you want. “And his name is Simon.” That raised some laughter amongst this shaggy group of goons. I wished my girl was there to hear it, so that I could prove my point about that goddamned name. “Well go and get Simon,” one of the others said. He had a mop of hair and looked like 19

Jimmy Paige. So Jimmy Paige he’d be. “What do you kids want with him?” “Just to talk.” “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” I said. “He gave us the bread basket,” Joey Ramone said. “What’s a bread basket?” The group of scholars shrugged. “Can you just go and get him?” “Yeah, get Simon,” another member of the quartet added. I called him Ted Nugent because he looked like a close-minded asshole. I looked inside. Simon was still in seclusion in his room. “Afraid I can’t do that.” “We’ll wait,” the last of the longhairs said. I decided to call this one, Bon Jovi, even though there was no literary resemblance between this punk and the Jersey hair God. I’d just hated Bon Jovi since middle school. Bon Jovi looked at Joey Ramone. Joey nodded his approval. “Can’t let you do that either,” I said. “You gonna to stop us?” I hated when kids pulled that crap. They knew damned well that an adult, especially one not genetically bound to them, couldn’t do anything to stop them from doing whatever they wanted to do. It didn’t used to be like this, especially when I was a kid. Neighbors used to kick my ass if I did wrong. One of my buddy’s dads slapped the shit out of me on his own front porch for swearing once. But this country had become so kid-centric that if you complained about some noisy bastard in the movies they kicked you out. You certainly couldn’t lay a hand on some arrogant little brat. Kids had more protections on them than goddamned heads of state. Now I couldn’t do a thing but plead with these kids until I was blue in the face, or they grew bored with the sound of my voice. Or I could be a bitch and threaten to call the cops but these Talos would be gone way before 5-0 arrived. Plus I hated the cops myself and didn’t really feel like breaking the bliss of beer and 19th century Russian fiction for a pow-wow with Officer Friendly that wasn’t going to go anywhere. Me and these kids, we were at an impasse before we even got started. It was then that my girl’s car pulled up the street. Against their breeding the longhairs 20

moved out of the way and allowed her to pull into the driveway. They looked at me and smirked. Keep smirking you douche bags, I thought. My Abby was a tough bitch. She was a lawyer for some corporation downtown. She didn’t put up with shit. I’d watched her make grown men cry in the courtroom. I’d seen her ex break down into incurable sobs. Hell, even I was on my best around her. The only reason she put up with me was because she was a bit of a bum magnet. Abby loved the loveable losers. She thought she could save us; cure us from whatever had sent us down our shaky, stinking paths. It was her one weakness. Too bad those Talos weren’t twelve years older. They’d be right up her alley. “What’s going on?” she said, by way of a hello. “Just hanging out with some of Simon’s new friends,” I said. “We ain’t that homo’s friends,” Joey Ramone said. “Excuse me?” Abby said. “Apparently I was wrong about their relationships,” I said. “Kids are so hard to gauge these days.” “I know you,” Abby said to Joey Ramone. She went over to the lot of them and started pointing fingers. Only women could do this. Like I said, if I would’ve gone down there it would’ve turned into a John Woo film, and then, for me at least, the afternoon would’ve morphed into some prison drama. “I know almost all of you. And your mothers.” “So,” Jimmy Paige said. “So you get off this street right now, before I call some of them. And your principal.” “He started it.” The longhairs pointed in unison toward my girl’s house. “Your kid gave us a bread basket,” Joey Ramone said. Abby looked up at me. “What in the hell is a bread basket?” “Beats me,” I said. “It’s something these punks made up.” “I ain’t no punk, you bum,” Bon Jovi said. Sadly I had no retort. I was kind of a bum. I’d chased my fair share of Simons in my day. “It’s an obscene gesture,” Nugent said. Frankly I was surprised that any of them knew the word obscene. “Show me,” Abby said to the pack. But they demurred and crowded into one another. 21

“Look, if I’m going to talk to my son about this then I should know what he did to call on the firing squad.” Not a purposeful allusion to Dostoevsky, but I liked her style. “He did this,” Paige finally said. He spread his legs a little bit and put both hands in front of his crotch before pumping back and forth like he was a quarterback or a had a dick with two feet of width. “A bread basket,” Abby said to me “Who knew they called it that?” I said. She turned to the Talos. “And he did this to you?” “Yeah,” Joey Ramone said. “We were on our school bus and when we passed him walking home he gave us the bread basket.” “And you did nothing to provoke him?” “We shout things at them all the time,” Bon Jovi said. Them being the group of catholic school kids that walk home every day. “But we don’t give no one the bread basket.” “On a moving bus the physics alone would be daunting,” I said. “Rand.” Abby said. That was my cue to leave the porch while dear Abby schooled the little burnouts. When I got inside I could hear the TV blaring from Simon’s room, laser fire and shit, another shoot them up game meant to kill the brain cells. Simon could probably do well with a little real violence in his life. I mean the buzz cut and big glasses his old lady made him wear had to piss him off. I went to the fridge and got myself that beer that I’d been craving before all of this madness started, and then went back to my place on the couch. I picked up the Dostoevsky but I wasn’t feeling so great at the moment. I was sort of awash in mediocrity. So I put the book down and turned on Sports Center. A couple of minutes later I heard the pack of longhairs, Talos as Simon had called them, cat call and shout their goodbyes. Then Abby came inside and threw her bag on the loveseat. “Can I have some of that?” she said, letting her auburn hair out of her tight, sexy lawyer ponytail. I sometimes thought she kept it tight to stay on point and pissed. I handed her the beer. She took it down in a gulp, which was kind of how I fell in love with her in the first place. “Do you know what that short little prick called me?” 22

“Bon Jovi?” “No.” Abby sighed. “A cunt. He called me a cunt.” “I meant he’s Bon Jovi.” Abby gave me a queer look then went over to her bag and took out her cell phone. “I’m calling the school.” “Now?” I said. “Yes.” “You’re not going to get anyone but the janitor.” Abby took the phone away from her ear and her eyes started welling up. “They’re just going to do this to him tomorrow.” “No they won’t,” I said. “They’ll get bored. In an hour they’ll be Facebooking with their idiot friends, or slobbering over some video game.” “Rand, do you even remember being a kid?” “I’ve blocked it from my memory.” Which was true. It was mostly a horror of bullies and vicious neighborhood dogs, an absentee father, my mother crying, bills not getting paid, and playing unpadded football in the park just to inflict pain upon myself and others, etc. etc. “Trust me; those kids will keep this up. They have nothing else to do with their time. Plus Simon is an easy target.” “I thought you knew their moms or something,” I said. “I was lying,” Abby said. “I’ve never seen those kids before. They go to public school.” “Explains the drool and the monosyllabic banter,” I said. “I should go talk to Simon.” “Let me do it,” I said. “You probably had a long day, and I’m probably calling off from work again tomorrow. Let me go and see what happened.” “Thank you,” Abby said. Then she went and called the school anyway. I knocked on Simon’s door but there was no answer, just more lasers blasts and gunshots, the occasional triumphant “yes,” hissed from the kid’s mouth. I had no choice but to fling open the door, which I hated doing. I respected people’s privacy, even junior high kids. One of my mother’s old boyfriends used to fling open my door without warning. It 23

was no big deal most of the time when I was just listening to music or watching TV. But a couple of times he almost caught me stroking it to some Madonna or Janet Jackson video on MTV or, if I had to get low rent, one of those make-up infomercials where all of those aging models sat around in short skirts and gave each other facials. When I semi-moved in with Abby I made it a point to never barge in on Simon. It was for both us. He needed the privacy and I needed to not walk in on him tugging away at it to some video game harlot or barbarian. But desperate times called for desperate measures. “Hey, Kid,” I said. Nothing, just BLAST BLAST at the video screen. “Simon.” “What?” “Can you put that damned game on pause for a second, man?” “Can I just finish this level?” “We need to talk now, dude,” I said. Dude. Man. I never called people dude or man, but I’d started doing it with Simon when we hung out. I felt like dude, or man, made the kid seem cooler than a Simon, and made me seem cooler than some jackass putting it to his mom. Plus it kept things between us casual, never too paternal. “Fiiiine.” Simon put his game on pause then turned to look at me as if I were some kind or beer-soaked alien. “First things first. Are you all right?” Simon shrugged. “You wanna tell me your side of what all of that was about outside?” “With the Talos?” “Yeah, the Talos.” “What about them?” Simon said. “For starters, why were they chasing you up the street?” “Because they’re assholes.” “Maybe so,” I said. I let asshole slide. Another one of my buddy/buddy affectations, not too dad-like tricks, was to let Simon swear when he and I were alone. “But even assholes have reasons for what they do. Except bosses. Those assholes do things randomly and callously.” “They shout at us kids every day when we walk home,” Simon said. “And they give us the finger.” 24

“Okay,” I said. “So you got tired of taking it.” “I guess.” “And you stood up for yourself and the other little Catholic school kids walking home.” “I gave them the bread basket,” Simon said. “So I heard.” “Can I go back to playing my game now?” “Not yet,” I said. “We’re kind of in a mess, buddy. Those Talos called your mom a name.” “Why am I not surprised?” “And she’s calling their school right now,” I said. “She can’t do that,” Simon said. The kid looked shaken, his baby blues blinked rapidly behind his big glasses. He knew and I knew that sometimes telling an adult was actually worse. “They’ll just come after me again.” “I think they might do that anyway, man.” “Great.” The kid slouched. Great, he said. Like he was already defeated, like he had no choice but to accept the wrath of these Talos until they got bored and moved on to someone else. “Can I go back to my game now, Rand?” “I guess.” I sat there for a moment as the kid turned back and slapped the pause button on his game to start up the intergalactic carnage again. I tried to think of something to say, but we’d all been there. We’d all had our bullies and this misery was just a rite of passage. I wanted to tell Simon that it would be all right, but I knew that was a lie. He’d probably get pushed around and maybe beat on a bit by these kids. And then after them there’d be other bullies, only he’d call them names like girlfriend, wife, or boss. There’d be lines of women to break his heart, and lines of bosses to break his spirit. There’d be life and death and everything in between to make him wonder what was the point of it all. Simon had a long hard road ahead of him; the hazard of being human. The Talos weren’t even the worst of what he’d face in this life. They were a cakewalk. But who in the fuck was I to tell this kid anything? I wasn’t his mom. I sure as hell didn’t want to be his dad. If I was anything I was an adult version of 25

those Talos. Maybe I’d be a good life lesson for Simon when he got older. If you’re going to be anything, don’t be like Rand Wyndham. Be anything but Rand Wyndham. “I got through to their school,” Abby said when I got downstairs. “By the way Simon is fine,” I said. I went into the kitchen and grabbed two beers. “I was going to ask that, Rand. Don’t go getting all haughty and paternal now.” “Sorry. I’m in a mood.” And I was. Thinking about one’s miserable lifespan always put me in a mood. “What’s the principal’s opinion?” “He said he knows the boys,” Abby said. I handed her a beer. “Not too shabby for you not even having any names to go with the faces,” I said. “He described the olive-skinned one to a T.” “Joey Ramone?” “Is that what you’re calling him?” Abby said. We both had long pulls on our beers. “I was calling him Iggy Stooge.” “In size order: Joey Ramone, Jimmy Paige, Ted Nugent, and Bon Jovi.” “All right I’ll stick with those.” “It’s all bad music,” I said. “Those Talos must get around at that public school.” “Talos?” “Simon called them that.” “I wonder if that’s a gang name,” Abby said. “This ain’t The Warriors dear,” I said. “Anyway what was Principal Shithead’s solution to our little dilemma?” “He said he’d talk with them.” “A lot of good that’ll do.” “It’s the best I can go on now. If they start again we’ll take it from there.” I had another pull on my beer. Simon’s video game was blaring through the ceiling. “All the same maybe I should meet Simon on the walk home tomorrow, or pick him up or something.” “What’s he going to do when you stop playing hooky from work?” “We could get him a bus pass,” I said. “Rand,” Abby said. She had some of her beer. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to baby 26

Simon. Let’s just see what happens tomorrow.” “Hey, you’re the mom,” I said. “I’m just the boyfriend.” “I know you are,” Abby said. But I didn’t like the way she said it. The next afternoon I was watching the television when Simon came screaming up the street again. I’d given up on the Dostoevsky because there was only so much spiritual mysticism a man could take. Of course I was off the job again. When I called it in the warehouse manager alluded to the number of days that I’d missed over the past six months, and not-so-subtlety suggested that if I didn’t come in the next day there might not be a job waiting for me. Warehouse managers had no conception of a man’s thirst for his own freedom. And that’s what I was thinking while lying there watching TV when Simon and the Talos came roaring up the street. The bullied and his bullies, I thought. It sounded like a Dostoevsky title. There was no freedom in that system of sticks and stones either. I got off the couch just as Simon came roaring through the front door, taking the steps two at a time to get to his room. So I headed for the front door to greet his tormentors. I remembered to bring a beer this time. “Fancy meeting you boys again,” I said. The Talos didn’t say anything. They just huffed and puffed their little burnout chests, and glared at my girl’s modest duplex. “How much longer we gonna keep doing this?” “That little shit gave us the bread basket again,” Bon Jovi said. He must’ve drawn the short cigarette and it was his turn to speak. “Completely unprovoked, right?” “He’s messing with the wrong people,” Joey Ramone added. “You’re not people,” I said. “You’re kids. You don’t count until you pay taxes. If you don’t believe me go find the bars your old men drink in and ask them.” “Screw you, dude.” “Truth hurts, Joey.” “We’re gonna fix Simon’s ass tomorrow,” Ted Nugent said. “Why don’t you guys just leave each other alone?” None of the Talos had an answer for that. They looked from one another with the same slack-jawed, clueless expression. It was a look only their mothers or their math teachers could love. “Go back to finding new 27

things to burn with matches.” “You ain’t so smart yourself,” Jimmy Paige said. “Actually I have a master’s degree,” I said. Oddly enough it was true. It was a master’s degree in Library Science, which was the equivalent of finding a degree in a box of Cracker Jacks. All the same I had the defaulted student loan debt to prove it. The Talos started to back away at the mention of advanced degrees. “Tell Simon his ass is grass tomorrow….and we’re the lawnmowers,” Bon Jovi said. “All right, now I’m convinced you guys came here via time machine,” I said. “Ass is grass? Who still talks like that? Or are you boys being ironic?” “Huh?” Joey Ramone said. “Exactly. Look, what’ll it take to end this?” “Making Simon my bitch,” Paige said. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time for that kind of stuff once the penal system gets you boys,” I said. “I’m talking about now.” None of the scholars had an answer. Neither did I, until I noticed Simon’s wiffleball bat prostrate on the lawn. “I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “Me and Simon play you boys in a wiffleball game. We win you leave Simon alone. You win and we’ll let nature take its course.” Obviously I wasn’t going to let these punks continue to pick on Simon if they somehow won the game, but I wanted them to think that they had a fighting chance at something other than making ashtrays in metal shop or whatever it was kids made these days in metal shop. “That’s bullshit,” Joey Ramone said. “Afraid you’d lose?” The Talos laughed in unison. They were afraid to lose for sure. “Come on. You pick on Simon and act like he’s some kind of wimp. I’d be willing to bet not a single one of you is coordinated enough to play a sport.” The Talos stopped laughing. “What did you call Simon? A faggot? Yeah, I’ll bet you’re all pretty big fags too.” That got them. Boys were easy. Hell, men were easy. All you had to do was challenge our manhood and we’d fight until we had nothing left. The military had this figured out for decades. Women still hadn’t figured this out. They continued to work on the precepts that guilt and reason worked with men. Reason never worked and guilt only carried 28

a man so far. If women learned to challenge our manhood on a daily basis, say, call their boyfriends, sons, or husbands fags if they didn’t take out the garbage or help clean the house, society would’ve evolved into a matriarchy millenniums ago. “Go and get the little homo,” Joey Ramone said. “Takes one to know one, ladies,” I said. I went inside to get the boy. “No,” Simon said when I told him my plan. He didn’t even look up from his video game. I knew he’d be a tough sell but I didn’t expect to be shunned in such a manner. “You want these kids off your back?” I said. Simon shrugged. Of course he wanted them off of his back. We all wanted people off of our backs. I wanted warehouse managers and bill collectors off my back. Other people wanted their spouses and kids off of their backs. Simon had to want these Talos off of his back. “Or would you rather they chased you home every day?” “It’s good exercise,” Simon said. “Your mom ever tell you not to be smart?” The boy paused his game, looked back at me as if I were a piece of shit. “She told me to respect my elders.” Then he turned back to his game. “So old Rand is just some bum?” I said. “You said it not me.” “I’m trying to help you.” “You’re trying to cause me further embarrassment.” Further embarrassment. The kid actually talked like that. “I’m already good at doing that myself.” I sat on the edge of Simon’s bed in stunned silence. The kid was eleven or twelve or some age like that and he was already a defeatist. Imagine the kid at twenty? Thirty? He’d be some cruel slave driver’s wet dream. The first woman who made him bust a nut would own the poor kid. Simon needed a good shot of confidence. He needed it before it was too late and he’d become swallowed by the Talos of the world, or by some corner cubicle in some florescent hell of an office. At least that was my opinion on the boy. “One lousy game of wiffleball,” I said. “And you’ll have these dumb fuckers out of your life.” “How do you know?” Simon said. He didn’t look back but he put his game on pause 29

again. “Because I’m Randall fucking Wyndham.” “What if we lose, Randall fucking Wyndham?” “We won’t.” Simon looked back at me. “Come on.” “I stink at wiffleball.” I pointed toward the window. “You think those dudes are any better? They’ll probably get hair caught in their eyes or break a nail and quit.” Simon laughed. I had him. He shut the game off and got up. “One game to rule them all,” he said. “Just keep the nerd talk to a minimum, son,” I said. We both laughed. Imagine that, me calling someone son. I couldn’t find my sneakers so I put on my work boots. Not the best choice but when in Rome…. The Talos were sitting on the landscaped brick of my neighbor’s driveway, smoking their old man’s stolen cigarettes, and trying to act tough when Simon and I came outside. They got up in unison and started that whole shuffling and bobbing around their shoulders like they were gearing up for a street fight. What a bunch of poseurs. If only you could hit a kid, I mused for the second time that week. I mean we should all get one pass at striking a child. Not a little kid, of course, but one of these smart-alecky tweens or teens who talk in movie theaters or park their asses on our manicured lawns, lean on our cars when we stop at the convenience store for milk. It would be like a free pass. You go to some clinic with the kid of your choice and your yearly ticket, turn it in, and get to take your best shot. If the kid cries you get to hit them again. But alas. “You bitches, ready?” I asked. “What did you say, dude?” Jimmy Paige said. He started walking toward me. Then he stopped. He knew better. But then he pointed down at my feet. “Look, dude’s wearing combat boots.” That caused all the Talos to laugh. They tossed their smokes and started chanting. “Combat Boots! Combat Boots!” I hadn’t been made fun of in twenty years. As I remembered it, it was a miserable feeling being singled out like that. The feeling hadn’t changed these many years later. I looked at Simon. He frowned and shook his head because 30

he knew. But I had something up my sleeve. It was called the bold, dumb ego of being an adult in the presence of children. “You ladies are making fun of me?” I said. “Why don’t you girls get haircuts before the boys start asking you for dates?” “Fuck you, Combat Boots,” Joey Ramone said. “I’ll get my dad.” “Good. Go get him. Drag him out of whatever watering hole he’s avoiding your mom in. He can watch us kick your ass in wiffleball, and then you can watch me kick his ass.” “Rand,” Simon said. He tugged on my sleeve but I was in the zone. “In fact, go get all of your dads, you fucking Talos.” That got the Talos. “Oooooh,” they said in unison. Then they started chanting and yelling. It was enough for some of the good neighbors to look outside their windows and doors. I didn’t give a shit. The neighbors didn’t like me and I didn’t like them. Plus I was kind of in my glory. I was going to be a god. I was going to be golden. Those little burnouts ceased being Simon’s enemies and they became mine. They weren’t Talos with funny little rock star names anymore. They were years and years of kids picking on yours truly in school. They were my old man running off on me and my mom. They were a succession of shitty bosses, and that prick that I head butted at the library, the one who got me fired from the only decent job that I had. Those Talos were bill collectors and chatty jerks in the bar when all you wanted was to get drunk alone. They were every goddamned woman who told me that I was no good; from my first girlfriend to that little writer twat that left me high and dry in Brooklyn. Those Talos were years of abuse that had been heaped on my back, and they didn’t even realize it. They had no clue. And it was time to settle the score. “We playing ball or what, ladies?” I said. Ladies. Girls. I knew how to anger dudes. “Batter up, Combat Boots,” Ted Nugent said. He kicked the wiffleball bat toward Simon, and then the Talos took the field with Joey Ramone pitching. I tried giving the bat to Simon but he wouldn’t take it. “I don’t want to bat first.” “You have to, buddy,” I said. “There are two of us. That way I can bat clean-up if one of us gets on.” “This is a dumb idea.” 31

I leaned over and put a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “This is you standing up for yourself and don’t you forget it. This is your golden moment. This is you telling the Talos of the world that you aren’t taking any more of their shit.” Simon took the bat from me and started walking toward the rock the Talos put down to signify home plate. “This is me going to make an ass out of myself.” “Have confidence, dude.” “Right.” Simon struck out in the three pitches. Of course he did. The first two were high and tight, and the kid swung because he thought Joey Ramone was going to hit him. The third pitch was lobbed in underhanded just to dig the knife in deeper. Simon slammed the wiffle bat down and then slumped into a pile of grass while the Talos all laughed. But he didn’t go inside, which was a positive. Then it was my turn to bat, which I did to a chorus of "Combat Boots! Combat Boots!" Their chants only served to enrage me, feed me. I thought for sure I’d get a pitch and ram it right down Joey Ramone’s throat. But I whiffed on the first two pitches. On the third I swung and my ankle gave because of those fucking boots. I fell to the ground in blinding pain, and crawled away as Simon came up to bat. He didn’t even try to help me up. He went down in three pitches, all underhand, as I somehow managed to get back up on two feet. Then it was the Talos turn to bat. “Did you have a nice trip in the fall, Combat Boots,” Nugent said to me. “Seriously, kid, go buy an insult book or something,” I said. Nugent concurred by giving me the finger. “We’re all right,” I said to Simon, as he did a perp-walk toward the middle infield. I walked around the mound to try and get my ankle straight, but it was killing me to no end. Hey, at least I had an honest excuse for missing work for a third day. “I’m going to throw them some smoke.” “Sure you are,” Simon said. He put his head down. It was then that Abby’s car came up the street. Simon moved out of the way for my girl to get her ride into the driveway. But Abby stopped the car on the street for a second. I nodded and waved, didn’t move because I didn’t want to clue her in on my unfortunate injury. Abby surveyed the scene from her perch of white leather interior. She looked none 32

too pleased to see her son and boyfriend fraternizing with the enemy. Actually she shook her head at me then pulled into the driveway. It was disappointment all the way around. If we didn’t win this game it was going to be a lonely night for Rand Wyndham. “What’s going on here?” Abby said, slamming her car door. “A battle of wills,” I said. She looked at her son. “Simon?” The boy shook his head. Mother and son, two peas in the pod, man. “Rand’s idea.” “We playin’ ball or what?” Bon Jovi yelled. He was batting lead-off. “Keep your pants on, Mary,” I said. Thankfully Abby walked over to me. “What is this about?” “A gentlemen’s bet. We beat these Talos and they leave Simon alone.” “And if you lose?” I shrugged. “We won’t.” “Play…Ball…Combat Boots!” Nugent yelled. Abby looked down at my shoes. “Fitting name.” “Duty calls, babe.” Abby backed away but didn’t go into the house. She hung around the driveway, learning on the car. Our fan. The Talos didn’t have a fan. Simon and me, we had momentum now. I went back to the mound. I could tell that the ankle was swelling. I wouldn’t have as much on the ball as I’d like, but judging by those Talos a little heat could go a long way. Or so I thought. Bon Jovi took my first pitch, a nasty little slider, and knocked it behind a silver Ford Focus in the next neighbor’s yard. It was a ground rule double because Simon had to get on all fours to retrieve the ball. Still, not an auspicious start. The next batter, Nugent, drilled one that Simon misplayed at second. There were two on, no out, and Jimmy Paige coming to bat. I hobbled over to Simon. “It’s all right, son,” I said. “I’m not your son,” Simon said. He sighed. “Couldn’t we, like, pay these kids off or something?” “You don’t have enough money,” Bon Jovi said from his perch on second. “Shut up, kid,” I said to him. I turned back to Simon. “We got this.” 33

“Rand, what’s wrong with your ankle?” Abby shouted. “War injury, dear,” I said. “Yeah, from ‘Nam,” Nugent said from first base. “My old man was in ‘Nam,” I said. “He used to throw kids like you out of airplanes for fun.” “Bite me.” I went back to the mound. I got into one of those bent over and pensive stances. I stared down Jimmy Paige. Then I leaned back, stretched like Nolan Ryan, and let a slippery one go. Thankfully the kid missed it. I breathed a sigh of relief. I looked at Abby and I winked. She rolled her eyes. I turned to Simon to let him know we had this. His head had perked up a little on that pitch. He got into a stance, which was good, because Paige knocked the next pitch right up Simon’s nose. The ball smacked off the poor boy’s face. Everyone was safe. The bases were loaded with no outs for Joey Ramone. “You sure you played this game before, Combat Boots?” he said, swinging away like he thought he was Babe Ruth or something. “Before you were born,” I said. “Must’ve been picked last.” “We probably have that in common, huh?” “Just pitch.” So I did. I got Joey with a fast ball. I got him with a second fastball, and the goon Talo looked like he was going to cry. Three men on and no outs was obviously too much pressure for him. Speaking of pressure, my ankle felt like it had a ton of steel resting on the flesh and bone. I couldn’t keep throwing the heat. So I figured I’d throw a change-up and be done with Joey. I leaned in. I did my Nolan Ryan. The next two pitches were for balls. I leaned in again, a little less pressure on the ankle. It was just me and Joey Ramone in the moment. I eyed the douche bag and he eyed me. I needed to bring the heat. So I did. And Joey drove that pitch so far down the street that it seemed destined to take up residence in the next neighborhood. Simon stopped running for it after he looked back and noticed that all four Talos were celebrating at home plate. “Four to nothing, Combat Boots!” Joey said. 34

“I’m not stupid,” I said. “Could’ve fooled us.” “Hey!” Abby shouted. “That’s not nice.” “There is no nice in wiffleball,” Nugent said. Silently I agreed with him. This was blood sport. It took Simon forever to bring me the ball. Once I had it things didn’t go much better for the two of us. I managed to strike Bon Jovi out, the only bright spot of the game, in retrospect. After that it was three singles in a row, all in that goddamned driveway with the Focus. I had a blind hatred for that Focus. I saw key scratches and smeared egg massages in that car’s future. Then it was back to Bon Jovi, and his turn to pelt one down the street. Simon didn’t even attempt to chase it. In no time it was Talos, eight, and me and Simon with a big old goose egg. “You give up yet?” Jimmy Paige asked. “Did Custer?” “Custer died, dude,” Joey Ramone added. “What street corner did you learn that on?” I said. “History class, asshole.” Then it was just me and Nugent and my guilt over Simon, and my throbbing, swollen ankle. I leaned in. But, in truth, Nugent had all the sway and swagger in his direction. When he belted a double underneath that ever-loving Focus, even I wanted to quit. I wanted to do as Simon said, and pay the Talos off and just have that be that. I figured they could stop by monthly for their bribe money. You couldn’t win with bullies, even if you tried to do it honestly, just like you couldn’t win with bosses or the asshole on the bus playing his music too loud. This was their world and we just lived in it. “Winning run at the plate, Combat Boots,” Jimmy Paige said. “Winning run, my ass,” I said. “They both score and we ten-run rule you,” Joey Ramone said. He was sitting on my other neighbors sculpted brick landscape, smoking a cigarette. “We’re not playing ten-run rule.” “Yeah we are,” Jimmy Paige said from the batter’s box. “I got homework to do.” 35

“Remedial reading?” “He’s in honors,” Bon Jovi said. “Yeah, in public school.” “Rand just pitch the damned ball!” Abby shouted from the driveway. Then she gave a cursory clap to let Simon and I know she was still with us. So…you know the drill. I leaned down like I was studying Jimmy Paige. I kept the kid waiting a long time, trying to psyche him out. Then I got into my position. I gave a nice, long and purposeful stretch to really get him on edge. Then came the pitch. I did that trick where you make like you’re going to fire it in but then you change it up and lob it. I had him, or so I thought. But Jimmy Paige managed to get a bit on the wiffleball. It came right at me. But because of my little trick my equilibrium was off. I stumbled toward the ball. My ankle cried out in pain. Then I lost my balance and started toward the concrete. I hit it hard, twisting the other motherfucking ankle. I laid there in blind, shattering pain as Talos screamed and shouted and circled the bases. When I came to Abby was shouting and jumping, and Simon had the ball in his hands. He tossed it at Jimmy Paige as he rounded third. The ball missed and sailed into a gutter. Paige scored and the Talos had us ten to nothing. “Best of three,” I said from the concrete. But I didn’t think I’d ever get up. The Talos didn’t hear me because they were too busy celebrating. I turned to Simon. He was just standing there. The tears were on the verge of coming. “Game over, Combat Boots,” Joey Ramone said. He began to lead his pack down our street. They stopped before Simon. “See you tomorrow, kid.” “I’ll call the school,” Abby shouted at them. “I’ll call your parents!” But the Talos didn’t care. They were above principals and parents. They all lit their smokes and sauntered down the street like the big champions that they were. They chanted "Combat Boots! Combat Boots!" until they were out of sight. “We’ll get ‘em next time,” I said. I was still on the concrete, but I’d managed to roll on my side. “Screw you, Rand,” Simon said. Then he gave me the bread basket, before walking over to his mom. The two of them glared at me and then headed for the house. Abby 36

slammed the door pretty good. “A little help here,” I said, to no one in particular. Then I lay on the street for a few minutes, thinking. Not about much. Just life and things like that, like if I could really use these injuries to call off the job. I wondered what in the hell was a Talo anyway? They probably were a gang. A knitting circle. I’d tell Simon and Abby that one for sure. Then I started crawling back toward the house, hoping they’d eventually let me back inside.

Original Photo By Stina Stjernkvist

Life Under the Sex Tree Marie Curran

I know you couldn’t afford a real wedding because you were going to go off and be a missionary with your new wife. But really, I think you could have done better than the lawn next to the science department. Because dates apparently weren’t in the budget, I sat alone in a white plastic chair which on one side sagged into the mud. You were waiting for your angel-sent-from-God against a backdrop of cacti. Along with the ever-present spring smell of the Sex Tree’s blossoms drifting around campus, could you smell the formaldehyde cadavers in the white building to your left? My mother would not have been pleased, so it’s a good thing I wasn’t the one walking down the aisle. One time I was looking through a reference book in the back of the library, which faced the science building, when I heard this loud crash. Out of the big windows, I could see that the movers had almost dropped one of the bodies, draped in black, laid out on a stretcher in a routine delivery. The librarians were all crowded by the glass door giggling about the corpses. Let me tell you, what wasn’t running through my mind was, I have to have my wedding here! I am at a party in the luxury apartments down the street now, waiting for Garrett (yes I have moved on, thank you) to come and pick me up so we can ride bikes to the canyon and try to see stars. I am sitting on the big porch with skinny English major girls, juniors, telling them about your stinky procession, and they love it. Under the warm light-polluted night sky, we swat the mosquitoes away and drink Blue Moons from yellowed jelly jars, ringed orange slices bobbing on top. I see them mentally recording the nostalgia of this perfect college moment, pretending that they are somewhere beautiful and holy, maybe somewhere more important than this suffocating corner of Los Angeles County. “Not that I care,” I tell them again because I have had a little too much to drink by this time, “but I just think it’s ironic that people would start a life together when you can seriously smell death. Isn't that some portal into a dark future?” and they give each other these smug looks like, I love how she perfectly pinpoints the moronic behavior at this school, or maybe, God, she still talks about him. I may be older, but as an upcoming fifth-year senior, 39

I’m new to their elitist crowd. What I did not tell them was how unaffected you were. You did not seem to care about the drawers and drawers of pickled people only a wall away as the “bridal chorus” began. You turned this gray-white color, but for different reasons I’m sure. A single glistening, perfect-for-wedding tear rolled down your cheek. We all stood up. Kelsey looked nice and I saw she’d gotten the appropriate tan for the white dress. A row in front of me, John Ulver whispered something to Brandon North; I couldn’t hear it all, but I got out “doing it… tonight… finally.” Unless they were referring to the “Letters-to-My-Husband” I heard Kelsey had been writing and keeping in a pink shoe box since junior high, your friends were telling sex jokes during your ceremony. Brandon, leader of both wildly popular Facebook clubs “A Heart for Darfur” and “Cut Down the Sex Tree,” continued to chuckle. This copper-haired girl, Reyna, takes an amateur drag of her cigarette and comments that “Maybe we, as strong women, should just be thankful that loser guys surround us because, we can only grow stronger without them anyway.” Across the table, Bree, who is always single, quickly agrees. Another girl rolls her eyes, mumbles, “Boys,” and picks at the pulp in her soggy orange slice. Finishing off my drink, I check my phone for missed calls two more times as they keep up their boy-bashing. This place is starting to get annoying, the girls’ voices steadily elevating with every sip, while inside the thoughtful boys from the religious studies department lean over the kitchen counter with their four, five, and six craft beers, not yet drunk enough to dance with girls even though the music is blaring. And by the middle of the night, I suppose girls like Reyna, when they wake up on some couch or perennially open and musty bed, groggily recalling ale-flavored kisses, tangled together with someone as an old Bright Eyes album drones on for the eighth time, won’t be any stronger for their endurance of “silly boys.” Don’t think that you and your type, girls and boys that only publicly touch if the chapel is too squished, are any less dysfunctional, with all your talk of perfect wedding nights and chopping down the Sex Tree. I guess you, safe in your African marriage bed, have beaten 40

our disdained Bradford Pear. Such a harmless looking tree, rooted right in the middle of our tiny campus, flowers into something so awful every March that no overdue virgin can avoid it. When I had finally learned its popular title, I stood under it late one night, intentionally inhaling over and over. I could sort of compare it to a women’s restroom drizzled in honey and maybe the sweet pungent dove weed that grows in Northern California’s yellow countryside. Yet at first I had wondered why a group of boys, and you were one of them in your faded red t-shirt, were yelling and throwing things at this innocent tree right when its first white buds debuted. The high-heel girls on my hall explained to me that the tree smelled like sex. Smelled like sex? I just nodded, Oh of course it smells like sex ha ha ha. I think I joined the club. I didn’t know what a boy’s saliva smelled like. People squirm under this tree, this tower of forbidden fruit, tempting us with the pleasures of holy matrimony, turning our stomachs with such a perverse odor. Well, back and forth under this unfortunate Pyrus calleryana I trudged on through my first couple years with my virginal lips and chapel-born principles: Don’t give backrubs. Guard your heart. Don’t touch arms. Don’t bend down too low in a v-neck. Don’t wear too many v-necks. And the doozy, Don’t casually kiss. Anything beyond this sinful kiss was inconceivable to all of us real Christians, except in our infuriated nostrils every spring. So when you asked me out to Starbucks on a blistering April morning sophomore year, I was excited to go. I wore my favorite I-care-about-Jesus-more-than-my-looks-but-I’m-naturally-pretty outfit, but kept reminding myself that I’d just have to be careful. But then only a few hours ago, you slid right in to holy matrimony and, diving into that envied kingdom of unbridled bliss, forever escaped from the tree’s evil offers. And let me tell you, your two top-rate friends really could not seem to let this go. Once I even imagined flicking Brandon, as he chortled about your impending deflowering, right on the back of the neck where his skin folds kept lapping up a tiny Hebrew tattoo that I’m sure read Shalom or Savior. I hated hearing these jokes about your happy future and seeing these people and feeling so out of place. It’s not that people tiptoed around me or anything—I mean, nobody ever really knew about us—but I wanted Garrett to be there, to shake hands with you, to touch my back with people looking, to dance with me in front of all these friends I used to know. 41

Friends I used to know when we were close. But now I have a semester of art projects to go, and you having graduated summa cum laude with a degree in Biblical studies, made the appropriate unending-love declarations, secured the ring, and kissed the kiss. Your first kiss with Kelsey, your first kiss that mattered, wow, I can’t believe I’d gotten to see it, you Deacon of Purity. I looked to see if your hands were shaking before it happened. They were. Once, near the beginning of junior year, when we were still “hanging out,” my statecollege, sorority-girl cousin Gina and I met in Fullerton for coffee. After telling me about her latest interest/hook-up, she asked me what was going on with us. I told her I still saw a promising future. “Okay, I know you’re doing the whole virgin-til-marriage thing, but is he at least a good kisser?” “Oh no, we don’t do that,” I told her, for the first time wondering if there was something wrong with me. Gina sort of laughed. So I tried to justify myself. “We’ve only officially liked each other for four months. It’s more important that we build up our friendship.” “What?” Gina gawked, swirling her chewed-up straw in her iced chai. While she’d always said, politely at least, that I was crazy for not having sex like every other college student in the world, it was my kissing policy that most enraged her. I had no Bible verses or really anything else for explanation, and eventually Gina looked straight at me without smiling. She explained that even Christian-college boys are guided by one thing, if I didn’t get kissed soon, it was just not going to happen. Of course I didn’t believe her, and insisted that we’d held hands twice, but as the weeks rolled on with minor Define-The-Relationship talks (“I just want to make sure that it’s okay how we’re spending uncommitted time together,” you said a lot) and whole weekends that you wouldn’t call me, I decided that something needed to change. I wanted the kiss. I started touching your arm, whispering a little too close. Most at the party are starting to dance while a few not-quite-Christian girls, I think anthropology majors, clumsy in their skirt-over-jeans look, stand by the porch door having impassioned, tipsy discussions about Los Angeles' lack of public transportation, their gritty 42

oversees internships, and of course, their failing romantic relationships. Yet I’m getting up slowly, to teeter away, because I just don’t want to hear it anymore. I think I will call Garrett, to see if he’s on his way. “Hey! Watch out!” they shout now, but it is too late; right as my nose makes contact with a bloody crunch, I see myself, still pretty in my wedding outfit, hit the sliding-glass door and slump to the dirty concrete. “Oh my gosh! Are you okay? Talk to us!” I hear echoing around my crumpled body. I moan a little, but moving my mouth muscles just intensifies the burning throbbing in my nose. When I open my eyes, Reyna is sitting on the ground with me. She is careful nonetheless, not to soil her new dress, which she explained earlier, is organic cotton. She is examining my smeared bloody face to see how much damage I have caused. “It’s okay, you’ve had a long day,” she says, patting my shoulder. I am un-graduated, drunk, bloody and technically single on this day of my old love’s marriage. Some of the girls, the intuitive English majors, have started to make inferences. I see it in their bespectacled eyes as they help me to my feet. I am insisting that I’m fine, I’ll just go to the bathroom and clean myself off, have some water after that. And Garrett will be there soon and he’ll tell me I’m beautiful and everything will be fine. He will kiss me. I lumber into the bathroom. “Poor thing!” I hear outside the door. My nose looks awful and I’m only getting dizzier. In my discomfort, I actually laugh a little to myself, thinking back to your ceremony. “You may now kiss the bride,” our campus pastor had said, and you cocked your head in that signature way I’d memorized, longed for, and you touched the side of her face. I’d once been there too, my jaw resting in your hand, my eyes waiting for yours to close. Yet this time the promise was fulfilled in a gentler way; you kissed, not inhaled or smashed, her lips and smiled. As I remembered from our own experience, I thought it would look like my nose-first crash into the glass. It didn’t. That kiss looked so damn good. When I started listening to Gina, you often looked at my lips, which I had read somewhere was a sign that a boy wants to kiss a girl. You couldn’t get your eyes off my lips one evening in the campus garden. I thought you were going to kiss me in the photo lab, which we’d stumbled into (I kept grabbing your elbow) just to see if it was haunted like 43

everyone said it was. And then there was the time in your car as campus safety walked around with self-righteous flashlights and your eclectic worship soundtrack rolled on through our talking. So many places we wandered with some sexual hopes. Like in the theology library's narrow halls of archaic Bibles, or the old bench near the apple-filled pond at dusk, purposefully accidentally sitting close enough that our thighs touched. And we kept on not kissing, even though you touched my head, and my eyes said yes and our lips were tense. You didn’t, and I didn’t, and we never talked about it. As I sat there today (by the way, you should know, everyone was nervous for you), really not very heartbroken like you might have thought, I still couldn’t help but wonder what we, I mean an out-in-the-open, happy-to-be-making-out, we would have been like. You started playing your guitar then, howling these words about how you spent night after night in the prayer chapel, seeking God’s will about your proposal. It sounded grueling. I wondered if there would be champagne at the reception. It was in the prayer chapel when we were praying about our “more-than-friends” status again when the final almost-kiss came. I looked great. And I knew you wouldn’t overlook the unintended openings between the buttonholes of my modest shirt (you didn’t). For that we held sweaty hands. “Lord, we just wanna ask for wisdom on forming a… God—I mean, a You-centered relationship,” you said I don’t know how many times, trying to keep your eyes squeezed shut so you wouldn’t see that Godforsaken corner of my light green bra. Finally, when we stopped praying, you didn’t let go of my hand. We sat a little closer. You told me I was your best friend. And then we almost kissed. You looked down and then back up, and your face was closer. I strained my neck so that I’d be closer too. I wanted to scream because it was finally coming, but instead I just watched your eyelids start to quiver close as you prepared for your task. But then, as our noses bumped the second before lip contact, two freshman girls bounded in, crying. They stumbled to the altar at the front, knelt down, and kept bawling. We didn’t kiss. Your hand dropped dead from where it had wanted to tangle my hair. A sign from God that smooching was the wrong path? Well, hallelujah, your prayer was answered Mr. Groom. So we didn’t do it. We never got close to this gentle pecking again.

Back in the life of the party, I’m thinking about how I should get some more water, but I’m also feeling lonely, so instead opt for a Red Stripe. I shift from group to group, my eyes always wafting past conversations to opening doors that I hope Garrett will come through. I wonder if you’d get along with him. He’s nothing like you, thankfully. He is twenty-five, an actual man, and works at a nonprofit in town. It was a sweaty Sunday this last March, and after I’d spent the week considering atheism (I heard you’d gone through it too the previous semester; learning about Historical Jesus mixed with a little global warming always gets people), I rode my bike to the local Catholic Church. I was sitting in a back pew with my unnecessarily personalized Zondervan NIV, and I couldn’t follow along with the mass because I’d failed to pick up a missal on the way in. But then a guy (whom I hadn’t really noticed) also sitting alone down the same pew, moved next to me to share his. After mass we stood outside and talked. It just felt good to be attractive to someone. And, as distracted as I was in my existential crisis, I liked his directness and conversational skills, if not his long black hair and smudgy glasses. He kept me talking for an hour, asking me questions about my life. I rode my bike home humming and hopeful. Though I only went back to the church to see Garrett, I wasn't too concerned about God's nonexistence. By the end of the month, my professor had critiqued Modernism, it rained enough to clear the smog, and I was happy not only that I sort of believed in God again but that I’d sat by Garrett at mass two more times. I had given him my phone number and found him more attractive than you. He liked me a lot, I figured out one night when we were stealing citrus from the shady, hilly neighborhoods on the east side of town. As I was counting the fruit in my bulging satchel, telling him that my roommates had a juicer we could use, I noticed Garrett sitting still on his blue bike. He was watching me and smiling in this way I think I’d always looked at you. “What?” I said, starting to giggle a little, but I knew what it was. And then only a week ago, after watching a movie together on his couch (something you always stayed clear of, of course), he kissed me. It was such a nice first kiss, and we eased into making out, until he pulled away and we were both a little breathless. “I should take you home,” he said, and I nodded and brought my lips right under his ear. So we kissed some more and he eventually mumbled that it was really time to take me home. I agreed as I touched where his thigh 45

joined his knee, and fifteen minutes later we were out the door, then in his car, then I was back home safe. No damage done. When Garrett still doesn’t arrive, I start feeling antisocial. An open door reveals an unoccupied bedroom, and I disappear into the hallway, then to the room without anyone’s intoxicated notice. When we were in our exclusive-non-dating state, you always commented on how I could do that. Drift away without letting anyone know. Like a small child constantly getting lost in an art museum. I don’t know if you noticed, since now you had other things to think about, but I slipped away from your reception early. After taking part in the toast (which I should have guessed would be Martinellis) and meal, I told the few who asked that I had to go to work on an art project because I was taking May term. I didn’t want to say I was actually going to the party, as even I get a little embarrassed of these rebellious and too-artsy Christian-fringe get-togethers. Walking home, the campus was dead; everyone had taken off for summer vacation. Yet the school year’s residue was still around, as lemon, lime and magenta Spring Break Mexico Missions, Tanya Thompson: Senior Recital, and Support Summer Team Djibouti fliers lined the beige walls. On the Djibouti flier there was a tracing of the African continent, with a Courier New “Micah 6:8” typed above a tiny heart dotting the east coast. Like we always had reacted to this stuff, I actually laughed aloud, but I felt a little guilty this time. As if I was actually laughing at an old woman stumbling. It seemed more okay when both of us thought the fliers were silly. That reminds me, newlywed, are you going to be sustainably saving souls and empowering termite-ridden huts in the Congo or Angola? And please, promise me you’ll hire the local women to make indigenous-looking t-shirts to sell to wander lusted freshmen at the Fair Trade Missions Fair on our campus. It just confuses me because I remember sophomore year, you saying that the Christian Missions to Africa Industry, with all its fashionable tragedies and rubber bracelets, was way too status-quo for you. As if going there was no better than driving down with some nails and hammers to Mexico for one of those weekend charity fixes. Let the trendy Christians go those places, you’d say. As for us, we’d concern ourselves with Chechnya, Tajikistan, and NGO’s addressing chemical problems in 46

Northeastern Russia. We were both studying Christian ministries then, before I made the art switch and you changed to Biblical Studies. But then I started drinking the beers I had said were stupid and you, in the same fashion, went on a short-term mission trip to Africa. And I heard you fell in love with her on this trip, to Uganda or Ethiopia or wherever, doing some Vacation Bible School program. You were still in the village church after everyone else had cleaned up the art supplies. If the story is true, then you were sitting there, holding one of your desperate African children on your lap, swatting the flies away. Then through a doorway, and then through another doorway—and maybe I’m getting the story wrong here but I think there was possibly another doorway (how does a building work this way?)—sat the girl, the woman God told you to marry! She was sitting there I hear, with not one but two desperate African children on her lap, with gentle motherly blue eyes and a meek spirit that shone for the Lord. She was so unassuming that she did not even look up to meet your enamored gaze. But maybe these three crucial children smiled at each other to celebrate their successful matchmaking. I started walking home faster, thinking I’ve held desperate children too, but never through doorways! Not that I wanted to be seen through doorways, not that I wanted my right hand to see what my left hand was doing, a biblical concept you’d explained in depth to me as you praised my humility that first night we linked our fingers together and then had another theological DTR. I sit butterfly-style in the bedroom, touching my tender nose, cradling my dark brown bottle. I am very drunk. I curl up on the dirty carpet, which smells like cat, in the fetal position. Garrett doesn’t answer his phone when I call, so I look at a picture of him and me I saved on my phone. We are such a cute couple, even if we’re not official yet. And though technically you are the only real boyfriend I’ve ever had, Garrett and I look way better in pictures than we ever did. Your weird surfer blonde hair, tanned face, and dark eyes just always washed me out. Honestly, you hardly even counted as a boyfriend anyway. But now I’ve learned things about dating. I hope you have too. For one thing, I will never let a boy ask me out and throw in Kierkegaard in the same sentence. Especially when it 47

is ambiguous who is Søren and who is Regina. A week after the prayer chapel scare, we went to San Onofre to do homework. You hadn’t really wanted to go, but I gave you a million dumb reasons why it was a good idea even though I knew we never got anything done together. We were all alone on the beach, sprawled out on this itchy Mexican blanket, shivering as the sun approached the water. I looked you over as you were highlighting lines of Fear and Trembling and eating a tuna sandwich. You seemed really wrapped up in the book and when you turned a page you dropped the sandwich on the blanket, and even though it got a little dirty, you were trying to eat around the sand. There was a twig in your hair, and I scooted over to you, stretched my hand out to your head. Then right as I was about to remove the twig, you looked up and flinched. My hand dropped. “I was just getting something out….” I trailed off. You looked like you were aching for me, but I wasn’t sure if it was out of desire or pity. I began to cry. You shoved your chin into your hand in that way you always did when you were nervous and apologized. I started talking about how I just couldn’t do this anymore. “I know, I know, I can’t either,” you said, although it was muffled because your hands were over your mouth. And although I was bracing myself for you to tell me we should just forget about our friendship and everything else, you instead said, “Look, this has been going on so long so let’s just be together. I’m afraid we’ll regret it—like Kierkegaard, you know— if we don’t just try.” We both now know that was an easy save, but I wanted to believe in us. So I agreed. “This will be good,” you kept reassuring yourself, sitting closer to me now, your nervous hand on my shoulder, barely making contact with my sleeve. It was like you didn’t want to touch me hard enough so that I’d know you meant it. Yet you kept your hand tense there for a long time and neither of us wanted to move. I kept trying to feel the difference, feel what having a boyfriend, being a girlfriend was like. You would smile at me sometimes. This suspension felt like forever and it was getting darker and the seagulls were screaming. You got this look you usually did when I thought you were going to pray for the relationship. But instead, without any face-caressing or eye-shutting, you rammed your face into mine. Your tongue scraped my mouth with salt and sand. After the shock of this first kiss, we looked at each other for a couple of minutes. “Is that okay?” you whispered. I nodded. You kept kissing me, and I figured out how to kiss back without crunching too many 48

sand granules or tasting too much tuna. Then your hands began moving, first to Christianenough places, then elsewhere. This wasn't the slow and smooth reclining of lovers that we see in movies, which I had always imagined in my own life. Instead you rushed into a hard fall to the blanket, lending no careful, supporting fingers behind my head to stroke the bottom curve of my skull. My neck stuck out over the edge of the blanket, causing sand to gather in my hair, the harder you imprinted our bodies into the shifting earth. As this rapid and clumsy dance continued, it became more rhythmic. I sunk further into the sand, and you sunk closer and closer into me—exploring, nudging—converging with the heartbeat under my clothes. Besides occasional misaimed kisses and awkward inhalations, the whole thing was like a hand pushing itself into one of those nail-impression toys they have in dentist offices; your ravenous mouth and body found me somewhere in the space between the hand’s pricking nerves and the unfeeling, agile nail bed. Droplets of sweat dripped from your hair onto my face. One hit my eye. And when you could barely speak or breathe or even touch me, you took my hand, which did not protest like it knew it should, and showed it how to do what needed to be done. Imagining being hugged, I sort of fell asleep on the floor. At first I think of Garrett, but it’s hard for me not to feel your arms during that beach sunset, first sucking me in before spitting me out cold and weak. Someone new has entered the party I can tell in my halfconsciousness, and although the music is loud, I can discern Garrett’s voice. Yet sleep is so enticing. It is dark and quiet and only mine. I hear Garrett asking about me, but I do not move. I’ll make him come to me. After four hours, when we were done making out, messing around, or whatever it was, the hunger on your face turned to disgust. You kept brushing your hand against your mouth as if to get away the sand and my taste. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” you said over and over as you zipped up your pants and I buttoned my shirt, which stuck to my stomach where it was wet. I wasn’t sure who you were apologizing to so I wouldn’t look you in the eye. With my hands around my knees, I scrunched myself up and stared at a sand crab’s flaky, evacuated shell. On the drive home the 5 was backed up so we sat in traffic for almost two hours. “Look,” you said eventually with your hand over your mouth. “I can’t do this.” I counted semis. In the following days, the trickle of gossip through my friends reported that you found 49

me “too aggressive, not very pursuable.” As I sniffled over fish tacos with a good friend, she suggested maybe I needed to be more careful about guarding my heart, like we had learned in our Bible study group. “She’s in there,” I hear, and I open my eyes. Through the doorway I see someone handing Garrett a beer. He is looking at me. I give him a wobbly wave, and starting to wish I was not quite so drunk, I turn around to lie on my back. The ceiling is sparkly. He comes in and sits next to me and his right knee brushes my side. Putting his hand on my stomach, he starts humming this song that I recognize but can’t name. That always bugged me when you did that, and I almost want to tell him to stop. He doesn’t say anything for awhile and he definitely doesn’t kiss me or anything. “Finally you’re here,” I snap at him. “I hate sitting at these stupid parties alone.” Garrett apologizes quickly. I think I’ve caught him off guard because he’s staring at me. And then he keeps staring, but not into my eyes. “Oh!” I shout, remembering my nose, picking at the crusty blood gathered above my lip. “Don’t look at it, it’s just bruised!” “Yeah, I heard,” he says, patting my stomach. I curl away from his gesture and then sit up. “How about I walk you home now?” “What about our bike ride?” “You’re drunk. Your nose is blue. I really think it would be better for you to go home and sleep.” “Whatever,” I say, as I try to stand up too fast. As we are leaving the party and almost out the door, I see Reyna and her literary cronies at the kitchen table. “Hey!” I yell across the room to them, rushing over to them, hanging on to Garrett’s reluctant sleeve. I watch them size him up and I exclaim that this is the “man” I’m dating now. “He has an amazing heart, and all he does is help poor people in his job!” I go on, shushing him when he tries to stop my rambling. Reyna cuts me off and asks how my nose is feeling. Then Bree bursts out in giggles until she can’t stop snorting. “It’s fine,” I say in a much calmer voice. Garrett looks kind of sad. Finally we’re out the door, and taking my hand, he leads me off the porch into the purple-orange sky. He walks quietly the two blocks to my apartment, not letting go of my 50

hand and steadying me over broken or narrow parts of the sidewalk and up my stairs. And I understand how nice Garrett is, but I can’t ignore his pimply forehead or weak, vein streaked hands and it’s clear that he’s not the man I’d ever want to fall in love with. He doesn’t get my art and I don’t want to say another word to him because I don’t want to give him any more access to my vulnerable heart. When we reach my doorstep, Garrett, who is rubbing my hand in this nice way, gives me a soft kiss on the cheek. He asks if I’d like him to come in, maybe to talk for a bit. “Do you just want to make out with me?” I ask, even though that’s what I kind of want to happen. And I like the way he’s rubbing my hand, so when he stops I’m a little hurt. “What?” he says, gentle but offended, averting his eyes from my body, lessening his grip on my hand but still holding on by the fingers. “I’m not like that. I would never take advantage of you like that.” “Ha! Of course you would, you’re a guy,” I say, throwing my head back laughing. I whip my hand from his and his shoulders slump. “Aren’t all men like that? Just really want us for one reason?” He opens his mouth but nothing comes out at first. Yet I can see it on his face somewhere between his slack eyelids and lowered chin. A wound I have inflicted, a wound that suddenly opens a sore of evocative dread in me. “I’m going home,” he finally says, backing away from me. Because I’m not quite ready to be alone yet, I’m beginning to regret things. So I lean against the door, leaning in the way a girl does when she’s waiting for a kiss. This used to drive you crazy, the shift in body language, the slow parting of lips, the soft sleepy gaze. But this does nothing and he’s three feet away at the stairwell now, foot resting on the second step down. With only a tiny "Bye,” Garrett vanishes. Through my window, I watch him slump away into the starless night. I realize that even though I always love watching Garrett look back up and squint into the light of my window, he is not going to this time. You never looked back up. I always just told myself it was because you were so in love with me and you were afraid to let it show too much. Now it seems silly that I ever estimated love. Now it seems certain no matter what I did, I could never have been your medium between a mind to talk at and a body to touch. But Kelsey is, I guess, and then it hits me. It’s your wedding night, and thinking about you and Kelsey 51

fumbling in the hotel sheets, I want to gag and laugh at once. Leaning my head and arms against the window sill, I close my eyes. It is your future in my mind, and while I’m long past wanting you, I think I am jealous. At the table in your willbe dirt-floor house, while breakfasting on mango and tea, kicking away one of the house rats, you simply talk about the lately rainy weather with the person you love. I hear footsteps approaching, and grateful that Garrett has come back, I open my eyes. But Garrett has turned the corner and is just out of view; the footsteps belong to an older Mexican woman carrying her laundry in a white bag over her shoulder. Even though I just want to pass out on my bed, I wait at my window a little more for Garrett to come back, but he does not. The complex is still except for the small woman’s steps toward the laundry room, a tree’s rustling, and the moon-colored ripples making their way across the pool. I sit staring, massaging my earlobe over and over again, playing with the small, hard ball where the piercing is. A new sadness is rippling its way through me. In my blurry reflection in the glass, I see in myself something of your face, when it fell forlorn on the beach after you’d realized your sin, the terrible mess you’d made.

Esta noche Kathleen Alcalá

After esta noche, there will be time to laugh, to remember better times. For now, there are tamales to make, rice to cook, red thread to embroider on a turquoise shirt, jeans to iron to a knife's edge. The mole has been ground, but not cooked. The vegetables have been washed, but not chopped. Bring me cebolla, a tomatillo, sweet yellow chilies that grow in the masetón in the courtyard. Bring me cilantro, comino, oregano. And yes, we will put acetunas in the tamales, raisins in the sweet ones. As always, we will sing. My mother, who taught herself to play, will bring the guitar. She holds the low strings by wrapping her thumb over the top of the neck. The old songs will spill out like vintage jewelry, clunky and colorful and tarnished with archaic turns of phrase. My aunts will remember their childhoods, but only the good parts. No one ever mentions the bad, except for my uncle’s pet lamb that ended up on the Easter table. When the food is gone, the tablecloth stained, the essence consumed by the spirits. We will laugh again, but only after we cry.

Original Photo By Ashley Williams

The Texas Range Adrian M. Ortiz

I never claimed to be a suicide prevention advocate extraordinaire. I never had enough practice. J.M., my editor at the school newspaper, needed me to scope things out, write a story about what it’s like to be an advocate. It seemed easy enough: Ask, Care, and Escort is the mantra of the advocate. The acronym for that is ACE. When you think about suicide prevention in terms of acronyms, fighting suicide is supposed to make sense: ACE. When Cassidy Lee leapt off the university’s student government’s balcony last year it all became a big deal. She claimed that life was meaningless and grades, people, school, and becoming a lawyer didn’t matter; don’t matter. “What matters is freedom,” she wrote. In the paper, her story ran as “Local School Girl Commits Suicide,” which was underneath the bolder cover story: “RAAF Reports of Aliens in Roswell Resurface!” That was last year, and I was too young to understand what she meant, or what anything meant for that matter. Even now, a bit older, a bit wiser, when I walk into a story, I’m not sure I know how to tell it right… When stories get personal, they become difficult to tell. So let me tell you, what happened to Donald Chau caught everyone by surprise. Not just by surprise, but we were all shocked and confused. I was put on trial. But it in the end it all worked out. There were certain things we knew. For one, I wasn’t a murder. Secondly, he was the type of guy to sit on rocks, Indian style, holding his feet, afraid they would fall off, meditation or something. He was Zen--that’s it--Zen, and people would look and smile. And third, he was my best friend. He knew what to say and he did what nobody else could ever do: he listened. He was there since we were bowl headed kids, when our mothers cut our hair to save money so we could camp in the dunes of the Texas range roasting marshmallows and sitting in the poison oak. That was when we first met. He asked me, “Hey, what’s your name?” My name? It was the first time I was ever asked such a question from a person who meant it sincerely. Most of the time, I was just the kid they called boy, or that kid, or hey you. “Marco,” I said. He scooted a little bit closer to me and he said kindly, “You might not want to be sitting on that poison ivy.” I looked down, and lo and behold, I was sitting directly on a vine 55

growing slyly from the roots of the tree I was sitting on. Thankfully, his mother packed some kind of Chinese herb for such an occasion. While it didn’t help much, the terrible smell distracted me from the itch until the trip was over. “Hey thanks,” I said. “Thanks for not letting the other cub scouts know about this.” “It’s alright, Marco.” He returned. “What was your name?” I asked, as though I should have done so earlier, but my manners were unrefined and I was still a young kid then. “Donald,” he said, “but my Dad calls me Donnie, and I like that.” So that was the start of our friendship. Together, we peeked at Candice and Madeline through a hole in the wall at Middleton Jr. High. We smoked weed and got caught by my dad. Since Donnie was with me, he let us go with wrist slaps—which were like thirty lashes for anyone else. Donald was the first to smash me in the face with a clenched fist. “Get your head out of the clouds!” He told me, “You said yourself that you don’t care that the scout master hates and demoted you. So stop caring, or start listening to yourself.” Now that he’s gone, I don’t have much to say anyway. By the time we outgrew our bowl haircuts, left the scouts, I found a niche in reporting. I was a well dressed son of a lowly Filipino family, and my mother tried to hide our poverty by dressing me nicely. I did the most decent thing I could do, and hide behind the power of my words on paper. Donnie, on the other hand grew to be a superstar genius. Had he been with us until graduation, he would have been voted “Most Likely to Succeed.” Which was an understatement, he was already a success. Julius Santisakul was jealous of him; a little Asian rivalry didn’t hurt anyone, but when mistakes happen people can get bitter. Julius kept his hair in short spikes with the help of globs of gel and hairspray. They were both part of the swim team at school, and they swam in lanes next to each other in heated water and with large crowds watching them. Julius was clearly the better swimmer, placing first most of the time, but that wasn’t the problem. Apart from consistently winning third in freestyle for the swim meets, Donald earned the Presidential Volunteer Service Award by raising tens of thousands of dollars in donations through benefit concerts he setup. Bands loved the idea of working the philanthropy circuit, and Donald even showed them how they could get tax write-offs by playing. He was brilliant. 56

The Kinks came; there were animal-free hotdogs. Donald was the project lead and Julius worked alongside him, but thank bureaucracy for not recognizing an equal partner. A golden eagle was planted on his white collared shirt by the guy at the White House, the guy. From the seats below, past the men-in-black, and the suited snobs, I cheered him on. Julius was jealous. Donald offered him the eagle after the ceremony, but it wasn’t the same. Competition and jealousy are best friends, I guess, and those two knew Julius. For half a year he threw tater tots at Donald, tater tots with hot sauce. At first it was a onetime thing at lunch. All the guys sitting at the lunch table gave Julius the stink-eye. Some called him immature under their breaths, like I did, and some ignored it. The ignoring part became easier as Julius did it a second time. Then a third time. And when the cafeteria ran out of tots, Julius had some anyway because his parents ran a Kentucky Fried Chicken, and what’s worse than flinging tots is flinging potato wedges. It’s the boomerang shape of the potato that makes it look as though you don’t know how to put food in your mouth. If being caught in the crossfire means learning this firsthand, what’s worse is that I have the dirty laundry to prove it. Julius made it up to me with a bucket of chicken later. I don’t hold grudges; I also like chicken. At first Donald tried catching some in his mouth. Julius aimed for his eyes and Donald smiled and waved. Julius threw so hard that the crisped fried potatoes exploded like meteors crashing into a planet with dinosaurs. Then he would smile and wave back. Julius liked red sauces, so Donald stopped wearing white. The same day after the tots started flying, I had the guts to ask Genevieve out for the first time (after math class, silky strands of hair draped around her face and floated over her chest; I’m doing interviews for elections and since you’re running for council president, can I have a minute, and by the way, let’s do this over dinner? I won’t probe you. I’m not an alien.) She of course said yes before she could realize that we were going out on a date. It’s one of those techniques, I learned in training, which translates over to other parts of life. Never let the client--we call the suicidals clients--fixate on the act of killing themselves, or in this case, don’t let the girl think you’re desperate about having dinner. Skirt the idea and insert something else. In this case elections and dinner; it’s no different than the bait and switch. The elections stay in view—and that’s important because changing the subject can be fatal. 57

Stay realistic and keep the client’s wants within reach. I can be slick like that. “Look, Marco,” Genevieve said, “I’ll be honest, I think you’re cute. That jittery charm of yours is irresistible. So let’s just have dinner and forget the interview.” I brushed the hair off my forehead and smiled a dumb little smile. A little luck also helps. At lunch, Donald didn’t have to raise his tray over his face as a shield. His eyebrows furrowed as he asked me what happened to him, to Julius. He had conjunctivitis I said, pink eye, it was contagious; the tater tots, don’t worry, I said, they’ll be back. After swim practice, Donald stopped by Julius’ house and gave him a get-well card. Julius didn’t say a thing about the card, but we knew the situation took a turn when the tater tots stopped flying. But that’s not the weird part. Friday night. I took Genevieve to a little restaurant. We had to order up front and they brought the food over to a vinyl booth. The booth was smooth, so that when you sat on it for moments at a time, your butt would slide around and every so often you’d have to sit back up. I ordered the chicken soup. She got the fish. Long hooped earrings and thick eyeliner told me she was looking forward to the evening. As the waiter brought the food over I took the spoon and stirred the lemon colored broth, the carrots bouncing like buoys. “Nervous?” she said. I smashed some saltines into the soup and smiled. “You know the soup here is great.” I said. “Want to try a bite?” “I’m alright. I don’t eat chicken.” She saw the expression on my face and she had the need to explain herself. “I’m a pescatarian, veggies and fish only.” “Oh.” I took a spoonful of soup. There was no steam coming off it, I could raise the bowl to my face and just drink it. It was cold. She took a couple bites of her fish and excused herself to the ladies’ room. The waiter came by. His name was Fernando and he asked me if I’d like water. “No gracias,” I said with an accent like something from a Mexican soap opera because that’s all I knew about Spanish. Fernando raised an eyebrow. “Alright, just checking,” Fernando said and walked away, a small towel sticking out his back pocket. Genevieve was still in the bathroom and I didn’t want to eat until she got back. There 58

was a stand with some pamphlets. Horseback Riding, Texas Eats, Cheap Hotels, Marfa Lights, Join the Army. I picked up Marfa Lights and returned to the booth. A tourist attraction that lies sixty miles out in the desert nestled in between the dust of the earth, the cacti, and the dusk of night. Sounded romantic. The Marfa Lights are believed to be supernatural, extraterrestrial, or the consequence of swamp gas and light pollution. The pamphlet goes on to say that scientists have offered a variety of reasons for the manifestation of lights in the Texan skyline, but the reasons aren’t definitive. “Still,” the pamphlet reads, “the lights are an impressive view to see whether or not extraterrestrial life has any connection to this phenomenon.” Genevieve’s heels click on the tile and I put the pamphlet down. “Miss me?” she said. I smiled and pointed to the pamphlet. “I had some entertainment.” The weirdness fully came about three weeks after finishing my suicide awareness training. It wasn’t a presidential award, but I got a certificate saying that people could come to me in case they wanted to kill themselves. “It’s about damn time,” J.M. said. The thing is, as a writer, he wouldn’t know that I had to endure two hours of talk-exercises, term papers on the importance of compassion, and courses on kindness. In some way, I felt like I was being held captive on Dr. Phil. Ask, Care, and Escort. It was a hellish experience. But J.M. wasn’t sitting in these classes, he was a stuffy editor who only had to wait. Now that I was done, I was an ACE, I could actually act. As a personal celebration, I asked Genevieve out again, since we hit it off okay. It was our third date and I drove sixty miles out to the Texas range to see the Marfa Lights. I chose Marfa because she said, “Surprise me,” and I did. The most surprising part of the evening were the throngs of old bearded conspiracy theorists and alien watchers filled up on energy drinks looking out telescopes they got their grandkids two Christmases ago. When we got there, the sun was still out across the horizon, thick and orange like a piece of candy in the sky. A skinny guy in a trucker hat with Fat Mack stitched into the front, held up a jar to Genevieve’s face. Inside was a monkey fetus in pickle grime to make it look like an off-world life form. “Check it out y’all! Preserved alien bodies! Two hundred dollars.” With his other hand he reached into a tub of caramel popcorn and chewed with his 59

mouth open. When she realized what was in front of her face, it took her a moment, then she screamed. It was one of those blood curdling screams that travel up and down your spine like an army of ants are deciding where to dissect you. “I’m staying in the car, Marco. I’m not staying out here.” “Wait, Gen,” as I got used to calling her, “we should at least stay for the lights to come out.” Her smooth jaw was tight and clenched. Her fingers unhooked the keychain from my belt loop. “Really Marco,” her bottom lip twitching in disgust, “I thought you were making jokes about this alien business this whole time. I’ll be waiting in the car when you’re done with your supernatural fetish.” And she turned around and walked. Defeated, I stood there watching her beautiful behind leave me in the red dustiness of the Texas range. “Aw too bad, so sad.” Fat Mack said. “It’s all your fault.” I said. A well of anger balled up inside of me then shot out like a geyser I didn’t know was there. Pffsshh. “You don’t do crazy things like that!” “Look,” Fat Mack started while lip smacking the popcorn kernels from the sides of his teeth, “she’s out of your league anyway. I mean, if you meant anything to her, she would be right next to you, right now, and a creepy old guy like me would have no bearing on a relationship that strong.” There was silence for a good moment. Beyond, the sun slowly dipped down and I had an itch on my nose and scratched it. Then I took a step toward Fat Mack and reached into his tub of caramel popcorn. I ate a handful, then another. “Are the lights worth looking at?” “Nothing more beautiful,” he said. He pulled out a fold up chair from out of his trailer and offered me a seat. “More popcorn?” “Sure.” I reached in and had another handful. “Is that really what I think it is?” “Rubber, neoprene mesh, pickle jar, and my daughter’s old dolls.” “Then, you don’t believe in aliens?” “I wouldn’t say that,” Fat Mack said, “but I do believe in selling bizarre paraphernalia.” I wanted to choke Fat Mack, but somehow I felt like I had this coming, somehow. The 60

geyser of emotion within began to subside. It wasn’t bound to work out anyway. Genevieve got back together with her French fashion designer boyfriend a few weeks later. They had been talking while we had our dates. “This popcorn isn’t bad.” I said. The candy-like sun slid down the horizon. Fat Mack nodded. “Hey,” I said, “I have to write about the lights, can you tell me anything about them?” Fat Mack laughed. “Kid, I don’t know if they’re aliens or some redneck’s roastin’ fire.” He took a handful of popcorn into his mouth and chewed, “all’s I know is that they’re out there, and they ain’t bad to look at.” The worst part about the date that night was the drive back: her sitting asleep, curled up against the passenger door while I listened to a bunch of Beatles songs turned down low. So I had Genevieve, the nine out of ten, the frontrunner for next year’s council presidency, the brunette queen of the school, every man’s dream, in my car but I managed to screw it up. I didn’t mean to let it slip that the Scout Master was making out with Arnie Ju’s mom, I guess you were just made to screw it up. Right Scout Master Kevin? I’m nearly eighteen, I should know by now. Anyway, the Marfa Lights, a clone copy of Orion’s Belt, a worn out tale of extraterrestrial life, space ships on the range, but moreover a romantic dimly lit evening was the answer. Instead I ended up with material for my next editorial in the school newspaper: “The Marfa Lights, Hoax; Date-killer.” I told Donald afterward, “I want to kill myself.” “Ask, Care, and Escort?” He said. “Yeah, how did you know?” “There’s really not much to it. I don’t know why it takes so long to get certified.” He laughed. “Sorry.” He said. Donald Chau listened to me rant about what a bust the date was, how stupid I was, but how cosmically alluring those three alien lights were. How they glimmered sadly, how lonely they were, whatever they were. Expecting his usual, “That sucks man, but that’s life, tell me about it,” Donald instead said: “That sucks man, here’s a present.” And that’s how I knew he was suicidal. Donnie led a very well to-do life, full of textbooks, swim practice, and paperwork. He didn’t own very 61

much, much less have any money for gifts. For him, presents were more like cards with cartoon dogs and dry puns on the inside flaps. I should have known. When I opened up that newspaper wrapped box, uneven and lazily taped, I found jewels of legend within. The entire “Dark Skies” limited print comic books slept within that cracked cardboard housing. These were his relics of childhood. He looked on at them, sleepy eyed and mystical. This was how Donald was saying goodbye, and I didn’t know how to say anything back. “Thanks,” I said. “Hey, enjoy them,” he said. I learned from Julius the next day that he had received an equally awesome present in an equally shoddy box. Julius pointed out that the newspaper wrapping idea came straight from one of my “Save a Penny” pieces, and I felt bad for not remembering. He asked me how my date with Genevieve went and I said I didn’t want to talk about it. “So what did you get?” I asked. “I thought you had her in the bag. Well let’s see: signed art books, Don’s air rifle, and his Mexico jersey from the world cup. Pretty damn good.” He raised his eyebrows, “What did you get?” “‘Dark Skies’ limited print comics and Donald is suicidal,” I said. “Didn’t get to fuck her?” Julius laughed, “We were rooting for you Marco, but come on, it was Genevieve. I thought I stood a chance, but you? Ha! Well at least ‘Dark Skies’ will keep you busy! Now do you think I should ask her to prom? Are you cool with that?” I said nothing, started walking. “Where are you going?” his voice reached after me, “Marco?” I was a trained Suicide Prevention Advocate ready for a soul to save; I could make homemade egg-rolls, play Spanish guitar on ladders and rooftops. I thought I had enough time to work on Donald until he cleared out his locker and picked up writing as an extracurricular. I read some of his quote-unquote poetry—it wasn’t bad, it was his will: “I will give away my love / to stand on the stars.” That’s what he wrote. Julius couldn’t be counted on; he didn’t know what was going to go down. I had to move fast; I stalked Donald on the way home after swim practice late that night. I pulled a 62

black sweater over my chest and pretended that I spent six weeks doing ninja stealth training. In one hand I carried a bunch of photos and memories we had together. Establishing a link with the client is important. They need to know you care. I just needed to show him. Tracking him didn’t matter much because Donald lived a mile away from school. It was the house where we could crawl outside his window onto the roof and watch the stars fall from up high. Below, there were vines that crawled up the stone wall that reached toward his perpetually open screen window. It was too easy. I was ready. I had pamphlets and photos of Boy Scout outings out on the range lodged in my armpits, memories of skating down hills and learning to love life speeches right on the tip of my tongue, and thanks, thanks in my heart. So when I climbed up to the second story I saw Donald open a book. He was reading. I don’t know for how long, but I just needed to make sure he wasn’t going to do it tonight. So there I was waiting, standing guard, making sure that our protector was protected. My back against the wall, I sat with my knees up to my chin waiting for the right moment to burst into his room and give him a life inspiring speech. But he kept on reading, and reading, and reading, and reading… When I woke up, I wiped the drool off my face and bolted upright. His lights were still on, but he wasn’t reading. He was lying on his bed, his eyes closed, and I wondered if I was too late, and down went all my pamphlets, into the bushes. I put my face up against the cold glass and shook it away from the gutter, scraped my sneakers against those sandpaper shingles, and crawled in, fumbling stupid over myself. Donald sat up, like Dracula as if he had been waiting for me this whole time. In his calm voice he said, “Oh man, Marco, what the hell?” And I said, “Don, Donnie, Donald!” Catching my breath from the climb and brushing away pointy thorns onto the blue carpet, I recalled all five weeks of that stupid Suicide Prevention Advocate Course and summoned wise words: “Don’t kill yourself!” “Oh man,” Donald said, “Is this a good time? I mean it’s three A.M., dude.” “But Don, Donnie! The gifts, the date, the shitty newspaper wrapping, I remember it had to do with sustainability! The terrible poetry!” I cried. “Don’t kill yourself!” “I appreciate the concern Marco,” he said, sitting Indian style. “What was it again? 63

Ask, Care, and Escort?” “Yeah, you remember.” I said. “You’re a good friend. I can always count on you to do the right thing.” He smiled, stood up and squeezed my shoulder the same way he did when I was demoted from troupe captain so many years ago. “Get out of here man,” he said slapping my back, “I’ll see you soon.” And that’s how I knew he was fine. My head peeked out the window down at the vines below, cold air filling my heated lungs. I climbed down the vines, about halfway, before I heard the window shut as a blinding light shot across the sky. It was as bright as lightning, but as slow as a plane flying up into the sky. Before I knew it, I was dropping ass-numb into the garden where my pamphlets and pictures collected dew. The light faded out from where I took Genevieve the night before, from Marfa, and I knew something was up. I picked myself off the ground and scrambled upward to find Donald gone. I jiggled the window open to find his clothes lying where his body should have been, flat, and empty of his flesh. Gone like the rapture. He wasn’t at school the next day, and his parents didn’t know where he went. “He’s gone!” I yelled running downstairs and upstairs, acting like a crazed maniac. The lights in his parents’ room flickered on and Donnie’s dad began yelling at me in a language I barely recognized. When the baseball bat lowered and he recognized me, he called out for Donnie’s mom. She was wearing a pink bathrobe with kittens on it with matching slippers to boot. “Marco?” his mom said, “What’s going on?” His dad didn’t want to sit through the bullshit. “I’m going to bed Margaret. I’m calling the police. You talk to them. Marco I can’t believe this nonsense. He better not be missing swim practice tomorrow.” “Mr. Chau,” I said, “I swear to God, he’s alright, he…he has to be!” But he didn’t so much as turn around as he walked toward his room. “I’m going to bed,” he said before he slammed the door. I was apprehended and missed a day and a half of school while I was interrogated. His mother probably sat behind the double sided mirror and heard every bit of what I had to say. Julius sat at the police station with me as he was considered one of Donald’s closest friends; 64

as such we were both possible suspects—for something. We both didn’t know what happened. I told him what happened that night and we just sat there quiet, in those uncomfortable plastic chairs. National News was playing on the televisions overhead, something about flying saucers over the USSR. Then Julius broke the silence and said, “If there were aliens, they picked the perfect specimen to represent the human race.” I crunched my eyebrows at this, then started busting up laughing. He was right. Then he laughed. There would be nobody better. And we laughed in the police station, filled it with the din of Donald’s life that he shared with us. Talking about Donald’s burnt candy in cChemistry class brought tears to my eyes when I tried eating that garbage. Julius reminded me when he saved me from falling off a ravine while racing bikes at the quarry. “Damn man, if he wasn’t there to grab your handle bars, you would have flown right off and snapped your neck!” “He did that with one hand didn’t he?” I said. “Haha, he might have been an alien himself! I saw his stupid crunched up face trying to hold you from going over the edge,” Julius raised his arms up, “God he looked so stupid!” “Dude, he made that face at his birthday party right before he started puking during the buffalo chicken wing eating contest.” “Oh, you’re right, it was that same ugly face. But fuck, I don’t blame him, those wings were spicier than the Devil’s balls. That fucking sauce.” “You and your hot sauces.” I said, “They were good on the food, but not on my shirt.” “Man, I was armed to the farm! Those were good times. Looking back, I know I was pissed, but you know.” “Yeah,” I said. I took a breath. “Julius, I don’t know where he could have gone.” “Gone home!” He smacked my shoulder and I bounced in my seat a bit. “Shit, Marco. He’s goddamn E.T.!” And we laughed so hard I thought I was going to start throwing up the mashed potatoes and chewy chicken nuggets the detectives gave us for lunch. Every time I looked at him we laughed even harder and I could feel my gut wrench partly because I missed him and partly because I couldn’t control myself. Tears formed at the corners of my eyes from laughing so hard, and if I wasn’t laughing, I might as well have been crying. The stocky detective came in and separated us for being too loud. He put Julius in an empty 65

cubicle and I could hear him giggle to himself. After all the evidence was tallied up, the stocky detective with his suspenders unhooked around his fat waist brought both of us together in one of the questioning rooms. There was nothing else to say. He had enough of us and our stupid laughter. The file had to be labeled as unsolved. When I got back to class on that second day, J.M., my editor knew this story had to run. He asked me a bunch of questions before I started writing. He said there had to be an answer. I told him no. There was no answer. He asked if he was suicidal. And I said no. Weeks had passed and I had still written nothing. The Chau family never spoke to me again, or even Julius for that matter. Occasionally I would walk around the student government building, where Cassidy Lee hit the pavement, and I would see Genevieve standing up on the balcony, looking out. She would pretend not to see me, looking past me, or through me, whichever it seemed. Even when I caught her gaze with my own, she turned around and walked back inside, which was fine. Her French supermodel boyfriend broke up with her for the umpteenth time, and I heard Julius asked her out to prom. He seemed to have moved on fast; the world shut me out, and was it because I was the last one to see him alive? Nobody seemed to look at me in the eyes anymore, there were just soft whispers of “oh it’s that alien guy,” or “Donald Chau’s friend is the extraterrestrial. He ray gunned him in his sleep!” Nobody seemed to acknowledge me anymore, except for one guy. Later, I ran into J.M., who was the first person to approach me in a while. “Marco, you gotta get me that article done. We’ll call it the Case of Donald Chau and you have all the answers; you were right in the middle of it. This even ties into that suicide prevention stuff, it runs the gamut of a powerful op-ed; the next print is going to be big!” I nodded. At home, I sat at my desk, scrap after scrap of paper and wrote nothing. My mom brought me tea, and my dad just patted me on the shoulder, as if there were no words to be said. “What did it matter, my boy?” Dad asked. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll find him soon,” Mom said. “Who cares?” my sister asked, which wasn’t so much of a question than it was a statement. 66

I found myself driving out to the middle of nowhere. The dusty dunes of the Texas highways surrounded by an expanse of red fervor that stretched out toward the sun left me with wanting. Wanting to go somewhere, to drive out toward the sun, not chained to the Earth by gravity, but to literally drive off the blackened road and into the lustrous obsidian sky where I perhaps would meet Donald Chau, and he would merely tell me that things were as how they were supposed to be. My eyes turned heavy and the wheel felt soft beneath my fingers as I listened to my Beatles mix tapes on repeat. Again, I couldn’t explain it what had happened but there was a flash of light and I was wide awake. The car wasn’t moving, it was stopped dead center of the road to Marfa where I had met Fat Mack. The trailer was gone, there were no fake alien bodies in pickle jars, but there was certainly a crowd of people. Maybe not the same people, but people nonetheless who were out watching the skies, waiting for the lights of Marfa to shine hope onto their weary souls. Perhaps they were so weary of watching themselves in their mirrors day in and day out, that there was nothing left but to look beyond. Jiggling the door handle of my sister’s station wagon, I stepped outside and wiped the grogginess off my face. The lights glittered in the distance, they were a series of lights that moved ever so slightly, less than an airplane, but definitely more active than any star I’ve seen. I sat atop the hood of that station wagon until I could feel the dew build up on the windshield and seep into my shirt. I guess this wasn’t my greatest moment either, but as the dew built up around my eyes they acted like a lens; I could see the Marfa Lights shimmer through the lens, like a kaleidoscope distorting my vision of everything around me. The lights were always moving, darting back and forth, rotating, but always there, as long as I kept my eyes open. Eventually I wrote J.M. a draft: A Tribute to Donald Chau, which had no answers about aliens, or flying saucers, or stories about bad dates or old grudges. Julius didn’t know. I didn’t know. The detective didn’t know. His parents didn’t know. Nobody knew. Even the advocate teachers shrugged at me when I asked for an interview. The article was short and asserted my lack of certainty. As for certainty, there was one thing I wrote that ended the 67

piece: “He was the sanest person I ever knew. He was kind and regulated. He was empathetic and Zen. He was a good friend to everyone. He was my best friend. And that’s all you need to know.”

My Hundred Years Allen Kopp

The Home for the Elderly was an old-fashioned four-story brick building, not unlike the building in which Billie St. John went to school. She had never been inside but had seen it many times, passing it in the car when she was riding with her mother. She stood on the sidewalk in front of the building, looking up at the windows on the top floor which were just then reflecting the afternoon sun. She took a deep breath and went inside. Across the lobby from the front door was the reception desk. She went up to it and stood there politely. “Ahem,” she said when the woman sitting there didn’t look at her. “Yes?” the woman said, barely looking at her. “If you’re selling something, we don’t allow it here.” “I’m not selling anything,” Billie said. “I’m here to interview a centenarian for a human interest story for my school paper.” “Name?” “Billie St. John.” “We don’t have anybody here by that name.” “I thought you meant my name.” “What is the name of the centenarian to whom you wish to speak?” “I don’t have a name. Just anybody over one hundred years old will do.” “We have three residents over a hundred. Mrs. Milligan is a hundred and three, Mrs. Oglethorpe is a hundred and one, and Mr. Wellington just turned one hundred.” “Any of those will do.” “Mrs. Milligan doesn’t speak, she only babbles. Mrs. Oglethorpe is so blind and deaf she wouldn’t even know you were there. That leaves Mr. Wellington.” “He’ll do.” “Go up one flight of stairs and take the hallway to your right and go all the way to the end. Mr. Wellington’s room is 210. You’ll see it.” “What if he doesn’t want to see me?” “Just tap lightly on the door. If he wants you to come in, he’ll say so. If he doesn’t 69

invite you in, you’ll know he’s indisposed and you can try again another day.” She found the room easily enough but suddenly she was afraid. One hundred was terribly old. She had never even seen a person that old before, let alone expect something from them. She wanted to turn around and leave and forget the whole thing, but it would cause her no end of trouble if she did. She would hate having to explain to everybody that she lost her nerve and wasn’t able to go through with it. The door was partway opened. Through the crack she could see into the room, the corner of a bed and a picture on the wall. She knocked lightly, not wanting to wake up anybody who might be sleeping. “Yes?” came a voice from behind the door, a voice from which she was able to read nothing. She gathered her courage, pushed the door open and entered. She saw a withered old man sitting on a chair in front of the window. He was hardly bigger than a twelve-year-old. “Are you Mr. Wellington?” she asked. “Who are you?” he asked. “I didn’t send for anybody.” “I’m Billie St. John. The lady downstairs said you might talk to me.” “About what?” “I’m writing a human interest piece for my school paper about a centenarian.” “About a what?” “About a person a hundred years old or more.” “Who said I’m a hundred?” “Aren’t you?” “Yes, I am, but that’s no reason for everybody in the world to know my private business.” “Do you want me to go away?” “No, no, no. If I want you to go away, I’ll say so.” “Is it all right if I sit down.?” “Oh, by all means! Mi casa es su casa.” She thought it too familiar somehow to sit on the bed, so she pulled out the chair to the writing desk and sat on it. She cleared her throat and fumbled with her pad and pencil, pulled 70

her skirt down over her knees and looked levelly at Mr. Wellington. To be so old, he had hardly any wrinkles at all. His skin, which was the color of old paper, was shiny and seemed pulled too tight over the bones of his face and head, as if made of rubber. His head was small and round and reminded Billie of a cat’s head. “Now, let me see,” she said, looking at her notes. “To what do you attribute your long life?” “Never getting shot in the head.” “What has been your greatest satisfaction in life?” “Outlasting my enemies.” “Do you have any regrets?” “Yes. Allowing you to ask me these inane questions.” “What does it feel like to be a hundred years old?” “Wait about eighty-five years and you’ll know.” She looked at him and smiled, thinking that maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad. “But what if I wanted to know now?” she asked. “If you were going to tell me what it feels like to be a hundred, what would you say?” “Think about a small boat on the ocean,” he said. “It goes the vast distance from point A to point B so slowly that you can’t even tell it’s moving. When it reaches point B, finally, that’s when you are where you are supposed to be. That’s when you’re home.” She didn’t know what he was talking about it but she wrote it all down anyway. “Now let me ask you a question,” he said. “What?” “What does it feel like to be you?” When she realized she couldn’t answer, she squirmed and blushed. “I don’t know,” she said. “Not so easy to answer, is it? Not so easy to put into words. You have a stomach ache or a headache. You can say you have those aches but you can’t really put them into words, can you?” “Yes, I suppose it’s a silly question that doesn’t have an answer,” she said. “Like so many other questions. Questions that don’t have answers.” His attention 71

drifted to a spot on the floor and for a moment he seemed to forget she was there. “Ahem,” she said. “Did you have brothers and sisters and do you remember much about your childhood?” “I had three sisters and two brothers. They’re all dead now. I’m the only one left. I don’t know why.” “Where did you live?” “We lived on a farm until I was ten years old. My father gave up farming and we moved to town. He worked in a furniture factory. One of my brothers was killed in a car accident when he was eighteen and one of my sisters gassed herself at twenty-four. The man she wanted to marry was already married to somebody else. Am I going too fast for you?” “No, just give me a minute to catch up. I never took shorthand.” “After I finished high school I needed to learn a trade of some kind so I could make a living, so I went to mortuary school to become a mortician. Do you know what a mortician is?” “An undertaker?” “I didn’t especially want to be a mortician, but I couldn’t think of anything else. In nearly forty years as a mortician I saw the ugliest side of life. I saw wives killing husbands, husbands killing wives, children killed in every conceivable way including at the hands of their parents, men torn to shreds in factory and farming accidents, drowning victims, shooting victims, knifing victims, suicides by poison, suicides by hanging and just about every other way you can imagine. And in all that time I learned one thing: there has to be a God or all the terrible things that people go through are without meaning. I bet you won’t print that in the school paper, will you?” “After you stopped being a mortician, what did you do then?” “I don’t remember. I traveled some, read a lot of books, took a lot of naps.” “How long have you lived here in the home?” “Longer than I can remember. The squirrels and birds I watch out this window are several generations removed from the first ones I watched. One day soon they’re going to carry me out of here feet first and some other poor old man will take my place in this chair, but I don’t mind.” 72

“Do you get many visitors?” “None. That’s the bad thing about living for a hundred years. Everybody you ever knew in your life is dead.” “Don’t you have any family?” “I’ve had four wives. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, would you? Not one of them left me or divorced me. They all died on me. I had two sons but they’re dead too. Even my grandchildren are dead. Now why does that happen? Why does everybody die and leave you behind?” “That’s another one of those questions,” Billie said, stopping her writing and looking at him. “Would you like me to come and visit you sometime?” He smiled, showing his jagged teeth. “I’m sure you have much better things to do with your time.” “I could read to you from the newspaper.” “That’s okay. Visitors are one thing I can do without. I have my squirrels and my birds and a hundred years of stuff going on in my head. And I haven’t forgotten a thing. It’s all right here.” He tapped the side of his head with his fingertip. “My life is nothing now but I don’t mind. I’m tired of the world and of people and I’m looking forward to what comes next. I know you don’t know what I’m talking about but you will someday if you live long enough.” She closed her pad and stood up and put her coat back on. “Well, I believe that was all I wanted to ask you. I Tthank you for allowing me to talk to you.” “Can you use any of that stuff?” he asked. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I think it’s more than adequate.” “Will I be able to read the piece that you write for your school paper?” “Yes, I’ll come by one day and bring you a copy.” “That’ll be fine.” “It’s been awfully interesting talking to you,” she said. “I hope we may meet again.” She left the room quickly, suddenly embarrassed, before the old man had a chance to say anything else. As she was passing the receptionist’s desk to leave, the woman called to her. 73

“Did you get what you wanted from Mr. Wellington, dear?” she asked. “Yes.” “I hope he didn’t give you a bad time.” “No, it went fine.” “They pretend to be annoyed, but they love talking about themselves. They don’t get much attention, you see.” She went outside and paused on the top step of the Home for the Elderly. She would have something to tell her mother at dinnertime, and together they would write her piece for the school paper. She was certain they would come up with a story so good it would keep her from failing English class. With the sun going down, the air seemed much colder than before. She pulled her scarf around her neck, put on her gloves, and headed for home in the gathering winter twilight. She didn’t know it, but Mr. Wellington was watching her from his window on the second floor.

Original Photo By Ashley Williams

On Taking Good Hits Jeffrey Graessley

Disgusted, I smack the round knob on my dash and it spits out the CD with her writing in cramped, neat circles. “This really doesn’t need to be in here,” I tell the empty car, and take the right on Joan Bridge, two and half wheels skidding-- then ease it into my usual spot at the bar. A cloud of smoke streams in lazy plumes to my right. I can smell it, pot. One of my uncles smiles a wide turn, holding a glass piece. Wet coughs drip his lips, low-rider eyes, happy content living; I see it in the lines on his forehead. “Where you been, young blood?” he asks, wrapping his free hand around my shoulder, pulling me into a hug; a blue collar at-work-all-day smell, sweat and intoxication. “I’m about an inch from running, unc. I don’t give a fuck anymore. She’s gone.” My eyes search the cracks in the parking lot for answers, but find none-- his rough hand grips my shoulder, flint and steel eyes boil into mine. “You’re fucking WHAT? How you gonna talk like that?” And, like the Heisman trophy stance, he stiff-arms me, I feel the pressure on my shoulder-- a stare, like a cop’s light signaling me down. And the asphalt still doesn’t have any answers. “The house is so empty,” I finally manage. Her shape asleep in our- my bed. Memories dance through my head, a slow Spanish number. Mountains of wrapped blankets, a sheaf of almost-black hair poking through. My fingers can still taste the sweat drip from her body, working. A shake on my shoulder, little like an earthquake, rattles me back. “Listen to me,” he says in a cloud of bliss out his lips. “A woman has everything she needs to break a man. You can’t let them. She’s gone? Then let her go.” He smiles, wide, passes the piece to me, lighter follows directly after. “They’re just like birds, you gotta let them go, and if they every come back, then they’re yours.” I laugh-- breaking into a smile. “Hit that, young blood.” 76

Passersby

Kenneth Valencich

Caitlin walked down the stairs at Kanda station, Tokyo, with me. A man, eighty years old, in a three-piece suit and fedora walked by. He stuck out his lower jaw, teeth bared as we passed. I stopped and turned around. He was smiling at me from above, before entering his train. Caitlin saw nothing.

Contributors David Howard has published recently in Black Fox Literary Magazine, Blue Lake Review, Crack the Spine and Apollo's Lyre. Nomi Liron lives in the Bay Area. She writes flash fiction but is also writing a novel. Twenty-five of her stories have been published. John Grochalski is a published writer whose fiction has appeared in many online and print publications including: Retort, Bartleby Snopes, The Big Stupid Review, In Between Altered States, The Battered Suitcase, and Pequin. His column The Lost Yinzer appears quarterly in The New Yinzer (www.newyinzer.com), and he also contributes a column to Carbon-Based Lifeform Blues (http://www.carbonbasedlifeformblues.com/). He has two books of poetry The Noose Doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008) Glass City (Low Ghost Press 2010), and a novel, The Librarian, forthcoming. Previously Marie Curran had two short nonfiction pieces published in Geez Magazine. In 2007, she graduated from Azusa Pacific University with a BA in English (emphasis Creative Writing) and also received first place in the Azusa Pacific Short Fiction Contest. Currently, she is a therapeutic preschool teacher with Talitha Koum Institute in Waco, Texas. She works with children who have suffered emotional trauma and whose families have historically been marginalized/in poverty. Also, she is approximately half finished writing a short story collection, and has recently begun studying in Northern Michigan Universityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s MFA program. Kathleen Alcala grew up surrounded by stories. The author of five books set in Mexico and the SW, she was born in Compton and grew up in San Bernardino, California. Now she teaches creative writing at the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts in Washington State. Her work has received a number of awards, including the Governors Writers Award, the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Award, and the Western States Book Award. Her recent work appears in the Jack Straw Writers Anthology and a short short as part of "Chair Stories" installation art at Jack Straw. Adrian M. Ortiz is a corn beef-fed Filipino-American born in the heart of Southern California, Orange County. He has traveled around the world in search of something he can't quite find, though no matter where he has been he has written about it. From the planned city-scape of his alma mater, UC Irvine, to the mountainous terrain of Afghanistan, he has seen quite a bit. As a writer, soldier, and a philosopher of sorts, he hopes to someday become enlightened so that he may walk on water. 78

Allen Kopp lives in St. Louis, Missouri, USA, with his two cats. He has had over seventy stories appearing in such diverse publications as Santa Fe Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Project Journal, Danse Macabre, A Twist of Noir, Skive Magazine, Midwest Literary Magazine, Short Story America, Midwestern Gothic Literary Journal, Planetary Stories, Best Genre Short Stories Anthology #1, ISFN Anthology #1, Superstition Review, Quail Bell Magazine, State of Imagination, Dew on the Kudzu, ThunderDome Magazine, Spasm Valley Magazine, The Medulla Review, Subtext Magazine, and many others. He welcomes visitors to his website at: www.literaryfictions.com Jeffrey Graessley is a writer from La Puente, CA. His latest works can be found in the forthcoming Summer Anthology of Silver Birch Press; as well as Electric Windmill Press, and The Pomona Valley Review. His recent discovery of the BEAT generation has prompted loving and longing thoughts for that simple, drunken, fargone time in American history. Kenneth Valencich studied Creative Writing and Japanese at UC Riverside. He's staying active in the literary world to keep away the, "You should become a teacher," ghosts.

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