Sisyphus

Sisyphus

The St. Louis U. High Magazine of Literature and the Arts Winter ’08 LITERARY EDITORS Joe Lauth Steve Portnoy David Spitz Kingsley Uwalaka Chris Brennan Dylan Kickham James Fister Eric Lewis Ben Minden-Birkenmaier ART EDITORS Matt Anderson Dan Baxter Nevin Peeples LAYOUT EDITOR Jim Santel MODERATORS Frank Kovarik Rich Moran

Manuscripts are considered anonymously.

Thanks to all who offered their writing and artwork for consideration.

Special Thanks to Joan Bugnitz, John Mueller, Terry Quinn, and Matt Sciuto.

Sisyphus Winter ’08

Cover artwork by Joe Kainz; designed by the art editors Inside back cover photography by Zac Boesch

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3 The Poet’s Crutch, poetry by Patrick Topping 4 artwork by Joe Edmundson 5 The Bullfighter, fiction by David Spitz 6-11 artwork by Matt Anderson 13 In the City, poetry by Peter Lucier 14 Sculpture Park, poetry by Mike Finucane 14 photography by Kevin Casey 15 The Stupid Lady From the Shell Station on Watson, prose by Kingsley Uwalaka 16 photography by Kevin Casey 17 Professional Relationship, fiction by Brian Bettonville 19 artwork by Peter McNulty 20 The Poor Waiting on a Stoplight, poetry by Dan Wall 21 Tom Traubert’s Tavern, fiction by Patrick Topping 21 artwork by Tyler Stahlhuth 23 artwork by Martin Lang 25 untitled poetry by Noah Mitchell 26 To Xia Han, poetry by Matt Venker 27 The Afghani Girl, poetry by Matt Venker 26-27 artwork by Matt Anderson 28 Interlopers, fiction by Jim Santel 28 artwork by Michael Moffitt 30 photography by Kevin Casey 32 Roses, poetry by Matt Nahlik 33 Pop Art, poetry by James Fister 33 photography by Kevin Casey 34 Cross, fiction by Brian Bettonville 34-38 artwork by Matt Anderson 39 artwork by Joseph Quinlan 40 Asymptotic Narcissus [Beauty is a Number], poetry by Dan Wall 40 artwork by Jeff Uriarte 41 Mr. Aldren, fiction by Andrew Nelson 42 photography by Zac Boesch 43 artwork by Keaton Hanson 44 The Cheshire Moon on New Year’s Eve, poetry by Patrick Topping 45 artwork by Tim Dale 46 At Three O’Clock in the Morning in the Middle of July, poetry by Jack Dryden 47 Delicate, fiction by Brian Gilmore 47-50 artwork by Kevin Casey 51 photography by Kevin Casey 52 Adoration, poetry by Dan Everson

The Poet’s Crutch Patrick Topping

Sometimes when I set out to put down words, I know my intentions are genuine.

I know the emotion inside is true, that is to say, it’s honest.

But there are things people say not to write about.

Love, death, Vietnam for Christ’s sake, and, what even I find to be harped on, eyes.

I can’t read about eyes anymore.

Why not a poem about your lover’s dried elbow skin, or brittle chapped lips? Why not what you saw when you looked inside her inner ear when she thought it was infected?

Why not a poem about your lover’s belly button?

Why not a poem about her chewed painted nails, and how they made you cringe when she dug back in?

It’s too easy to lose the reader.

It’s too much work to make them understand what those things say to you.

Nudity, trust, playful affection, acceptance.

No one else sees what I saw in that infected ear, but what’s there is the same as you see in a pair of self-conscious hurt green eyes looking to you for appeal. To check with you if they’re okay.

So, if you will allow the indulgence, I’ll write for now about eyes because a poet isn’t invincible, a poet needs a crutch sometimes.

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Once I stared across a table to a pair of eyes inches from mine, her irises flecked pure blue with marbling black like wet sapphires, perfectly in place within their sockets, and they pierced me, but let me have access to what I wanted.

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Once I stared into eyes and for a time the world stopped.

Joe Edmundson

The Bullfighter David Spitz

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Joe

hen Mr. Lopez pulled me aside after dinner and whispered knowingly into my ear that he had something to show me, I didn’t expect much. Mr. Lopez was not the kind of man who owned interesting things.

His prize possession, after all, was a compact, portable shoe cleaner, only one hundred and seventeen dollars at Kohl’s after the ten percent off coupon. He had glowed over the machine from the second my parents and I walked through the door, and halfway into dessert, when my mother finally had the decency to ask him “what in the devil” the thing was, he jumped from his chair and soggy key lime pie with the excitement of an ionized sodium molecule.

“It cleans your shoes,” Mr. Lopez beamed, and he slipped off his black loafers for an immediate demonstration.

His wife, Tina, and daughter, Carmen, buried their faces in their pie. I could see the red in Carmen’s cheeks even through the forkful of green goop and whipped cream.

“Really, David,” Tina pleaded, “they don’t want to see…” but the machine had already begun to whirl.

Mr. Lopez crouched over his treasure as if in prayer and held the top of his left shoe firm to the churning brushes. A thin foam of milky suds seeped out across the smooth leather, and a thin grin seeped out across Mr. Lopez’s face.

“You see,” he said, “this section soaps them up, this section dries them off, and this section polishes them.”

I guess life insurance agents need clean shoes. I couldn’t tell you for sure, though, as I’ve only ever known one life insurance agent, and that was Mr. Lopez. He handled my family’s policy, not because he was particularly good at his job, but because he was

one of those “old friends” from college. I had seen him and his wife several times over my life—Christmases, Thanksgivings, the occasional Easter—and each visit was punctuated with the same awkward handshake and the shocking news that I was indeed taller than last they had seen me.

Don’t let the name fool you. Mr. Lopez was as white as a slice of Wonder Bread, and almost as airy. He reminded me of the first few pages of my history textbook—full of nice, important-sounding words not worth their ink in notes. The only whisper of his Spanish father were the short, dark locks curling up from his scalp. Besides that, he was nothing but flour and egg whites.

Mrs. Lopez was a little better. Tina.

Even now the name boils up flavors of buttery rice and hot lamb shanks. She was a Brazilian through and through, except for genetics. Her parents were Germans, missionaries to Latin America. “Not as exciting as it sounds,” she’d remind me often enough.

“More just sad. You know, the poverty, the brothels.” Either way, I was impressed. Tina.

She was like a fat Gisele Bundchen, only warmer and a better hugger.

“Let me take that for you, hun.”

I smiled awkwardly as Tina reached across my shoulder and picked up my plate.

The fork clinked like silver against the china.

I could smell the mango shampoo in her hair, and I could feel her breasts press soft against my back. How she had ever ended up with a man like Mr. Lopez, I had no idea. I think they met in college, studying abroad in Spain for a year, but don’t hold me to that: my parents’ stories tend to drift together like the notes of a lazy song, and I can never be too sure if the melody matches the meter.

“Oh, for God’s sake, David, you’ve already shown them how it polishes.”

Tina shot her husband a lime-tart scowl over the stack of dirty plates and then disappeared into the kitchen. Mr. Lopez mere-

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ly grinned. He looked like a six-year-old who’d managed to break into the Christmas sweets—only instead of a chocolate goatee he sported a dark stain of shoe polish up his wrist and good watch. I couldn’t help but laugh. Carmen laughed, too. From the corner of my eye, I saw the crinkles in her cheeks, and I saw her thin lips part, and I saw her horse-black hair dance around her eyes like spider webs. Then I felt a twinge of shame. I shouldn’t have seen such things. Carmen was too young for me, just a sophomore in high school this year. In a strange way, I fancied myself as a kind of older brother figure, strange because I couldn’t help but notice the way her jeans hugged her hips and her shirt hugged her chest.

Nearly three years my junior, and still I felt a flash of blood whenever she’d laugh at one of my stupid jokes and a flash of ice when she didn’t.

“Look, look here at this nozzle,” said Mr. Lopez. He held the contraption up to his chest so that we’d all have a better view. His excitement bubbled over with the goopy polish and pooled onto the dining room carpet. “They say it’s good for a hundred shinings, and even then it’s only five bucks a refill.”

“David, the carpet!”

With a flourish of golden margaritas and Brazilian temper, Tina had reappeared from the kitchen. The glasses clanked together in her hands, the cold liquid sloshing with salt and alcohol. I watched as a splash of it seeped over the edge and into the black polish muck and leftover suds. Tina forced a smile.

“Why don’t you put that thing away?”

she said. “I want to show them the new cabinets.”

I rose instinctively from my seat and drifted off in the vague direction of my parents. We stood there a moment around the table, my mom and dad sipping politely from their drinks. My mom didn’t like her margaritas salted. I could tell. She held her glass stiffly and made sure to purse her lips against Matt Anderson the same wet spot for every sip.

But then I wasn’t watching my mom anymore. I was watching Carmen. She had to twist her back to get out from under the table, and I saw a thin stroke of her skin flash between the top of her jeans and the bottom of her shirt. Then Mr. Lopez grabbed my arm.

“You don’t care about the cabinets, do you?”

The whispered words hit my ear in one great, hot rush of breath. It was like cranking up the car’s AC and getting nothing but a face-full of heat.

I would have jumped if his grip wasn’t so tight.

“Uh…no, I guess…”

“Good. Why don’t you come out to the porch? I have something to show you.”

I turned my eyes away and looked to my parents, but they were gone. The door to the kitchen swung on its hinges, then slowed, then stopped. I could hear Tina on the other side talking in that loud Latin voice which seemed to flare and ruffle like a scarlet dress caught up in dance. But the voice was muffled, the door closed, and as I glanced down to Mr. Lopez’s hand, I could see the dark stains of polish already smeared into my skin.

“Carmen, you can come, too,” Mr. Lo-

pez said to his daughter. His fingers loosened around my arm. “I think you’ll like it.”

Carmen blushed but gave a meek little nod and stepped forward. For a moment, our eyes met, but then she looked down and I looked down, too. I watched as Mr. Lopez slipped his feet into his loafers. The polish wasn’t quite dry. It smudged the edges of his argyle socks like tobacco on an old baseball.

Then Mr. Lopez walked to the screen door and slid back the glass. He waited for me to go first.

The night air was hot and tart even for summer, and my first impulse was to retreat back through the door into the soft carpet and cool AC. But I didn’t. I could sense Carmen behind me— sense without seeing and without hearing—so I stood up a little straighter and advanced with just the slightest Latin swagger. It was a tough counterfeit, and my shoes weren’t helping matters.

The old Nikes clapped against the deck, and I felt more and more like a privileged white kid with each step. How did Antonio Banderas make it look so easy? I could remember distinctly the crisp, sharp sound of his boots on the stone roads of some abandoned Mexican village. It was like chalk tapping slowly against a blackboard.

“You can sit down over there,” said Mr. Lopez. He motioned to a table and an arrangement of green patio chairs. I did as he said. The plastic was hot against the bottom of my thighs, and I could feel my skin

stick to the seat. I felt like a cockroach getting stuck in one of those gooey traps. Carmen sat down across from me. There was no sticking on her end. Her jeans slipped over the plastic like a South American dictator— tight and smooth and fashionable, all the show of land reform with none of the messy work. I smiled at her. She smiled back, then looked away and straightened the bottom of her shirt.

“Stupid mosquitoes,” said Mr. Lopez.

He slapped his hand hard against the side of his calf then walked across the deck to a low Matt Anderson standing lamp. He reached deep into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. Brand new and still it took him six tries to get a flame. I wasn’t surprised, though.

Mr. Lopez didn’t smoke, not even an occasional cigar. I saw Antonio Banderas smoking a cigar once. He pressed his rough lips against the skin and sucked hard. The camera really zoomed in to get the embers and the smoke. It was almost like a kiss, but more like sex. And not the sweet, gentle sex where dresses fall like lace around white ankles and fingers run like feathers across white backs. It was the other kind of sex, the violent Latin feast where women are left gasping and sweaty and pregnant. That was how Antonio Banderas smoked that cigar. And then he spat it from his mouth, ground the heel of his boots into the butt, pulled an Uzi from his guitar case, and shot a South American dictator twenty-two times through the chest and groin. To tell you the

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truth, I have no idea if Mr. Lopez smoked or not, but something told me he couldn’t quite pull off a cigar.

“Ah, here we go.”

The lamp sputtered to life with a balmy glow of flame and insect repellent. I could already feel the heat against my face and the sweat clamming up on the bottom of my thighs. The air tasted like Windex.

“I’ll be right back,” said Mr. Lopez, and he slipped the lighter into his pocket and gave it a satisfied little pat. Then he turned to the house and disappeared through the dining room door. Plastic and glass slid shut behind him. I turned my eyes to Carmen.

She turned hers to me. Then we both smiled and looked away.

“That was good pie,” I heard myself mumble, just to make conversation.

Carmen looked up. I could see her thin, dark eyebrows through her bangs.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I studied the tops of my Nikes.

“I like key lime, too,” said Carmen.

She smiled again and blushed, and I smiled again and blushed, too. Sitting there beside the lamp, bathing in summer heat and bug fumes, one thing became incredibly clear. Carmen Lopez was very much her mother’s daughter. Maybe it was the way her hair clung to her neck like the mane of some wild horse or how her eyes flashed like polished opals and her cheeks flushed like ripe papaya. Whatever the reason, Carmen, like Tina, possessed that elusive, Latin flair, and neither genetics nor the foul odors of a mosquito lamp was going to take that away.

I stared at her now, stared long enough for it to be rude and uncomfortable and even a little seedy. But I didn’t care. Carmen was nothing like her father. She was dark and strong and beautiful, and she could dance. I’d never seen her dance, but the way those jeans stretched around her hips, how could she

not? And there was more to it than that. She had a hidden fire to her, a spice, like jalapeño chilis or a rich mayor’s daughter who wears red dresses to the stadium and flirts with the bullfighters. Carmen said more with the tilt of her head and the flash of her eyes than Mr. Lopez ever could with his empty words and professional handshake. It was as if she were born from an entirely different seed, as if Antonio Banderas came strutting into town one day, boots scraping against the road, and Tina flashed him a smile, and he spat the cigar from his mouth and crushed the burning embers beneath the weight of his foot. Carmen. The love child of Tina Lopez and Antonio Banderas. But that’s ridiculous. There was nothing like love about it, just sweat and heat and flesh.

“So are you excited about college?” asked Carmen.

This time, I really did jump, and if I had been old enough to drink, I would have spilled golden margarita all over my shirt and pants. Carmen looked down quickly, as if it were her fault she had startled me. Her cheeks were red again.

“Uh…yeah,” I said. “Can’t wait.” Silence.

I brushed a mosquito off my elbow. “And how about you? You looking forward to school?”

“No. No time for friends. Too much homework.”

The ends of her mouth twitched up, and her teeth flashed white against her lips. My stomach clenched. My arms felt loose.

“Yeah,” I said, “too much homework.”

And then I laughed, not because it was funny, but because I didn’t have anything else to say and I had to do something with my mouth. If only I was old enough to drink, I could have taken a sip of my margarita then.

Not for the alcohol, just to stall, just for a little time to think of something interesting. I glanced down at Carmen’s lips and saw them pursed together. The laugh died somewhere between my throat and my tongue. It

was like an old horse collapsing over its front legs into a heap of bones and skin that no one even cared to waste a bullet on. I closed my mouth and made a show of flicking away another mosquito. Carmen didn’t say anything. On second thought, maybe I wouldn’t have had that margarita. I could have used some tequila insted. Straight. You know, for the alcohol.

“So, Carmen, how’s your summer…”

But I didn’t get the chance at redemption, for at that moment, the screen door slid open, and Mr. Lopez stepped out backwards onto the deck. It was a strange way of exiting the dining room, as if he had to twist his body to get through the door. He was carrying something heavy in his arms. I couldn’t tell for sure what it was, but it was certainly bulky. He had it pressed against his chest in tight bear hug, and the end of it was slipping down through his legs. It was like a huge catfish flopping exhaustedly in a net, and its scales flashed black in the firelight.

“Dad, do you need some help with that?”

Carmen rose halfway from her chair, but Mr. Lopez shushed her away.

“No, no, don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got it.”

There was something in his voice that caught me off guard, something harsh and quick. He stepped back slowly from the house and let the door slide shut. He still had

his back to us. I watched as he took one last look through the glass. I could hear Tina’s muffled laughter all the way from the kitchen. Then he spun around and faced us.

“You said you were interested in art.”

Mr. Lopez beamed at me from behind the butt of an upside-down guitar case. Maybe it was the way the mosquito lamp flickered in the night breeze, but for one silly instant I could have sworn he’d a spit a cigar from his mouth, grind his boot into the ash, Matt Anderson pull an Uzi from the case, and spray twenty two bullets through my chest and groin. But he didn’t. He just stood there like a life insurance agent who didn’t know how to hold a guitar case.

“You said you were interested in art,” Mr. Lopez repeated.

He let the case slip through his arms and rest upon the table.

I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. I glanced over at Carmen for help, but she wouldn’t meet my eye. She was looking through the glass door, back into the dining room. I could still hear Tina from the kitchen.

“At dinner,” said Mr. Lopez, and he sat down beside his daughter. “At dinner you said you were interested in studying art.”

“Dad, why don’t you put that thing away?” said Carmen. “He doesn’t want to see it.”

She reached for the case, but Mr. Lopez caught her arm. He was quick, and his fingers were tight, and for a flashing moment I saw

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something like fear in Carmen’s eyes.

“Mom said she didn’t want you…”

“So you want to study art?” Mr. Lopez interrupted. His fingers fell limp and slipped away form Carmen’s wrist. He stared at me from behind his dark curls.

“Uh…art history,” I clarified. I tried to slip back into my chair, but my thighs were stuck to the plastic, and I didn’t dare make a show of it. “I took a class last year. It was interesting.”

Mr. Lopez strummed his fingers across the case.

“You learn a lot?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I mean technically it was an art theory class so we didn’t get too much into the history, but it was…”

“What does that mean?”

“Sorry?”

Mr. Lopez flicked a mosquito off the case.

“Art theory,” he said.

“What does that mean, art theory?”

“Well, you know, like, what is art?”

I glanced over at Carmen. She was still looking through the door.

“And it takes a whole year to answer that?” Mr. Lopez chuckled.

I could feel the red in my face.

“Well, it was only a one-semester class, and there was more to it than just…”

“And what’s the answer?”

“The answer?”

I was beginning to miss that firm handshake and those empty words.

“To the question,” said Mr. Lopez.

“What is art anyway?”

I looked down at the guitar case. I could feel Carmen beside me.

“Art is…” I fumbled for the right words, something profound without sounding like a Matt Anderson total ass. “Well I guess what we said in class is that it’s…uh…” I felt like Bill Buckner letting the ball squirt between his legs. I felt like Mr. Lopez stumbling out backwards onto the deck. “Art is…”

“What makes us human,” said Carmen. “What makes us whole.”

I jerked my head around and flashed her a smile. But Carmen didn’t smile back. She was staring at her father now. Her eyes looked wet beneath her dark bangs. From somewhere inside I could hear Tina’s voice break out into a muffled laughter.

And then Mr. Lopez laughed, too.

“And she didn’t even take the class,” he said, and he slapped me hard against the back.

“But look here. Here’s a real piece of art.”

Mr. Lopez slid his fingers down the side of the case and flipped up the locks. He opened it slowly, like a dancer slipping off her shoes, like a woman slipping off her dress.

From beside me I could hear Carmen breathing. The hinges whined like a dying bull.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Mr. Lopez reached into the case and lifted out the guitar. Not even a loaded Uzi could have hit me like that. It was beautiful.

Hand-carved, hand painted—Mr. Lopez held it up like a newly-baptized child, and I could see the Holy Spirit burn like tongues of fire down the polished wood.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Where did you get it?”

Mr. Lopez smiled. He ran the tips of his fingers down the strings. Then he stopped suddenly, lowered his hand, and wiped the smudges of shoe polish against his pants.

“I didn’t always sell life insurance,” he said with a grin.

“When I was your age, I wanted to study art, too. I went to Spain, you know.”

“Yeah, I think my parents told me…”

“It’s where he met my mom,” said Carmen. She said it quickly and loudly, and her cheeks were wet.

“Was it…” I looked over at Carmen and then back to her father. “Was it a gift from her?”

Mr. Lopez twisted his neck and glanced back through the screen door. Something like worry flashed across his eyes.

“It…was a gift,” he said at length, and then quickly, “Would you like to hear a song?”

“You can play?”

Mr. Lopez grinned. His lips flashed red in the firelight.

“Like I said. I didn’t always sell life insurance.”

And then he brought the guitar to his chest and his hands to the strings, and he played, and he sang. The notes came slow, drawn out, sad. The words were in Spanish.

And as I sat there and listened, as a mosquito sucked blood from my left forearm, I watched Carmen, and she watched me, and she blushed, and she hid behind her hair. She knew the words. I knew she knew them. She could speak the tongue like her father. And then it was over, and Mr. Lopez closed his mouth and relaxed his fingers and set down Matt Anderson the guitar.

“So?” he asked.

“Did you like it?”

“What was it about?”

Mr. Lopez turned to his daughter.

“You know the song, Carmen.”

She shook her head.

“Tell him what it’s about.”

She shook her head again. A strand of hair stuck to her cheeks just below the eyes. Mr. Lopez sighed. Then he turned back to me and explained. His words were soft.

“It’s about a bullfighter,” he said. “He wakes up in bed with an aristocrat’s daughter, and as he dresses, quiet so as not to wake her, he looks down at her naked body, and he sees that she is beautiful, and he knows that he loves her.”

I swallowed hard and remembered the red in Carmen’s cheeks. I could feel the red in my own.

“But the bullfighter is not happy,” said Mr. Lopez. “He loves another woman. He loves her more. And so before he slips away

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through the door, before he slips away forever, he crouches low over the aristocrat’s daughter, and he presses his lips against her neck, and he whispers goodbye into her ear.

And then he leaves.”

Mr. Lopez leaned back hard against his chair. The plastic scraped like rock against the deck.

“Is that it?” I asked. I glanced at Carmen and then back to her father. “Is that all there is to the song?”

For a moment, Mr. Lopez did not answer. He stared at the guitar and sat perfectly still, like some frozen image captured in paint. I could hear nothing but the popping of the mosquito lamp and Tina’s muffled voice from inside. But then Mr. Lopez jerked up his head, and he smiled.

“The other woman,” he said, “the other woman that the bullfighter loves—she’s a poor shepherd’s daughter. She lives outside the city. She doesn’t want him to fight. She doesn’t want him to get hurt.”

“But he’s a bullfighter,” I said. “What else is he supposed to do?”

Mr. Lopez shrugged.

“He becomes a shepherd, like his fatherin-law. He herds sheep.”

“And he’s happy? He left that aristocrat’s daughter to herd sheep with some poor shepherd, and he’s happy?”

I could hear Carmen make a noise beside me. Mr. Lopez merely shrugged again.

“He’s with the woman he loves.”

Now I leaned back hard against my chair, and it nearly toppled over backwards from the force.

“Doesn’t he ever miss her, the woman he left?”

Mr. Lopez opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, Tina’s warm voice bubbled out from the kitchen like a mound of buttery rice.

“David? Where are you? They want to hear the story about the fixtures.”

Mr. Lopez grinned and stood up from his chair. He walked over to the door and slid back the glass.

“Wait,” I called. “You didn’t answer me.

Doesn’t he ever miss the aristocrat’s daughter?”

Mr. Lopez shrugged.

“Sure,” he said. “She gave him a gift, you know, a golden buckle from her father’s family. He wore it in the ring. Every time he fought, he wore it, and he wore it even when he left her. The poor shepherd didn’t understand it. The poor shepherd’s daughter didn’t understand it, either, and neither did her daughter. No one understood it. No one knew why he kept it, why he ran his fingers over the smooth metal, why he polished it with a rag everyday.”

“David, tell them about the fixtures.”

I could see Tina through the doorway.

Her body wobbled forward, thick and friendly and warm. And then Mr. Lopez turned around, and he walked inside, and I could see his loafers polished black against the carpet.

He smiled at Tina and ran his hand across her shoulder. She smiled back. Then Carmen stood up beside me, and she wiped her hand across her face, and she walked inside, too.

In the City Peter Lucier

Hip-hop Bebop Spit jazz rhapsody Street heat Street beat Make your blood flow In the city Say goodbye to Slow grow Sad grass Fake Green Piety Throw the window Burn a square, blow Sick smoke rings in the city Underneath hot stars Dreams, so far Disappear in the city Lie down on concrete Man made so sweet Never sleep through nights black and gritty Get yourself a down girl Sticky sweaty sweet curls The world drowns in ecstasy, swirls Drown with it in the city

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Sculpture Park Mike Finucane

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A sculpture park at night becomes a land Of dreamlike creatures caught in welded steel, Where beams of metal clutch the sky like hands, And fish on bikes can roam the pond for real.

Imagination, children’s fantasy, And hidden fears emerge to stop your heart.

You reconsider all you think you see As intellect and reason fall apart.

Recount for me what struck you on that night While aimlessly we wandered down the path.

Explain, now, what you said with some delight When I told you my problem’s aftermath.

“The reasoning you trust that’s in your brain Was sculpted out of what you thought was pain.”

Kevin Casey

The Stupid Lady From the Shell Station on Watson Kingsley Uwalaka

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f course Best Buy hired me. Look at me. Look at my credentials. I had just come from my third and final interview with the Best Buy general manager Bob and I was making my way down Watson Road practically on fumes. Looks like even Kings need to pump their own gas. Four dollars was all I had on me. The previous six dollars had been spent on the new Philly cheesesteak burger from Hardee’s. The only problem is that I always seem to regret buying fast food a few hours later when the groans from my stomach signify I am empty.

There was a slight chance that I could have made it home that evening with the little gas I had, but seeing as worrying is my nature, I needed to find a gas station quickly.

And as always, whenever you need to find a gas station you won’t, but any other time, they’re force feeding you their dark fuel with bright neon signs. After exactly 1.1 miles and a Steak ’n’ Shake, which I had to pull myself past, I found the blinding yellow light of the Shell. The glowing sign seemed to pulsate with immense warmth.

Come on in, Kingsley. It’s all nice and comfy in here.

The sign lied. Nothing could prepare for what would happen at Pump 10.

I pulled up to the pump and fidgeted around for my wallet. Soon after, close to seven seconds to be a little bit more accurate, I realized that I actually forget a lot of things so it was no surprise that I had left my eelskin wallet at home. I would just hope for the best and try and make it home. And anyway, if somewhere along the journey I had to get out and push, it wouldn’t be a big deal

because I didn’t exercise that day. As I pulled off, I saw someone come running out towards my car waving for me to stop—a small black lady in khaki pants. I couldn’t stop staring at the ugly red streaks in her hair and her two gold teeth.

Yeah lady, I guess I could spare 35 cents for you if that’s what you want. I work at Best Buy now.

I can do that.

That is what I thought until I rolled down my window and she asked if I planned on paying for my gas. “….uhhhhh, I didn’t buy gas, ma’am.”

Full of righteous snotitude, she said, “Siiir, then you better come in and resolve this.”

No big deal. I’ll go in and see what the matter is and go home. And why does it have to be a black lady giving the attitude? Maybe I should let her know that she is fitting an awful stereotype right now. I should also rent Tyler Perry’s Diary of a Mad Black Woman.

I stepped inside only to be glared at by two customers as if I were walking Death Row. “So…you’re gunna need to pay for that gas.”

“I didn’t buy any gas, ma’am” “Pump number 10, right?”

“Yes. You can check my car. My gas light is still on!”

“No, thanks.”

I could feel something evil brewing deep inside of my body. How could somebody be so stupid? My brain stopped working properly and my hands began to shake.

“I got to the pump and realized I didn’t have my wallet! I was there for five seconds!”

Oh God. I lied. It was really seven!

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“You don’t have your wallet?”

“No.” “Well in that case you’re staying here and I’m gunna call the police.”

Good. And when they get here I’ll punch them in the face and then reach over the counter and punch you in the face.

“It says here on the screen that $42.36 of gas was used at Pump 10.”

I was about to tell her my car would not even hold that much gas until a man who was at the pump in front of me (Pump 12) walked in.

“I think there has been a mistake. When I got here, the pump was just laying on the ground and I didn’t see anyone around so I just hung it back up.”

“How come you didn’t tell me!” laughed the lady behind the counter. It was that sort of nervous laughter that people do to ease the tension, but it failed.

“Well, I thought you would have been running this place a little better.”

YEAH! GET HER PUMP 12 GUY!!!

Without even looking at me, she said, “You can go now, sir.”

“Not so fast. You have done three very crucial things here this evening. One, you have treated me like a child. Two, you have insulted my integrity. And three, you have wasted my time and I value my time above all things. Get your manager on the phone.”

Now she was looking at me and her expression no longer had an ounce of snotitude.

It was full of fear.

“Please, there’ll be no need for that. If he finds out I could lose my job!”

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you messed with me.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she said under her breath.

“How about you fill up my tank and we’ll call it even?”

Her eyes grew like balloons. “Yeah, sure, right away!” And she scampered towards the door to fill it for me.

“I want a 24 ounce Mountain Dew!” “Yes, of course.”

“And some Jujubes!”

OK. That didn’t happen, but I really wish it did. When she told me I could go, I scurried out of the store and never looked back.

Kevin Casey

Professional Relationship

I

Brian Bettonville

collapsed into the chair in the lifeguard office. It had been an hour and a half since my last break, and the heat outside was unbearable. I crossed my arms and rested them on the smooth pages of the mess of magazines on the table in front of me and nestled my head in between my arms. I wanted to just let myself melt into the table and never get up.

I heard the click of the doorknob and didn’t react. I started to think about Megan, about how perfect she was for me. I thought about how much easier things would be if I would just devote myself to her and not think about anybody else. That way, if I ever had the stones to ask her out, she’d be pretty much forced to say yes because I was so sweet. I pictured her smiling in an apron while I wrestled playfully with our kids in our backyard. Things were going good. Things were going great.

“Hmmmmm,” came the distinctly feminine moan from somewhere near the lockers.

My head shot up. Holy crap, it was Rachel who came in. I could be missing my chance right now. Crap, I probably had a red mark on my forehead from resting on my arm. Those stupid magazines were sticking to my sweaty arms, too. I’m such an idiot!

Crap!

She wasn’t looking at me, though. She was texting on her cell with her face and arms huddled into her locker as if she were using it for cover against enemy fire. That made me think how happy she would be if the office suddenly started getting shot up and I valiantly crossed the line of fire to save her. I knew how she’d thank me. That would be a great night, because, damn, did she look

good with the red of the bottom piece of her guard bikini spread so tightly over her can.

I stared at the top seam of the suit, where the cloth met her golden-brown skin, which nearly matched it in shade. I wish the terrorists would hurry up and get here. This would be a good target, right? A pool, family fun, lots of devastation and innocent casualties.

Rachel was such a gorgeous girl and was always nice to me. I couldn’t remember a time when she would shrug me off and read a magazine instead of talking. She probably liked me. Why else would she talk to me?

Well, she could have been bored. But why would she smile at me? Yeah, she totally liked me. I was good-looking, that’s what my exgirlfriend told me. Just me and the perfect Rachel for a full 20-minute break. Something will happen, terrorists or not.

Wait a minute. Whoops, it’s actually Kylie. That much became a lot clearer when my eyes found their way up to her shiny curtain of hair. I didn’t know Kylie all that well, and on all my previous breaks with her she flirted with other guys and ignored me completely, but she was still really hot. I mean really hot. Hot, hot, hot. Not quite Rachel, but still really hot.

As that stupid “Hot, Hot, Hot” song started running through my head, I tried to think of something say. Unfortunately the song was drowning out all my other thoughts.

I opened my mouth and decided to try to just push something out, but there was a cork in my throat blocking the words.

So it was that I was staring at Kylie’s tan line, just showing out of the bottom of her suit, with my mouth open when she looked up at me. My jaw snapped shut, and my eyes were suddenly on the phone in the corner as if it were the most interesting thing I’d ever seen. The metallic clang of the locker slamming resounded throughout the office, but oh, that phone! The way the gray of the receiver perfectly complemented the gray of

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the base, the way the lights on the buttons kept blinking for what I had determined was absolutely no reason, it drove me to an awe over the wonder of creation one usually gets when looking at the grandeur of God’s creation, like a forest or mountain. If only it could last, this wonder of wonders, if only it could last.

Out of my peripheral vision I saw her move softly over to the board where the sub forms everyone ignored were hanging.

I thought briefly about how sad it was that avoiding being caught ogling was now instinctual for me. It looked like she detached one of the sub sheets and kept it with her.

She was probably going to ask me to sub for her. She then fell onto the guard cot that we weren’t supposed to lie on. I guess she wasn’t going to ask me. She probably liked me too much to ask me. Nice. Now I could talk to her, and now I could make her mine. I could, that is, if I could say something.

I looked away from that stupid pieceof-crap phone to her stretched-out body.

Her eyes were closed and she was facing the wall. I waited for her to notice I was looking over. I had it all figured out. I would glance at her casually, because her seductive feminine movements meant nothing to me, the ultimate badass who lived on his own terms.

I would strike up a conversation out of sheer boredom, not because of the way her body curved and tried to jump out of that evil, restricting suit and show itself to me. I could have girls lining up for me if I wanted with the snap of a finger. She was lucky I’d give her the time of day because I lived by only one rule: the rule of the road! Err…that was, of course, assuming that the rule of the road was on my own terms, which I had already told her I lived by. So I really didn’t live by any rules. Ha! Yeah that was it. I was a badass, a loner. Though I still had a lot of friends. I mean I wasn’t a loser or.… Goddamnit, why wouldn’t she look up! She’s ruining the whole

plan. Crap, I’ll seem desperate if I say something while she isn’t looking. I decided to just play it cool and stay quiet. Look away and try again later.

“God, I’m so tired,” I said.

Shit. There goes ultimate badass. I guess I could still go for suave, James Bond-esque gentleman.

I felt desperate because I had said that verbatim to literally every other female guard that had ever been employed at the same time as me at this godforsaken place. I think I said it to a delivery girl one time when the guards had ordered pizza. She smiled back at me with a beautiful set of teeth and lips, took her money, and left.

Nevertheless, Kylie stirred and met my eyes, allowing a half-smile to pass over her face as her gorgeous body moved with her turning head so she was on her back. In this moment, I knew that we completely understood each other, the two of us. In this moment, we were a perfect fit. She would confess that the tiredness was mutual. Then the natural conclusion would be a confession that the attraction was mutual, that she would want to do something with the ultimate badass as soon as we got off. This was a deep connection, one you don’t come by every day. I couldn’t ever remember a girl being so totally perfect for me. Except for Rachel.

And then there was Joan. And, crap, what about Megan? Wait, hang on, she’s about to answer me. I am so in.

“I know, I’m tired, too. I was soooooo wasted last night. I don’t remember what I did, but I’ve got some guy callin’ me now who won’t leave me alone. It’s soooooo annoying. And my mom was waiting for me when I got home. She was all like, ‘I was so worried about you! What have you been doing?’ God, she can be such a bitch some times. Anyway, she realized I was drunk so now I’m grounded for, like, ever.”

She really liked telling the story. I could

tell because she was so into it she didn’t notice me wincing throughout the whole thing.

Her eyes kind of stayed up and to the right while she was recalling it, those beautiful hazel eyes that seemed to see right into your mind when you made eye contact. A wonderful specimen of a woman if there ever— “So what’d you do?”

Shit! What the hell was I supposed to say to that? Well, I mean, last night was one of the most fun nights I’d had in a while. My friends and I hung out and talked with a movie on in the background. And of course Megan was there. But damn, she was nothing like Kylie. And it was all such a boring story.

“Kind of an off night,” I said. “Just watched a movie with my friends.”

“I guess you gotta have those from time to time,” she said.

“Yeah, totally.”

“Maybe I should do one of those tonight. I got this huge packet of math problems I’m supposed to have done by the end of the week to show my tutor because I failed algebra last year.…

Ugh. I’m having trouble keeping up with this stupid stuff. I’m never gonna need this shit!”

“I know what you mean.”

I didn’t know what she meant. I had always liked math and never had to do any packets over the summer. I started thinking about Megan again while she started talk-

ing about how much she hated her teacher or her coach or somebody. I wished Megan were here now so I could devote myself to her. I wished most of all that she had Kylie’s body, her crafted muscles, her golden skin, her hazel eyes, and that girls like Kylie just didn’t exist. It didn’t seem fair that someone so stupid could look so damn good.

I realized Kylie had finished talking and was looking at me.

Peter McNulty “It’s soooooo hot outside,” she said.

“Yeah.

Hot, hot, hot.”

Hot, Hot, Hot? What the hell was that? Suave, James Bond-esque gentleman was gone now, too. I either had to hope she had a terrible sense of humor or just go with pity. Not pity. It’s not like I’m a loser, I don’t think. Maybe I am a loser. She was smiling, though.

Maybe it was just corny enough to be funny. Maybe it was suave in its total un-suaveness.

Yeah, exactly how I meant it.

“So what movie?” she said.

“What? Oh, uhhh…” She was smiling at me and making eye contact. Oh, those hazel eyes. Crap, what the hell movie was it?

C’mon, c’mon, c’mon…

“Happy Gilmore…yeah, Happy Gilmore,” I said.

Her stretched-out body shifted slightly, allowing the light in the office to shine off

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20

every inch of her smooth skin, almost all of which was clearly in my view. Her hair swept forward onto her cheek as she slowly rolled onto her side to face me.

“You know, I’ve never actually seen that movie.”

“What? What is wrong with you?” I joked.

What was wrong with me? Why had I ever thought such awful, mean things about such a nice girl? Even if she did drink a lot and probably smoked pot and didn’t know anyone I knew and I think one time was in jail. I deserve someone as nice as her. We had such good chemistry.

“I don’t know, I just haven’t seen it,” she said, still with that smile. She didn’t say it sheepishly, but somehow…powerfully, like she had had this conversation before. Like

she knew what she was doing.

I stood up and walked over to the cot.

When she saw me coming, her smile grew, and she twirled gently into a sitting position to make room for me next to her. I slouched down carefully and rested my head low against the wall so I had to look up at her. All of her. I made sure to accidentally brush my bare shoulder against hers.

“It’s, like, one of the best movies of all time,” I said, looking deep into her eyes.

She leaned back onto her hands, arching her back slightly. One of her hands landed on the sub form. As she brought it up onto her lap, she crossed her right ankle over her left, so that her bare right toe pressed warmly against my leg and so her cleanly shaven legs rubbed smoothly against each other, like a cricket chirping in the night.

The Poor Waiting on a Stoplight Dan Wall

The poor, alone, at a stop light, red, waiting, forgotten, yet watched, through the eye of a camera aimed to take down those running the red light.

Tom Traubert’s Tavern

C

Patrick Topping

igarettes are pretty much a diner must-have, but they’re outlawed now at Tom Traubert’s tavern. Curly wasn’t pleased to hear this when I told him I couldn’t give him one.

“Whaddya mean I can’t have no cigarette, man?”

“The smoking ban—it’s no-go, dude.”

“But you can gimme one.”

“But you can’t smoke it, Curly, so what does it matter?”

“Don’t worry about it, just gimme one.” I reached into the crumpled pack in my pocket. I flecked bits of tobacco off my hand and onto my coffee saucer.

“Here you go, Curly, but you’re not going to get away with it.”

“It’s no problem, man, no problem.” He lit up and sat back in his chair. I looked at my watch. 12:45. I was supposed to be home an hour ago. My mother would be asleep anyway.

Alex was supposed to be here at 8:00 for our date. She didn’t show up, and she was not answering her phone. I sat at my two-seat table for the better part of three hours drinking the piss poor coffee and poking at the remains of a greasy burger which I had ordered around 10:15, and then I realized that even if she was just running late, she would surely have eaten by then. I wasn’t hungry though.

At around 11:00, the nine or so cups of coffee I had slipped down my throat were pounding against my bladder, so I went to the bathroom. I came back, immediately pulled out my pack of cigarettes, and took one out.

My waitress had been watching me the whole night, waiting for her tip most likely, but making awkward bits of conversation here and there like “Waitin’ on some cutie?” and “Don’t worry about it, she’ll come,” all the while chomping madly on a piece of as the Tyler Stahlhuth gum. Well, night wore on she had stopped coming by, and when she did it was just to refill my coffee, which didn’t even matter to me, but I drank it anyway.

But when I pulled out my pack of cigarettes and slipped one out, she came over to chat a bit.

“Hey, sweetheart.

Still no sign?”

“Nope,” I said moodily to my cup of coffee with a cigarette between my lips. I lit it and breathed in deeply.

“Well, don’t worry about it, babe—she isn’t worth your time anyway. Why don’t you get outta here and find yourself someone who’s worth a damn?” I looked out the window; it was snowing. I thought about leaving, but it was cold out. It seemed like the wind was blowing pretty strongly, and I didn’t want to deal with it stinging my face. And, at that point, I still hadn’t given up hope that Alex still might show up.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Okay, well, listen, babe, there’s no

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smoking in here—you’re going to have to put that out.”

“What do you mean no smoking; it’s a diner for Christ’s sake.”

“It’s the law now, babe. And anyway, what’s a kid like you doing smoking to begin with?”

“I’m eighteen years old! I can do whatever I want to now by law. When did the law start saying I couldn’t smoke wherever I want?”

“Well, the smoking ban just became effective today. Sorry, but you’re going to have to put it out.” She seemed a bit nervous but waited to see what I’d do. I dropped my cigarette half finished in my coffee, which was also half finished. My waitress hadn’t come back since. At around midnight, Curly came in smelling like whiskey and in bright spirits.

Like I said, my waitress avoided me after what I began calling “the cigarette incident,” but just as Curly lit up, she was back, this time more deliberately with her nostrils flaring slightly. I didn’t want to listen to her again, so I got up.

“Now, I know I made it clear to you that you weren’t to smoke in here—” “I’m going to the bathroom.” I had to piss again. When I came back, Curly was sitting at another table, quietly puffing on what looked like a relit semi-crushed cigarette. He put a finger to his lips. When he had smoked it to the filter, he got up and came back to sit with me.

“Now, man, what has got you so down tonight?”

“Ah, it’s nothin’, Curly. Just a girl. She stood me up.”

“Screw her, man; nobody stands up my main man. Whaddya say I take you down and we find ourselves some of my friend’s finest ladies? We’ll go, get them, have some fun, then go home and get some sleep. Whaddya say man?” Curly smiled through broken and missing teeth.

Curly was homeless, but I saw him all the time. He came into Tom Traubert’s everyday, and this is where I came every weekend. I bought him coffee when he was too drunk to see, and sometimes I gave him cigarettes until this ridiculous ban. In return he gave me advice and entertaining conversation. Tonight he smelled like whiskey, so I didn’t take his offer too seriously.

“Nah, Curly, I got a date tonight, man.”

“What date? I don’t see your woman around. Where is she?” I really didn’t feel like explaining it to him. He wouldn’t understand it; Curly was a man who lived always scavenging for what struck his fancy. He lived from cigarette to cigarette, bottle to bottle, and woman to woman. He never attempted to build anything resembling stability or consequence in his life, so what he could tell me about women wasn’t anything worth listening to. And more importantly, I just didn’t want to hear his shit that night.

“Curly, you want the rest of this burger?”

I said, pointing to the half sandwich I had left.

“You serious, man?”

“Yeah,” I said and pointed to a booth a bit further away, “but you gotta sit over there, okay?”

“Why?” “Just leave me alone, all right?” Curly went and sat in the other booth. Around that time I got to thinking about Alex and how much I really did wish she had shown up.

And I was getting to feel slightly depressed about things in general. I couldn’t smoke in my favorite diner anymore. I couldn’t date the girl I wanted to. I couldn’t even sit and think for ten seconds without Curly bugging me. I needed some time to breathe. I thought about leaving then, but I wouldn’t feel any better about things, just defeated. If I left, it would mean she definitely stood me up. Instead, I got up and decided to give her a call. Ninth time’s a charm you know.

The pay phone in Tom Traubert’s is located right up next to the bathroom, which is close to the server’s stand, so I saw my waitress on the way to the phone.

Her gum chewing paused for a moment as her eyes fell on me.

I went to the phone and dialed Alex’s number. It rang for a while and then her squeaky voice appeared in my ear. For a second my heart rose, but it was just the answering machine.

“Hey, Alex, I know you’re probably not there, and as this is the ninth time I’ve called you this evening I’m fairly certain you’ll be thoroughly creeped out by me by now,” I took a deep breath that I tried to make into a sigh. “But I just felt like I had to say this. I was really looking forward to our date tonight. In fact I’d say it would and should have been the highlight of my weekend. And I like you. I’m not in love with you or anything, for Christ’s sake. I mean, we’re in high school, so don’t misunderstand what I’m trying to say.

I don’t love you. But I like you, if that’s a crime, and I think that I could really like you if you gave it a chance, and maybe you could like me, too.… But you didn’t show up.… So as you’ll hear this message and probably still misunderstand me, you’re probably not going to want to talk to me from now on. And that’s fine. Because I mean, don’t get me wrong. I like lots of girls, not just you, so don’t think you’re breaking my heart or anything, but, yeah…” I paused for a moment

trying to keep my voice from catching. “I’m feeling a little hurt now. And I Martin Lang feel a bit depressed so… I guess that’s it. Thanks.” I hung up the phone, and breathed out heavily. I knew it was a bad idea to pour myself out on an answering machine, but she didn’t give me much choice. Just as I was about to return to my seat, the phone rang. I picked it up.

“Hello?” I murmured into the receiver.

“Uh…hi, who is this?”

“Oh, this is just Tom Traubert’s tavern; you probably have the wrong number.”

“No, you just called me.”

“Oh, God.” It was Alex. She hadn’t heard my message yet.

“Don? Is that you? Don, it’s almost 1:30 in the morning why are you—” I cut her off, I had to play things off naturally. I decided to fake concern.

“Alex?” I said, “Oh my God, Alex, are you all right?” I shouted my question like a father does when his kid scrapes his knee for the first time. My waitress looked up momentarily, but then turned away and resumed chomping her cud.

“Oh my God, Don!” she said. “I’m so sorry. I forgot all about our date. Oh, gosh, that’s so embarrassing. I’m so sorry, please forgive me.” When I heard that I couldn’t pretend to be happy anymore.

“You forgot about our date?” I said pronouncing every word distinctly. “You didn’t get in a car accident, or your parents didn’t make you stay home, you didn’t

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even accidentally stub your toe and hurt it so bad you had to have it x-rayed.... You forgot about our date?” I was upset now. She could have at least lied to me to spare my feelings.

“I’m sorry, Don, if there’s anyway I can make it up to you...”

“Come down,” I said immediately.

“Come down where?”

“Tom Traubert’s. It’s not too far from your house. You can make it in ten, fifteen minutes easy.”

“Don, it’s almost 1:30, you probably woke my parents up calling here, and it’s snowing out. How am I supposed to come down to Tom Traubert’s without getting into trouble?” I stared out the window. The wind seemed to have stopped, and the snow in the parking lot had turned to gray slush.

It was disgusting out.

“I guess you can’t,” I said quietly.

“I’m really sorry, Don. I promise next weekend if I have time.”

“Sure, sure,” I said. I wanted to ask her what she did instead.

“Okay, well, I really do need to go back to bed. I’m sure my parents are really upset.”

“Sure, sure,” I said. Where the hell had she been? What was so damn important that she couldn’t remember she had one date on one day? She couldn’t just devote one small Saturday night to one person? Where had she been? What the hell did she do instead?

“Are you okay, Don?” I didn’t want to answer.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve just had a lot of cof-

fee—that’s all.”

“Oh well, all right. Night.” And she hung up. I let the dial tone go for a while before I set the phone back into place and walked back to my seat, past my waitress, who looked up at me with contempt because all she wanted to do was get out of there. I’m sure I was her last check. I walked right past her back to my table, where Curly had perched himself once more, and I sat down.

I tried to think of Alex, but I couldn’t.

I just couldn’t care about it anymore. I should’ve maybe felt a little sadder, but now I was just removed. Removed in a way that I had never felt. It wasn’t bad. I felt like I could function now at least. I could accomplish anything I wanted to if I really wanted to do it. I could even smoke if I wanted to; screw that ban.

“Hey, Curly,” I said.

“Yeah, man?”

“You wanna cigarette?”

“Yeah,” he said happily. “Do I gotta sit over there?”

“No, man, you gotta sit right here.” I took out my crumpled pack and pulled out my last two cigarettes. I lit mine and I lit Curly’s. We smoked in Tom Traubert’s until our cigarettes were just tar-stained filters, and when I put out the butt on the tablecloth and my head swam as I stood up, I couldn’t help but feel I had set things right. Cigarettes are supposed to be smoked in diners among friends, and you can’t change that. I paid my bill and left Tom Traubert’s tavern behind.

[untitled] Noah Mitchell

The only boy I ever loved Wore guardian angels in his gloves And a pack of hoodlums in his blood.

One night I saw him. The cosmic theophanies, Stars probably, lit a falling shine On his cheek like tears.

When we kissed, it was a need To unreplace the love of some she with he And strip away all rigid forms subconsciously.

First, my world began to turn around, Liquid, rushing, burst from our mouths And we knew what God is all about— God is a place where people breathe through one another And images scream brightest colors.

I was there this morning before I started to cry.

And as the walls change their shrieking hues, Spin loudly tasting a form of natural surprise, There is nothing I can do—your mouth will move in mine.

25

To Xia Han* Matt Venker

26

Just like an ice-filled June, you’re stuck for good Within my memory—I told you this Before I left. And when I reminisce Of you, I still recall that time you stood With me, out in the snow—the time I should Have given you my frozen lips—a kiss We never shared. So yes, I do still miss You, Han, I hope I made that understood…

For words are lost so easily between The two of us. And yet, however tart It is to be so lost, it’s so much more The sweet to feel again that great rapport, When, without words, I give my frozen heart To you, and see you know just what it means. *a woman’s name meaning a cold summer

The Afghani Girl Matt Venker

Her face is not like those in magazines.

In lieu of blush, she wears it full of dirt, Just like the cloak that wraps around her head The red one, full of holes, the one that though It’s worn so loose will choke her voice away.

27

Instead of sound, she’ll use her eyes to speak To tell the world to open theirs—to tell Us if we do, we’ll see the same as her.

It might be hard; we might be filled with pain But only when we’re filled with pain, can we Begin to free this girl, the world, of theirs.

Because her eyes are green, and full of fear And she tells us something more than how to dress Though she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, She won’t be found in glamour magazines.

Maybe we should change the things we read.

Matt Anderson

Interlopers Jim Santel

W

28

henever I thought of my grandfather’s brain, I pictured neurons rotting like fallen tree trunks, synapses corroding like old plumbing. He took pills to slow the onslaught, but I knew it would take more than medicine to prevent him from forgetting something as sacred as his grandson’s name. He needed a blessing, a touch from a great healer.

One afternoon, while we were silently playing checkers, he suddenly stiffened, his mouth tightening into a near-grimace, as if remembering he’d forgotten to pick someone up from the airport.

“Grandpa?”

From living with him for seven years, I knew this was an episode I would simply have to wait out. While we sat there, Grandpa staring through my forehead, I tried to recall the last time I saw him with an unfettered mind. I settled on a time shortly before his diagnosis, at his old house a few months after grandma died. We had just finished lunch.

Grandpa said he had something to show me and led me into his basement.

I spent a lot of time in my grandparents’ basement as a kid, playing with my father’s old Legos and G.I. Joes, paging through creased books and records. Sometimes, when I was very young, Grandpa and I would wres-

tle there, and he always let me pin him. In the basement’s back storage room, there was a black chest emblazoned with the colorfully stenciled names of exotic locales: Honolulu, Hong Kong, Tokyo. I had seen this chest dozens of times as I went to grab a soda from the fridge or play with Grandpa’s train set, but I never thought to look inside it.

My grandfather motioned for me to sit opposite him on a Naugahyde ottoman as he slid the trunk between us. Under the light of the room’s single, bare bulb, my grandfather Michael Moffitt worked at the chest’s latches with his hands, strong from years of loading trucks day and night.

“Look here,” he said, pulling out a long, curved sword. “My brother Herb took this from some Jap on Okinawa.

Mailed it to my mother to give me when I came home from the Navy.”

He chuckled. “Bet mom was happy to get this in the mail.”

He passed me the sword. It was heavy.

I ran my fingers along the frayed, sweatstained grip and tried to picture the hands of the Japanese officer who carried it before my uncle blew him away.

“Is it still sharp?” I asked.

“Well, we can find out easy enough,” said Grandpa, and he got up to rummage through another box, emerging with a tennis ball.

“Come on,” he said, and we went outside.

He placed the ball on a dead tree stump in the back yard, where the neighbors couldn’t see us, and handed me back the sword.

“Go ahead, take a swipe.”

I looked at him doubtfully.

“It’s all right. Just focus on the ball the whole way through.”

I lifted the sword unsteadily. The weapon felt foreign in my hands, as unnatural as a python or a tuba.

Before I began the downswing, Grandpa stopped my wrist gently with his hand.

“Uh.… One thing. Don’t tell your folks about this, huh? I can only do this now ’cause your grandma’s gone, but I figure you’re old enough.”

I nodded and then looked again at the ball. Closing my eyes, I swiped downward, missing it completely. The steel rattled against the hard wood. My wrists vibrated with the impact, and the sword flew from my hands, landing with a muffled thump on the grass. I was breathing heavily.

“It’s okay. Here, I’ll try it with you,” Grandpa said.

He picked up the sword with great effort and returned it to my hands. Then, standing behind me, he wrapped his hands over mine.

Together, we lifted the blade.

“Nice and easy. Don’t have to swing so hard. Just think of the blade going straight through the ball.”

Before I knew what had happened, two yellow hemispheres were lying on either side of the stump. I was covered in sweat.

“

“

Y

our move,” Grandpa said, bringing my attention back to the game.

I flicked a checker forward, and he quickly jumped it.

“Grandpa, do you ever think about your old house?”

He paused and rubbed his patchy stubble. He missed spots often these days.

“My old house. Well sure. I can remem-

ber some things. You know, the pool table and the like.”

There had been no pool table.

“Do you remember the day with the sword?”

He stared at me blankly.

“Do you miss your house?”

“Miss my house.…Well sure, sure, yes,” he said, not sounding sure at all.

B

y the end of the day, I had the name of the family that bought the house. Phillips. I gingerly dialed the number, not sure if Mary or Steve would answer, or maybe a kid.

“Hello?” A man’s tired voice.

“Uh, Mr. Phillips?”

“Yeah, who is this?”

I told him who I was and what I wanted. Because my request was so ridiculous, I simply told the truth. I told him I thought a visit to his old house would do my grandpa a world of good. “I know it’s an odd request,” I added hastily.

“Well, it’s not that,” he said. “You know, I got two kids. I mean, we’re just awfully busy.”

“We could come on a weekday, I promise we won’t take long.”

“Yeah, I appreciate that, but…” His voice tailed off, and I could practically hear him waving away the woman in the background asking who was on the phone.

“So yeah, maybe later in the year, call me then. My kids won’t be playing sports and all.”

I didn’t want to push the man, so I said thanks and hung up.

In bed that night, I listened to my grandpa in the next room. He was clearing his throat, but it sounded like all the mucus was long gone. He kept rasping, apparently unsure if he should stop or not. I heard myfather’s voice.

“Dad. Dad! You’re fine. You can stop now. Get some rest.”

29

“Oh. Yes. Okay.”

I rolled over in my bed and looked up through the window. Without my contacts in, the moon was just a melting disc of light.

W

30

““““

hen I called again the next morning, the female voice answered, the one that had sounded sympathetic in the background the day before.

“Mrs. Phillips? I’m sorry to bother you.

I’m the young man that called yesterday.”

“Oh yes, your grandpa used to own this house.

I’m sorry about my husband yesterday: he has a lot on his mind.”

I told her it was no problem and asked if there was anything we could work out.

She said to come by the following Tuesday, in the late morning, when her husband was at work.

C

ome on, Grandpa, we’ve got errands to run,” I said, as soon as my parents had left for work.

“Errands?” he said. “I didn’t know about any errands.”

I got him into the car and helped his livewire hands buckle his seatbelt.

When I got on the highway, Grandpa looked at me, alarmed.

“This isn’t the way to the grocery store,” he said.

“We’re not going to the grocery store.

We’re going to go back to your house.

Wouldn’t you like to see it again?”

“Well,” he said, smiling. “Well.”

The house was mostly unchanged. The

“

lawn was still well-kept, though not mowed in the baseball-diamond checkerboard my grandpa used to put such effort into. I parked on the street, and as I walked up the driveway, I realized Grandpa wasn’t with me.

I turned to see him still at the bottom of the lawn, standing with his ear pressed against the lamppost.

“Still hums,” he said.

Until then, I had forgotten the summer evenings when I would catch fireflies in empKevin Casey ty preserves jars provided by my grandma. When my grandparents weren’t looking, I would often press my ear against the lamppost’s cold metal and listen to the pleasant electric hum.

“How about that,” I said.

“Come on.”

After I rang the door bell, I looked through the glass panels on either side of the door. I used to peer through them to see Grandpa’s distorted figure plod down the hallway, eager to wrap me in his broad arms. The shape now coming down the hall practically floated.

Mrs. Phillips was a prim woman with well-coiffed hair, her face an Easter egg dyed the lightest of pinks. I introduced my grandpa and myself and apologized once again for the strangeness of our visit.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” she said kindly.

We stood uncertainly in the entrance hall. Grandpa looked around, trying to be unobtrusive, as if he were accompanying me to a party, waiting to be introduced.

“What do you want to see first?” I

asked.

“Oh, well. Uhm. I don’t know. You lead on.”

As if on thin ice, we treaded into the family room. So much was different—hardwood floors, TV tucked into a different corner, strangers in the picture frames.

“Look familiar?” I asked my grandfather, although the question could’ve easily been addressed to myself. He looked baffled, his mind struggling to find any foothold of memory. I could tell he wanted to agree. He rasped wet air through his throat, the beginnings of a word he wouldn’t form, for there was nothing familiar here to speak of.

I took him by his plaid arm and led him into the kitchen, which was relatively unchanged. My grandmother’s pictures of fruit and birds were gone, but the wallpaper and furniture arrangement were the same.

“Ah, yes. The kitchen,” he said.

“Do you remember,” I asked, “When I would try and steal a cookie from your cookie jar that you kept over there on the counter?

Do you remember that? You would pretend not to notice I was getting close, and then grab me and tickle me at the last second. Do you remember that?”

The clouds in his eyes thinned a bit.

“Yes, yes I do. Heh. Didn’t want you having my oatmeal cookies, no sir. But where is the jar now? I would like a cookie now.”

“We’ve got those cookies back home,” I said.

“Home? But I thought.... Isn’t this home?”

I explained that no, this used to be home, but someone else lived here now.

He nodded in resignation. “Oh yes. Oh yes. I would like a cookie, though.”

We went down the basement steps. As soon as we reached the bottom, I realized my mistake. The brown diamond tile had been replaced with new, clean carpet. I stuck my head around the corner. The basement was

unrecognizable. Before I could grab Grandpa and hustle him upstairs, he had seen the changes.

“This … this is not my basement.”

I explained again that this was not his house anymore, and I began to trip on my own bad logic. Why had I brought him here?

The last time we were together in this basement, he was husky and could wield a hammer and solve the crossword puzzle with the same skill. I looked at him now, gaunt except for a potbelly, his receding hair tilting in oddangled tufts.

“But I don’t understand,” he said. “The cookies …”

“The cookies are back at my house. We’ll get you some when we get back—” “Your house? But where is my house?”

“Come on, Grandpa. We’d better go.”

He was obstinate. “Where is my house?”

I couldn’t tell him the awful truth, for I had just figured it out for myself. I grabbed him by the arm and marched him upstairs.

I found Mrs. Phillips and told her we were about ready to leave, though I did have one last favor to ask: could I look at the bedroom I used to sleep in when I stayed with my grandparents?

“Yes, of course,” she said, and led me to the room, though I could’ve found it on my own.

The room was almost exactly the same, just different furniture. Barbie dolls littered the floor.

“We’re going to remodel it soon,” she said. “Make it a little more girly for our daughter.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m glad I got to see it before you did that.”

We looked at each other for a moment, and then she nodded and walked away, letting me own the room for a few more moments.

I stood in the doorway, staring through the window onto the lawn, thinking of the nights

31

32

I had spent there when I was ignorant of deep and difficult things, despite the embroidered prayer my grandma had hung above the bed: “If I die before I wake…”

I felt hands firm on my shoulders. I didn’t turn to look around.

“You used to sleep here,” Grandpa said.

“Yeah. I did.”

I stood there with Grandpa’s hands on my shoulders for a few moments more. Then we thanked Mrs. Phillips, and together, we walked through the door for the last time.

As we walked down the driveway, Grandpa

held on to my arm so he wouldn’t trip on the sweetgum balls that had caused my dad to fret so much before they moved. To the left was the proud hedge that my grandparents’ teenage neighbor Rob could jump handily, to my delight. After I buckled Grandpa in, he spoke in such a clear, flat tone that it made me kill the ignition and just stare at him.

“Now you see why I’m ready to leave this earth.”

I was young and still knew what it was to be frightened by death, but I understood what he meant.

Roses

Matt Nahlik Roses on caskets with no flag below.

With no sign in sight, is this man a hero?

Can we judge a man’s life on woven thread?

A burial is fit, just the same, for all the dead.

Deeds of life disappear; we all end the same way; All that’s left to judge is the box on that day.

In a city of devils we live, in a field of stones we lie.

No matter how much you give, nothing will keep you alive.

Pop Art

James Fister Vibratin’, motivatin’ Speculatin’, instigatin’ Vivid, showy David Bowie Twenty calibers Josef Albers Somethin’ new Me and you Up in your hall Andy Warhol Gesticulatin’, confusicatin’ Innovatin’, fornicatin’ Kevin Casey

33

Cross

Brian Bettonville

T

34

he smoke of my breath curled up to the dark night sky as I stared through the glass at the bright, artificial light of the Steak ’n’ Shake. The inside would be a welcome change in temperature from outside, where I had wrapped my arms tightly around my chest in an attempt to keep the cold out, though it was in vain. I hated winter. I quickly made my way past the trash can with an ashtray on top, waiting inches from the bright glass door.

The clink of glasses knocking into each other immediately entered my ears as I pulled open the glass door. The few black tiles on the floor of the restaurant were eye-catching against their background of white, yet they radiated unhappiness. The air seemed thicker and even greasy, as if the grease that always adorned the burgers and fries had escaped into the air. I felt it on my skin. A host of signs twirled suspended just beneath the ceiling, all of bright white shakes with curves of whipped cream and bright red cherries set against a pitch black background and tile boarder matching the floor and walls. I couldn’t see Zach and Danielle anywhere.

I walked into the field of tables, looking for a table to start by myself. I looked over my shoulder and finally saw them. They hadn’t seen me, only the pictures on their laminated menus. I made my way past a young mother with her son and daughter to a chair at the table. The black frame squeaked against the floor as I slowly pulled it away, and the red

cushion sank quickly beneath my weight.

Neither Zach nor Danielle looked up.

As I lifted my chair to scoot in, I looked at the smear of water on the table from the last cleanup that reflected light, which made it seem to me like even more grease. I noticed the lusterless patches of table the busboy had skipped; I could see several grains of salt scattered across the table, like a desert short on sand as well as water.

“Hey Ben,” came Zach’s voice from behind his menu.

Danielle didn’t look up.

We had been going out for three months now, though it didn’t feel like it sometimes.

Matt Anderson Those were the times when she treated me like just another friend, just the same as Zach or anyone else. I could tell tonight would be one of those nights; I knew it would be, even before I left the house.

I looked over at a table that hadn’t been cleaned yet.

The napkins had been wrinkled and discarded on the plates, empty from the table’s previous residents except for a smudge of ketchup in one corner and the invisible salt and grease that shone because of the angle of the light. The empty glasses, standing tall like the ghosts of skyscrapers, held only a melted puddle, thick enough to just cover the slightly curved bottom. The ghosts distorted the scene behind them: ketchup bottles, salt shakers, menus, and the trademark bottle of those light green peppers suspended in their own juice.

With a smile and a sigh, Zach dropped his menu and looked over at me. I quickly grabbed a menu of my own and tried to hide

myself in it, but I was too late.

That was the kind of girl Celia was, though.

“Guess what I’m doing tomorrow?” Zach She would ask a guy not to come just because said. she wants him to have more fun somewhere I looked over to Danielle. Her menu was else. down, and she had the same scheming smile “You’re trying to change the subject beas Zach. cause you can’t think of any good reason to “Go on, guess,” Zach said. go on a retreat by yourself,” he said. “You’re I cast my eyes down to the menu on the usually looking at Celia for answers. Though table, the menu that had never reached my I guess I’ll cut you some slack. It’s kind of face. Zach finally realized I wouldn’t be play- difficult to defend going on a boring retreat ing along. on the weekend of USC’s biggest game.”

“All right, how cool is this? I’m going to “I’ve been really looking forward to this sleep until 12, eat whatever I feel like, when- retreat. I’ll hear what happens in the game ever I feel like, watch the USC-Ohio State eventually. I think it will be worth it.” game, which will be the game of the year.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night there, Then I’m gonna see a bunch of my friends champ. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind at six and have something called fun. What are you in the morning, when you’re awake and grogup to?” Zach was enjoying every moment of gy and I still have six more hours to sleep.” this.

“Just think what will happen if some I only wanted a milk shake, but I sud- guy starts flirting with me—what I might do denly found myself deciding between the Ba- while I’m missing you,” Danielle said. con ’n’ Cheese Double and the Turkey Club.

My face dropped quite visibly.

“Oh, that’s right,” Zach said looking over “Ha ha ha. Yeah, Dan!” said Zach, giving at Danielle. “Jesus over here’s going on an LA her a fist pound. retreat. Guess he really enjoys nothing but Dan knows how jealous I get about othguys, cold showers, and lectures. God, does er guys. Every time I let her know, she makes this guy know how to have a fun time.” fun of me and says I need to trust her more.

I half-smiled and looked up from the Maybe I do. Still, this was below the belt. menu.

“You’re a really funny guy, Zach,” I said. “ ou’re not mad at me are you?” asked Dan “I think so,” chimed in Danielle, looking on the car ride home. at me with that big smile.

I let the silence stand for a while. We Sometimes I think the two of our rela- never had the radio on during our car rides. tionship is entirely incidental, which is prob- We’d always be talking about something.

“Awww, c’mon,” she said, smiling. ably because it is.

A smile crossed my lips, too. She laughed I looked back over to Zach. “So where’s a little.

Celia tonight, big guy?”

“Yeah, I’m not mad,” I said.

I knew where she was. She was at choir, “I really am going to miss you, though. I just like every other second Friday of an even completely meant that part.” numbered month.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“She has a choir recital tonight,” Zach I kind of felt like I shouldn’t be apologizsaid.

He and Celia were basically married. I ing, that I had every right to go. But sitting knew Celia must have asked him not to go there, looking into her eyes, I would have with her, because he’d be there otherwise. said anything.

Y

35

36

I felt a buzzing in my pocket. It was my phone. Danielle smiled and looked out the window.

Zach won’t pick up his stupid phone, came Celia’s voice in my ear. What are you guys up to?

“Nothing much,” I said as I turned into Danielle’s neighborhood. “We went to Steak ’n’ Shake, but now we’re going home. I kind of want to get to bed early tonight.”

Omigosh that’s right! You’re going on Lux Aeterna tomorrow! Wow, you’re gonna love it. I hope it’s as good as when I went on it. It really is a powerful experience.

I smiled and said yeah, then told her I had to go because I was at Dan’s house. She said to tell Danielle hi.

“Celia says hi,” I said getting out of the car. We held hands as we walked up to her front door.

“Let me guess, she’s really excited about your stupid retreat,” she said playfully.

“You know Ceil.”

Dan half-smiled.

I had actually met Dan through Celia.

She and I went to grade school together, and she was the only one from that class whom I still kept in touch with. She and Danielle had become friends at school, and, when Ceil decided I needed a girlfriend, she set me up on a blind date with her.

I felt Dan’s lips on my own when we got to the door. I eagerly wrapped my arms around her. It felt great because I had her in my arms, but also because I was cold as hell.

Winter sucks.

“I’ll see you in a week, loser,” she said with a smile. I held the door open for her to go in.

I tucked my arms in tightly to my body.

The leaves crunched under my feet as I blew out hard from being out in this cold for so long. My breath came out like steam.

I

lurched forward as my Lux Aeterna cross pulled me toward Zach’s slightly pimpled face. I could feel the grease in the Steak ’n’ Shake, just the same as last week. That seemed like forever ago.

He was rubbing the metal between his thumb and forefinger and though his eyes seemed glazed-over, was looking intently at the cross. I knew it was returning his gaze with the red eye of the fake jewel set in the intersection of the two beams.

“Jeez, you are a pain in the neck,” I said to Zach.

I attempted to turn to look at Danielle to see if she would laugh at my stupid pun.

She was pretending not to pay attention, staring into the darkness of the parking lot through the glass windows. I looked over at Luke seated across from me, then back at my cross, which Zach had tilted like an X. I resigned myself to the awkwardness of my bent-over position and began to enjoy Zach’s surprising fascination with my new necklace, a gift at the end of the retreat.

Luke had transferred to my school two years ago, but I had never met him until the retreat. He was a really nice guy, so I invited him to come hang out. I was kind of nervous about how well he would fit in, though.

I started to look around while I was waiting for Zach to finish looking. It was earlier in the day than when I was here last week with Zach and Dan. I guess that’s why it was so much busier. There was a screaming baby with a mom and dad and older brother, who seemed angry. To my left, there were about twenty freshmen who I wished would shut up. They were at that age when the girls began discovering that they had cleavage, and the boys began discovering that, well, the girls had cleavage. I remembered finding girls like those attractive just three years ago.

Now they just looked like freshmen.

“That’s a pretty badass cross,” Zach said, slowly allowing my body to return to the up-

right position. “I so want one of those.”

“You know how to get one,” Celia said across from Zach.

I could tell the two of them had been talking. Celia had been pestering Zach to take an LA retreat since she went in August with her school. He normally would shrug her off with an annoyed look and change the subject. This time he smiled as he shrugged.

“Maybe… Maybe…”

“Maybe you, too, Danielle,” said Luke from across the table from me.

I winced and waited for the storm about to come from Danielle. Whenever somebody tries to push an idea on her, she lashes out, especially if the idea is religion.

That’s part of why I liked her: she’ll listen, but she’ll hold her ground. I had only seen her really lash out a couple of times, but I hated to see her like that.

She always seemed so hurt.

I realized that I should have warned Luke when I invited him to come hang out with us. I thought he would be fun, but now he felt like a burden.

Damn, I should have warned him. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought him at all.

Danielle’s onslaught never came, though.

Her eyes seemed tired as she looked at him.

Then she turned back to the window, watching the parking lot from the shade caused by the rotating cardboard sign advertising the new caramel apple milkshake, which apparently was “Sweet as sin.” I wanted to feel relieved, but somehow couldn’t.

Celia and Zach’s conversation somehow drifted over to The Office, as conversations often did when Zach was around. I was glad

to see Luke jump right in.

I let them talk and looked over at Danielle. I had never seen her like this before.

She was daydreaming, staring out the window with the butt of her hand pushing up the skin on her pink cheek while it rested. If I didn’t know Dan, I would have said she was about to cry. She looked over and I mouthed, Want to go? And she slowly nodded her head.

“We’re gonna take off,” I said, standing up. “Luke, are you gonna stay?”

“C’mon, Skywalker. You gotta stay!” said Zach.

Luke laughed. I could tell this was the Matt Anderson first he’d heard of his new nickname, which was such a Zach thing to do.

I could only force a half-smile as I turned toward the door.

T

he fall breeze felt nice as I held the door of the Steak ’n’ Shake for Danielle to go inside and jokingly

did a half bow.

“Oh my goodness,” said Danielle, surprised. “Looks like Celia found me a real gentleman.”

I hadn’t wanted to go on the blind date, but Celia had convinced me. I was glad now; Danielle was great.

The glasses seemed to be ringing as we walked in. Every one was lit up like strangely-shaped light bulbs. The hostess smiled as she seated us in the table in the back corner.

Danielle was smiling, too.

“What’d you do today?” she asked.

“Not too much. I watched Garden State, which I got from Netflix. It was good. Zach suggested it.”

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38

“Zach who?”

“Zach Banks. You don’t know Zach Banks? C’mon, Celia Christian’s boyfriend.”

“Oh yeah,” she said shyly. “I’ve heard of him, but I’ve never met him.”

“What? He’s a great guy,” I said. “You’ll meet Zach if you hang around me long enough.”

“Then I guess I’m gonna meet Zach.”

My mouth formed a huge smile as I tried to slow the breakneck pace my heart had just picked up.

N

o matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to break the silence in the car.

I was stunned at how distant Dan seemed.

I was not about to apologize, because all this, while admittedly an ambush, was something she needed to hear. The end will justify the means, I told myself. I reached up and tucked my new cross into my shirt.

“That was kind of … awkward,” she said.

“I know. I was surprised about Zach.”

“Yeah. Asshole only wants the jewelry.”

This shocked me because Danielle never cussed. She usually wouldn’t even say crap.

“I don’t know,” I said. “He and Celia have been talking.”

“He and Celia have been talking for months.”

“Maybe you’re wrong about him. He’s always just been agnostic, never atheist like you.”

“Can you just shut up? I am so sick of

you idiots and your stupid retreats and your stupid religion talk. For Christ sake, can’t you just leave me the hell alone and let me live my own goddamn life?”

I opened my mouth to say I was sorry, for me, for Ceil, for Luke, and even for Zach, but I closed it again. Danielle’s eyes were welling up, which shocked me even more than anything else that night. I would rather make my own mother cry than Dan. She never cried. Ever.

My brakes squeaked slightly as I stopped at the curb outside her house. She leaned Matt Anderson back, face pointed up at the roof of the car, eyes closed. She let out a sigh slowly, savoring it.

She made no move to get out of the car. My heart sank with the apprehension of what was about to happen. She always got up right away so we could have more time at the doorstep. I felt suddenly helpless to stop what was happening, just a tiny speck in the universe whose life and relationships were meaningless.

When there was nothing left of that sigh, Dan’s voice came, broken from suppressing tears.

“We’re done, aren’t we?”

I moved my eyes from her to the snowcovered street lying in front of me. It was a perfect blanket of white I would have to plow through when this was over.

“Ben,” Dan said. She took a deep breath, keeping those tears still at bay. “We’re just different people now, don’t you think?”

We both knew that wasn’t true. Dan

was the exact same girl I met and liked those three months ago; I was different. Dan wasn’t going to say it, though.

“Yeah,” I answered slowly. I didn’t realize until I heard myself talk, but my voice was broken, too. Dan was actually handling this better than I was.

“Okay,” said Dan. She opened the door and walked up her walkway. I thought about how cold she must be; her pink sweater was so thin. She had nothing on her head either, save her hair, which shone a rich brown from the rays of the streetlight and brushed lightly against her soft cheek. It didn’t take her long to get in the house, though. She was gone.

Feeling dead, I waited in the car for a few seconds and remembered how it looked to walk back past those bushes which bordered her front walk. I turned the ignition key, only to realize the car was still on.

The drive home was just a blur of trees and stores and empty parking lots. I felt numb all over. I imagined what would happen if a car from the opposite lane suddenly veered into mine. I imagined the glass of my windshield breaking, my chest lurching forward onto the steering wheel. I imagined the adrenaline pumping through my veins and my heart thumping hard in my temples and the numbness finally leaving.

I pulled safely into my driveway what seemed like seconds after I left Dan’s curb.

The drive had been eventless. I still felt dead.

All I could feel as I walked toward the garage was the bitter cold. Christ, I hated winter. As my legs moved me toward the open garage, the emptiness of my mind suddenly gave way to the underside of Celia’s porch in third grade, when she kissed me on the lips. Then her mother had called us back inside.

Joseph Quinlan

39

Asymptotic Narcissus [beauty is a number] Dan Wall

40

Give me lines, give me restrictions.

Give me the guidelines, give me the equation for perfect beauty.

Show me the numbers I have to be.

Show me the graphs I have to be to be beautiful.

Blur my lines, solve the problem.

I’m the square root of negative one.

Please delete me.

The dreaded asymptote; You’ll never reach me.

I’m all alone on this plane, I’m an irrational zero, variable X of this world.

Jeff Uriarte

Mr. Aldren Andrew Nelson

I

climbed out of my bedroom window onto the porch that my dad and I had built the previous summer. It wasn’t a big porch, just large enough to fit my four-person tent, but it gave a great viewing spot for watching the sunset. The sun was starting to set earlier now, the summer drawing to a close, and I almost missed it. The sun had already disappeared, but the orange and yellow rays shone through the trees at the back of my neighborhood.

In a few months, the leaves would change to the same color, as if the refracted light had dyed them. The light rays splotched the back of the house in different shades of orange watercolors and tinted the side windows of the neighboring houses. I barely heard the occasional bird sing in the distance. On the driveway, several puddles still remained from the rain earlier that day. Our garage cast a shadow over the old metal trashcans of Mr. Aldren’s house next door.

Every Tuesday night at precisely 8:00, Mr. Aldren would emerge from his house carrying two plastic garbage bags of trash and put one into each can. One at a time, he would then drag the cans down the driveway, making a loud intermittent scraping sound on the broken-up concrete. He walked with a limp, carefully placing his left leg down and then quickly shifting his weight to his right, causing a brief pause between steps. I didn’t remember what had injured his left leg, although I did recall my mom mentioning surgery.

Placing the can next to the curb, he would shuffle back behind his house, retrieve the other can and repeat the process, the scraping of the metal echoing in the distance. Nearly ten minutes of this.

From the porch, I glanced at his dining room window, and was surprised to see him

sitting alone at the table. The lights were dimmed a little, and the table was draped in a burgundy tablecloth. His back was to me and he was vigorously cutting something I assumed was meat—prime rib, maybe steak. His shoulders were rounded, slumped over his plate. He rested his left arm on the table after he finished cutting. It was Wednesday, and every Wednesday, my mom invited him over to our house for dinner.

“He’s lonely over there,” my mom would explain. “It’s the least we can do.”

“But mom, he’s so creepy. He never smiles, and he stares at me during the whole meal.”

“He’s a sweetheart, and he needs somebody to talk to,” she would persist. So I would find excuses to miss dinner on Wednesday nights: soccer practice, science fair project at my friend’s house, tennis matches. Tonight, though, I was stuck at home on account of the torrential downpour that lasted nearly all day and the science fair’s having been held last week. All day I had been dreading 6:00, when Mr. Aldren would ring the doorbell.

“George! So glad to see you,” I imagined my mom greeting him, raising her voice a little on account of his bad hearing. “Come on in, come on in.” Dinner would be waiting on the table—usually pasta in a red sauce, my mom’s specialty. He would take a seat, directly across the table from me. During the meal, my dad would talk with him about current events or politics. Mr. Aldren would proclaim his views in brief statements: “Yeah, that’s what the problem is with our society— people are too damn lazy” or “That moron doesn’t know what in the hell he’s talking about.” Occasionally, I would glance up from my pasta to find the cold eyes of Mr. Aldren staring at me. It wasn’t an accusing stare or even a judgmental one. Rather, it almost seemed as if he was constantly noting everything I did: how I folded the napkin into a triangle and placed it in my lap, the way I

41

42

ate my pasta—spearing two pennes at a time and then dipping them in the tomato sauce at the bottom of my bowl. It really freaked me out.

But that wasn’t the case tonight. I had gotten home about 3:20, a little later than usual because I had to wait in the principal’s office for a couple minutes to borrow an umbrella for the walk home.

“Mr. Aldren coming for dinner?”

I asked my mom.

“Nope, just us tonight,” she replied.

“Wait, why not?”

I asked surprised at my fortunate turn of events.

“I think he’s having somebody over for dinner.”

“Who?” “I’m not sure.

He didn’t say.”

S

o I was surprised to see Mr. Aldren sitting at his dining room table alone, eating the last few bites of his meal. He pulled back the sleeve of his blue sweater and glanced at his watch before rising to clean the table.

The headlights from the cars on Freelance Drive, the major road through my neighborhood, briefly illuminated the side of Mr. Aldren’s house before deciding to continue on, leaving his house in darkness.

The next day, I grabbed my tennis racquet and a few balls and walked outside to practice my forehand. I walked around to the side of my house where the driveway swung

close enough so that if I hit the ball high enough on the wall, the ball would fly over the grass and land on the blacktop driveway in front of me, allowing me to keep a continuous rally going. That’s as long as I didn’t hit any errant shots, however. My mom hated when I did this, claiming that it would loosen the bricks, but she was off buying groceries at the store. “One, two, three, four, five, s—” Zac Boesch I counted to myself, before getting cut off by Mr. Aldren’s voice.

“Take a shorter backswing,” he said, emptying a small waste basket into one of the metal trashcans.

“What?”

I asked, taken off guard.

“Take a shorter backswing. It’ll be easier to get your timing right with a more compact swing.”

“Oh, um, all right.” I paused, surprised—this was the same thing my tennis coach had been telling me for the last few weeks.

“I used to play…a long time ago,” he announced.

“Really?” I asked.

“Yep, would’ve played for Illinois too if my knee would’ve been all right. Tripped over a damn tennis ball…blew my knee out.”

“Did you see the match last night?” I asked, suddenly curious. “Federer and Djokovic.”

“No…who won?”

“Federer, but it lasted over four hours.”

He made a grunting sound that sounded like an attempted laugh. “You should’ve seen the ’82 Davis Cup match between McEnroe and Wilander—nearly six and a half hours.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, see, this was before they implemented that bullshit tiebreaker rule. I mean, McEnroe lost the third set 15-17, for godsake.” He sighed, “Yeah, that was real tennis—six hour matches, and all the while, playing with wooden racquets—none of these fancy hunks of titanium and carbon that let you hit a winner from anywhere on the court. No, no, you had to work for every point, trying to wear down your opponent.”

He placed the lid on the trash can.

“Um…Mr. Aldren, why weren’t you at dinner last night,” I asked.

He glanced in the direction of Freelance Drive before responding, “My son was going to come over for dinner…but he didn’t make it.”

“Oh,” I replied as he hobbled up the four or so steps leading to his back door.

“One…two…three…” I resumed counting, before hitting the fourth on the frame, sending the ball sailing wide, into my backyard.

“Bend your knees,” Mr. Aldren coached, grabbing the door handle.

I resumed the rally, this time reaching twelve in a row.

“Don’t forget to move your feet.”

I nodded, fishing another ball out of my pocket. Nineteen this time.

“Good,” he said, opening the door.

“Hey, Mr. Aldren,” I blurted, “I have a match next Friday.... Any chance you can come and give me some pointers?”

A faint smile came across his face. I barely noticed the slight nod of his head.

“Remember, shorter swing,” he advised, stepping inside and closing the storm door behind him.

Keaton Hanson

43

The Cheshire Moon on New Year’s Eve Patrick Topping

44

A Cheshire moon grins down the lane illuminating the happy drunks and the defeated whores of the city streets.

A chorus of cheers, a siren in the night, I itch for the bottle held for so long.

The Cheshire moon grins white into my home highlighting the barren dry cabinet.

The Cheshire moon smiles on my chorus through the streets, where are my friends?

All gone to sleep …

It’s far past the call.

Far too late to dance and sing far too gone now to stop.

The Cheshire moon smirks as I sit heavily on the curb of a lonely new year’s street, of what will soon be memory lane, if I remember …

It’s new year’s day, but there’s no celebration.

The Cheshire moon grins down and catches my glass.

The light is amplified through the amber as if from the heavens.

The light calls it to my lips.

The Cheshire moon smirks on my tears, and now I know by the moon’s biting grin I’ve been duped, and now I see, what the moon was smiling about all along.

It’s new year’s eve, but there’s nothing new.

It’s new year’s day and I am the lunar joke.

It’s new year’s eve and I have no resolution.

Tim Dale

45

At Three O’ Clock in the Morning in the Middle of July Jack Dryden

46

It’s hard not to scuttle in sandals.

The sweep of plastic on concrete, But it wasn’t loud enough to wake your dad up

anyway.

He was wearing earplugs.

I was nervous, though, it would be so easy to catch us from that window, that gaping thing, there was your kitchen (your parents’ room was right behind it) I could see the pool and some moon-drenched silhouettes of

delinquents on their way to a rooftop maybe I’d climb up the garbage cans (there is nothing muffled about plastic on metal) just hold on to the gutter and slinking khaki on shingles

my shorts were stained with tar and while I stood examining them, you knocked a trash can into the air conditioner your dad must have turned in his sleep and you just brushed the dirt from your palms that one story rooftop put us closer

to the stars than the other houses except for that one second-story window. (lights on) “Cigarette?” (lights up) “Your first one?”

The tickle of Chinese smoke on cilia as I reclined on that roof, the smoke never moved it just dissolved amid Orion’s Belt.

Delicate

T

Brian Gilmore

he rain falls in torrents, but weather can’t derail me from my quest tonight. I enter the pub and brush the rain off my jacket.

Disinterested pairs of eyes slowly rise before settling back down to the emptiness before them. Thunder rolls gently in the distance, enough to provide extra cover for hushed conversations but not enough to scare anyone away. Flickering tabletop candles cast shadows that danced around the booth, bouncing off dark wood paneling and exposed timbers that exude warmth. I order a pint and take a seat at the empty booth along the far wall, third from the window, the booth we’d sat at for years. It was comfortable.

I reach into my pocket and brush up against the small, square box, making sure it’s still there.

Still real. I run my hands through my hair, eyes trained on the door.

A friend of ours had set us up, a few years ago, and after a nice dinner at a little Italian place in town, I lost it. I really did. Screw jarred loose. After dinner, taking advantage of the warm summer evening, we went for a walk through the city.

We found a little park and stretched out on the grass for a bit. There we were, lying next to each other, gazing at the quarter moon, and I decided to rattle off the reasons why

she absolutely amazed me. You’re unlike any other woman I’ve met. You’re beautiful.

You’re modest, taking nothing you have for granted in this world. You value and cherish a sense of something greater than yourself, a humility that is too often lost among people today. That kind of stuff. Nothing like a little first-date honesty, huh? But as ridiculous as I felt that night (and what stopped her from putting my number on her block list after she got home that night, I’ll never know) it’s even more incredible to see how things have turned out. That night, I think a part of me saw through the twists of time and pictured us at this moment. At this very threshold.

I glance down at my watch. Any minute now. Lightning momentarily illuKevin Casey minates the bar before it darkens again after a low, sustained growl. The door opens and in walks a man carrying a guitar case.

He mutters something to the bartender and makes his way over to the corner table by the fireplace. The man sits down, removes his guitar, and for a moment is content to quietly strum and tune up. None of the handful of people in the bar takes more than a casual notice of this man before going back to their own moments.

After a minute, the bartender brings the man a dark pint and joins him at the table.

From under the table the bartender pulls out a smaller case and deftly assembles a penny

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48

whistle. After pausing for a moment to catch the guitarist’s tune, the bartender puts the whistle to his mouth and joins in, playing a slow, yearning melody that I don’t recognize. A couple on the other side of the room quietly turns their chairs to watch the two harmonize, communicating only through the ebb and flow of the music. They respond and feed off each other, seemingly taking turns completing the thought that the other had begun. I smile and take a long sip.

My butterflies have little baby butterflies of their own. I think it’s the right thing to do, though. At the end of the next tune —“Fields of Athenry,” I knew that one— the bartender puts the penny whistle down and makes his way behind the bar to draw some rounds. The guitarist pauses and takes a long, relaxed swig from his pint before continuing on to the next song, hardly missing a beat.

The relationship hasn’t always been easy, though, I’ll tell you that much. In fact, there was a time when I wasn’t even sure if we’d make it to this point. We broke up for awhile and I started seeing some other girls. And I had a nice enough time with these girls, but at the end of any night with them, the only thing I really wanted to do was ring Mary and talk about how this one ate her pizza with a fork, or how she wouldn’t drink wine because it gave her the hiccups. She finds stuff like that pretty funny.

Mary dated some other guys, I think, but I don’t really want to talk about that. It was hard enough just imagining it. We managed to stay friends, though, bruises and all.

One day we started talking—you know, really talking, like we had before—over a bottle of wine, an Argentinian Malbec, I think, and, well, one topic led to another until she looked me in the eye, letting that gaze sit there for what felt like an eternity.

“Why aren’t we together?” she said.

Wow. Hands down, way-the–hell-outof-the-park, no-brainer numero uno question

on my all-time top ten questions asked list.

Spoken to or from. Trust me, I knew how to take it from there, and here we are today, box ready in my pocket. Except, I’m not sure where she is. She’s usually not late for anything.

The phone in my pocket buzzes to life.

A text flashes across the screen: RUNNING LATE. SORRY. She’s coming. I signal the bartender for a fresh pint. Maybe she knows what awaits her and can’t decide what to wear. That’s probably it. Ten bucks and my right nut says she’s even more gorgeous than she was the last time I saw her. That’s just usually how it works with her.

Outside the storm has started to rage, but inside the soulful yearnings of the guitar maintains the tranquil mood, if just for another moment. My palms trickle sweat. A gust of wind blows open the door just as a lightning bolt incinerates the night sky, disappearing as quickly as it came, leaving a faint trail of white in my eyes. Through the open door rushes a figure cloaked under a black jacket. The form looks feminine, but this woman has a yellow umbrella. Mary hates yellow. The woman removes her hood.

My eyes widen.

I’ve never believed much in love at first sight. I like to be just as romantic as any other sap, but I just don’t see how one sweaty, pulse-racing moment can possibly tell you she’ll never rinse the peanut butter off her knife before leaving it in the sink for three days, or that she’ll always drink a little too much red wine when you have people over because she’s afraid of coming across as quiet and uninteresting, or that she’ll snore in bed after she’s eaten pepperoni pizza.

But you know that scene in Casablanca where Ingrid Bergman stares wistfully off to the side of the camera? It’s the shot where every dude on this planet can’t help but wish he was not only alive in the 40s, but that she was really gazing at him? I can’t remember

the context of the scene—she’s probably talking to that lucky S.O.B. Bogart—but my God, what a look and what a woman. Well, that’s the look I’m getting from the woman at the door. Except this look is in full color.

Shaking the renegade water off her wavy blond hair, she gives me a slight, coy smile.

She walks toward my table and takes the empty seat across the booth. Mary’s seat.

I offer her a drink. She declines. I offer her a smoke.

“Nasty habit to start,” she says.

I offer my name. She accepts.

“Pleased to meet you,” she says. She pauses, as if waiting for something, then goes on. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

I sip on my pint and gaze out the window. Mary will be here any minute.

She persists, the weight of her stare penetrating deeply, softly.

“Well, do you?”

I change the subject for a moment. “Are you meeting anyone?”

“I just moved into town,” she says. “I don’t know a soul. Mind if I sit and talk with you?” Again she smiles.

Mary’s on her way. Any minute.

“Tell me about yourself,” she says.

We sit together in that booth—our booth—and I find myself unraveling my story, piece by piece, to this mysterious woman.

She asks about things like my relationship with my parents. How am I supposed

to tell her how every time I watch Field of Dreams I cry because the scene with Kevin Costner and his dad reminds me of my own insecurities and fears about my own father?

She asks about my biggest regrets in life. Do I want to tell her about the time I cheated on Mary after I went out and got loaded, pissed that she blew me off for her girlfriends? How do you communicate demons to a perfect stranger?

Just when I think I have things charted out, the legend made and the map colorcoded…. No. No—the only thing that needs to happen is for Mary to walk through that door.

But then she asks me what I’m most Kevin Casey afraid of.

“Got anyone you’re waiting for tonight?”

My hand reflexively shoots into my pocket.

“She’s everything I could hope for,” I say, slowly.

“She makes me happy.”

She nods.

I crack. For the next stretch of blurred time, I spill everything about Mary—my hopes, my questions, my fears…my sudden doubts. Tears welling, I pull back into silence and gaze beyond the woman toward the musician lazily picking at the strings of his guitar.

“Excuse me for a minute,” I say. I stand up, walk toward the window, composing myself, and call Mary. After three rings, she picks up, her voice sounding more anxious than usual. Maybe she knew.

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50

“Mary,” I say, “what’s your story? You’re over an hour and a half late.”

“I know, I know,” she says. “Something came up that I just had to take care of, I’m so sorry.”

“Are you okay?” I say.

“I’m fine, it’s just something that can’t really wait right now. I’ll explain when I get there. I love you, honey. I’m almost there.”

I run my hands through my hair and walk back over to the booth. She sips her pint and looks at me with a playful, knowing smile.

“Night not going as you planned?”

“You could say that.”

God, she unsettles me. No one, not even Mary, has done that to me. Not like this.

“You know,” I say, “I don’t know a damn thing about you.”

She nods.

She grabs my hand with one hand and places her other onto my cheek.

“Listen,” she says, “I don’t know how things with this Mary are going to work out.

You seem like a good guy who deserves the best. But here, take this. Just in case.” She removes her hand from my cheek and moves my pint from its coaster. She grabs the coaster, scribbles a phone number on the back, turns it over, and slides it across the table.

Without another word or gesture, she rises from the table, puts on her coat, and walks out the door. A cold gust of air blows through the pub, the storm showing no signs of subsiding. I stare blankly at the coaster and put my pint back on top of it.

Then Mary walks into the pub. She sees me sitting in our booth and rushes over, a giant smile on her face.

“I’m not feeling so well anymore, Mary.

Can we just call it a night?” I say. “We’ll do it another night, I promise,” I say. “Let’s just rent a movie or something.”

“We can’t Kevin Casey abandon a good soldier, though,” she says, still smiling, pointing to the pint.

She picks it up, the coaster sticking to the condensation on the bottom of the glass.

After clinging to the glass for a brief moment, the coaster flutters to the table, underside up, and she downs the rest of the pint. Startled, I notice that the coaster is blank. I pick up the coaster, and place it in my pocket.

I stand and walk out of the pub and into the rainy night, Mary a step behind me. The guitarist continues to play, delicately picking at the strings.

Kevin Casey

51

52

Adoration Dan Everson

1 Just look at all of them, their hands held high In “praise.” They kneel, they stand, they sit, they bow— But why? It doesn’t matter anyhow.

Like grace appears out of air if you reach for the sky: Surprise! Hold out your hands and close your eyes!

They sing and chant and pray to what? Some bread?

Now, can that really save them from the dead?

2 But something draws me in; for they all have Some Spirit about them—happiness? or grace?

I force myself to kneel, fold hands, and face The bread and gold, hoping I’m not their slave.

I give an inch, he gives an ell of love; While grace rains down and overwhelms us all, Our hands rise up and we accept we’re small.